with Iran.
Sultan al-Habsi realized that America and Europe were not his allies. They were, instead, impediments to his goal.
So he felt no qualms about them suffering collateral damage.
He was pleased his father had lived to see Rajavi’s death, and he prayed the old man would stay around for the finale of the show.
* * *
• • •
Court slept on a pile of towels and clothing arrayed on the bathroom floor of his Spandau apartment, aided by the pain medication taking the brunt of the sting out of his shoulder and the spot above his right eyebrow that he had used to break the nose of a German intel officer.
He woke to the clock radio on the floor just outside his bathroom turning on. It was six a.m., which meant he’d slept almost four hours, and he felt . . . not good, but not too bad.
There was a bustle outside as people headed out on the street. Then he heard footsteps on the stairs right outside his thin walls.
He slid his hand up to his Glock pistol lying on the cheap vinyl floor next to his head and wrapped his fingers around the grip.
But the footsteps continued on past his floor.
The radio was turned to Deutsche Welle, a news station, and a breaking story began a few seconds later. It was in German, but Court picked up the majority of the correspondent’s words.
General Vahid Rajavi, the Quds Force chief shithead, had been killed in a missile strike in Iraq. The German media speculated that the attack was carried out by either America or Israel, but as Court sat up, rubbed his eyes, and then massaged his shoulder distal of where he’d been stabbed, he had no doubt what had happened.
Matt Hanley had warned that something big was about to go down, something that would not necessarily make the world a safer place.
America had blown the Iranian general straight to hell, Court had no doubt.
Rajavi was a prick, this Court knew without question, so it was debatable as to whether this would have a net positive effect on planet Earth. It all depended on what Iran and its proxies did in retaliation.
There was speculation about this on the German news, as well. Protests were a given, violence was expected, and some sort of military response from Iran was all but assumed.
The second story was less surprising to Court, though it would be a shock to most anyone else in Berlin. A German government intelligence official had been murdered in the center of the city the evening before, the victim of a gunshot wound.
There was little information about the victim, and no description of the killer was given. He wondered if that would change, and he wondered if someone fitting his description might eventually be implicated.
Court pulled himself to his feet with the help of the sink next to him. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror; the bruise above his eye was just a faint dull gray, and he credited Dr. Kaya’s care for that.
He’d thought through his next course of action while lying on the bathroom floor the evening before. He knew he was supposed to begin his hunt for Annika Dittenhofer; that was what Brewer and Hanley wanted out of him, but he’d come here to help Zoya. If Brewer was telling the truth, then Zoya would be holed up in her hotel suite all day.
A suite made safe enough with cameras and security, but a suite Court had no doubt at all he could get into.
He fished twenty milligrams of Adderall out of a bottle and popped it into his mouth along with an antibiotic and several anti-inflammatories. He’d stay off the narcotics throughout the day, despite the pain, because he needed to be extra sharp for what was about to come.
After a shower, he shaved off his beard for the first time in months, then took a razor to his head, buzzing the whole thing. He wasn’t bald, his dark hair remained, but he looked completely different now.
If he’d been picked up on cameras around the Adlon the night before, he wouldn’t be recognized there today.
Unless PowerSlave got him, he told himself with no small amount of concern.
He left the apartment at seven a.m., a man reborn via certain artificial enhancements, but a man reborn nonetheless.
* * *
• • •
Zoya Zakharova had slept on a row of bed pillows she’d lined up in the large walk-in closet in her large two-room suite. She woke