Of course, I knew that using that Q1 tactical computer meant that what I was doing would be sent to Bug. He would tell Church I was in Berlin, and where in Berlin I was. Ah well—couldn’t be helped. Made me wonder how quickly the big man would send someone to intercept me. I doubted it would be Toys. Who did that leave? Perhaps Violin? Or my old buddy Oskar Freund? Whoever it was, it was inevitable someone would come, and I needed to finish and get the hell out before they arrived.

I pulled the door open, and Ghost followed me inside. Then I eased the door shut, and the lock clicked comfortingly as if nothing at all had just happened.

Total elapsed time from lifting off with the MotorKite to hearing that click was three minutes. Impregnable, my ass.

CHAPTER 90

BERLIN BRANDENBURG AIRPORT

BERLIN, GERMANY

Michael Augustus Stafford ran down the steps of the private jet Kuga had loaned him for his mission. After the fiasco in Rotterdam, Stafford had appealed to him for better logistical support. The jet—a 2006 Gulfstream G150, which was the closest one available—was comfortable and fast, and Kuga’s logistics team stepped up and convincingly fudged diplomatic clearances. It amused Stafford that he was flying as a representative of the World Health Organization on the hunt for a new COVID mutation. Everyone tripped over themselves smoothing the way for him.

There was a car waiting for him, with a driver who knew the area exceptionally well.

“Where to, sir?” was the only thing the driver said.

Stafford told him, and the car—a roomy and luxurious BMW X5—set off.

That driver also provided a box of goodies for him, and while they tore along the darkened streets, Stafford outfitted himself with knives, guns, explosives, and electronics.

“I’m coming for you,” muttered Stafford. The driver, on the other side of a closed glass partition, heard nothing. “I’m going to skin you alive, you prick.”

CHAPTER 91

BERLIN BRANDENBURG AIRPORT

BERLIN, GERMANY

The sleek black Dassault Falcon 8X luxury jet touched down fourteen minutes after Stafford’s wheels hit the tarmac.

The clearances had all been arranged by Annie Han, the computer hacker who officially worked for the South Korean government but who owed her truest allegiance to Arklight.

The jet had a capacity for sixteen passengers, but there were only three aboard. Two men and a woman. They were met at customs by Oskar Freund, who had the papers and the authority to smooth their way through customs.

A woman in driver’s livery stood waiting at the curb.

“He was spotted when he came out,” she told them. “We have a bird in the air.”