firing us?”
Tarik shook his head. “Repositioning you.”
This was a surprise. “Repositioning us? Where?”
“The battle for Yemen might be lost, but there is a way to win the war against Shia expansion. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The American shrugged. Shias, Sunnis, he didn’t give a shit about any of that talk. He concerned himself with whomever the opposition in front of him was. He wasn’t here to win any wider war. Still, he was here to get paid, and it sounded like the spigot of cash from Yemen was about to be shut off unless he was ready to pivot to whatever Tarik wanted him to do. “Where are you sending us?”
“I want you to go to Europe.”
“I don’t catch a lot of news, but I’m pretty sure Iran isn’t using local rebel forces in Belgium to expand their territory like they’re doing in Yemen. What the hell is over there for us?”
“We are running an operation against Quds Force terrorist cells active across the continent.”
“Quds Force is planning attacks in Europe? Why don’t you just communicate with the CIA about all that?”
“We are working in conjunction with the Agency, just as always. Our efforts in Europe are supported by them, just like our work here in the Middle East would have been impossible without our American partners.”
This placated Keith Hulett, so he didn’t question his mission anymore. “What do you need us to do?”
“I need you to go to a nice home in Berlin, a safe house we will acquire for you. My associates there will be looking at camera feeds, and if Court Gentry shows up through facial recognition in Germany, I will give you a target.”
Hulett was skeptical. “So, we just sit and wait, hope you get lucky?”
Tarik shook his head. “I have other work for you. I need men eliminated. Easy targets, certainly not of Gentry’s caliber. It should be quite simple for you. The targets will be Iranian nationals. Terrorists.”
Hulett sat back in surprise. “You want us orchestrating kills on European soil? That’s a damn sight different than waxing some fuckers in the middle of a war zone.”
“Is it? Is it, really, if the . . . how did you put it? If the fuckers are cut from the same cloth, come from the same enemy, and your nation approves of the mission?
“You and your eight . . . apologies, seven men, will be paid two and a half times your current wage.” Tarik smiled. “It will be easy work for you. You don’t stand out in Europe the way I would, the way my case officers would.”
Hulett wasn’t buying this. “I’ve been to Europe. There are a lot of Arabs there.”
“Who receive extra scrutiny from the authorities. I had operatives working there, doing the same work I am asking of you. They were good, but they were running greater and greater risk of compromise every day, due to the color of their skin, whereas you and your men will have unlimited freedom of movement.”
This made sense to Hulett, more so because he wasn’t one to challenge a new job opportunity falling into his lap just as another job was lost.
“When would we leave?”
“Take a day to rest. I’ve run you all hard. Grieve for your fallen comrade. Then I’ll have you transported to Germany. We are already watching out for Gentry in case he shows up where he can cause us strife.”
Keith Hulett liked the thought of getting out of Dubai and heading into the heart of Europe. He liked the thought of leaving the war behind for a while and working as a hit man for an intelligence service that had the full backing and confidence of the CIA. And he liked the idea of killing the son of a bitch who killed Ronnie.
This seemed like solid work for a man of his skill set.
In the back of his mind, though, he had suspicions and reservations about what this sneaky intelligence chief sitting in front of him would have him do down the road. But Hulett would go and be a good soldier, because even after everything he had done, that was the story that he told himself about himself.
SEVENTEEN
The woman calling herself Stephanie Arthur climbed the stairs out of the U-Bahn station at Dahlem-Dorf in southwestern Berlin just after one p.m., keeping pace with the crowds on their way back from their lunch breaks or hoofing it to class at the nearby Freie Universität Berlin. The sun shone hot, but a low rumble