speaking, anyway, it was verboten, more so because the U.S. ambassador—to Hanley’s way of thinking, anyway—was bending over backwards to placate the Reichstag, so he couldn’t very well get too angry with his subordinate for adopting a policy of extreme caution.
Hanley had always placed a premium on human intelligence, so the theft of PowerSlave had effectively crippled his operation here in Germany.
The fact remained that Berlin station had been no help at all. No, Hanley realized as he watched the man leave that what he really needed was to talk to the one person in his influence who had the closest relationship with whatever the fuck was going on over here.
A call to Suzanne Brewer arranged the meeting, and at eight forty-five a.m. a motorcycle appeared at the front gate to the safe house. A man climbed off and was searched just inside the wall, then led not into the home itself but around to the back garden.
The man was directed to a picnic table, and he sat there alone for a few minutes, looking up at the clear morning sky. A guard brought him a paper cup of bad coffee, and he sipped it while he waited.
Matt Hanley appeared in the sliding glass door just a few minutes later, wearing casual clothes from REI. He had a coffee in his hand himself, and he sat down in front of the new arrival before speaking. Finally, he said, “Shit, Court, these transatlantic hops get tougher and tougher each time. I feel like I just fell down a flight of stairs.”
Court Gentry had a few aches and pains to complain about himself, but he didn’t bother. Hanley was management; he wasn’t supposed to hurt like labor.
“Brewer said you caught another knife. You just trying to add to your collection?”
Court held up his bandaged biceps. “It’s fine.”
“And the shoulder? The infection?”
“I’m doing okay.”
The older man laughed. “I told you last week that you had one week to get your ass back to the doctor.” He shrugged. “Now I wouldn’t let you go home if you wanted to.”
“I don’t need to go home. I need to know what’s happening.”
“Same.”
“Why the hell did you race over here the moment you saw a picture of that man standing with Spangler and Dittenhofer?”
Hanley took a slow sip, then looked down at the cup like it was strychnine. He said, “I wasn’t going to read you in on this, but it looks like I have no choice. Berlin station is compromised to Shrike, we all know that.” He heaved in a massive sigh and let it out. “It appears that Shrike Group’s client, the entity who is orchestrating this plot involving the Islamic Republic of Iran, is the SIA.”
Court drew his head back in surprise. “Emirati intelligence? Not Israel?”
“Affirmative. The man you saw talking to Spangler helped put some of the pieces of the puzzle together for me. His name is Sultan al-Habsi, and he’s SIA’s deputy director of operations, but he secretly runs the whole thing. He was the source of the initial intel that led to the Vahid Rajavi drone kill. He has decent assets in Iraq, still, a lot better than ours these days. Anyway, we kept him in the loop as to our plans regarding the general.”
Court was putting the puzzle pieces together himself. “So, you are saying he knew when the attack was going to happen?”
“Yeah.”
Court then asked, “How is it that the deputy director is the guy at the helm?”
“Well,” Hanley said, “his father is the crown prince.”
Court closed his eyes now. “That figures.”
“And that’s not all. The old man’s got one leg in the grave. Terminal stomach cancer. It’s up to the crown prince to name a successor, and it’s no secret that Sultan has been out of his father’s favor for many years. But both his brothers were killed in Yemen, so he’s the only heir to the palace. Our intelligence told us that one of his cousins would be appointed by old man al-Habsi before he died, but now we’re not so sure.”
“Why’s that?”
“Iran is the crown prince’s biggest enemy; they killed both his other sons, so now we have to ask the question—”
Court asked the question himself. “Is this entire operation a way for Sultan to earn back his father’s trust and win the throne?”
“Bingo. Looks like he’s currying favor with his dad, trying to deal some massive blow to Tehran before the old guy kicks the bucket.”
“Unreal,” Court said. “But what is the plan? Quds Force