A BOOKSTORE IN BERLIN

Sgt. White stood at the far end of the U-bahn car, glancing surreptitiously at the foursome who had taken seats near the exit door. The woman and one of the male operatives were seated together, while the man known as Vadim was seated next to the other male. Hoping to appear bored, White idly looked around, taking in the other passengers, the advertisements above the seats, and finally the schematic of the U-bahn line located above the door. He learned they were heading in the direction of Potsdamer Platz, and wondered if that was the where they’d disembark. Out of the corner of his eye, White caught a sudden movement by Vadim. He watched as Vadim scrunched up, then reach into the side pocket of his jacket. White could see Vadim had retrieved his cellphone. Not having heard any audible ring, White surmised that whoever was contacting Vadim had sent a text message or an email. Whatever was in the message seemed to have a marked effect. Vadim stared at the screen, almost disbelievingly, then tapped his seat mate on the shoulder, prompting him to also read what was written. For a moment, they looked at each other, gauging each other’s reaction, then the other man nodded in the direction of the pair of operatives seated nearby, but Vadim shook his head. White wasn’t sure what had just taken place, but it made him uneasy. Minutes later, the foursome exited the U-bahn at the Potsdamer Platz station. White felt Vadim and his colleague seemed far more wary as they walked along the station platform—as if those around them might prove to be a threat. It was another sign—one White believed he shouldn’t dismiss—that those he was following were now operating at a heightened level of suspicion. Certainly a level far higher than earlier, when the foursome had boarded the U-bahn in Mitte. Being cautious, White gauged his exit for the very last moment, hoping the foursome would begin climbing to street level before he was forced to emerge from the car. He wasn’t totally successful; although most of the party were already heading up the stairs, Vadim turned and looked back just at the moment White stepped onto the station platform. White immediately turned away, then began walking briskly towards the opposite end of the platform. When he thought enough time had elapsed for Vadim to reach street level he doubled back and raced up the stairs. He spotted the foursome just exiting the Potsdamer Platz complex at its southwest corner—a point which led on to Stresemannstraße. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians at this time of the evening and White believed himself well-concealed as he took up a position about fifty feet back from the foursome as they made their way south along Stresemannstraße. But at the first intersection, White watched as the foursome turned east off Stresemannstraße onto a side street. Pedestrian traffic there was sparse and White wasn’t sure how to proceed, so he held back, hugging the corner of a building, trying to monitor their movements as inconspicuously as possible. About 500 meters ahead, he observed them turn right—into what looked to him to be an unfenced construction area. Thinking it was a shortcut, White hurried after them, anxious to spot where they’d ultimately end up. As he stepped off the street and entered the construction site he realized something was wrong. The site was not lighted, and in the darkness of night, he knew any attempt to cross it on foot would be hazardous, given the presence of scattered debris. Christ! he thought, it’s an ambush! Before he could react, a muffled shot knocked him to the ground. His training instantly kicked in and he crawled painfully towards a large stack of concrete blocks, anxious to get out of the glare of the street lights that had made him such a tempting target. Huddled up against the concrete block stack, he quickly drew his military issue Glock 17 semiautomatic, then reached into a side pocket and pulled out a suppressor, screwing it expertly onto the muzzle of the weapon. As he waited for his attackers to make their next move he focused on the need to determine the location and severity of the wound. The burning sensation emanating from his left thigh let him know where he’d most likely been hit, and the fact he’d been able to crawl, he figured, probably meant the femur hadn’t been fractured, nor the femoral artery cut. He knew he’d soon have to improvise a tourniquet but figured that could wait. He suspected it had been Vadim who’d shot him, and believed the enforcer would hunt him down—if for no other reason than to learn his identity. White listened intently, hoping to hear movement from deeper in the construction site. He suspected the reason he wasn’t dead, only wounded, was due to the shooter having been forced to take a sudden, impulsive shot as he realized White was about to take evasive action. Either that or Vadim wanted him alive so that he could be interrogated. After a minute or so, during which the only sounds White heard were those emanating from car traffic on Stresemannstraße, he crawled away from the stack of concrete blocks and over to the left rear tire of a truck parked further in—a position that would give him a better line of sight should Vadim or his fellow operative make a move. White tried to do it quietly, but his injured leg dragged a little as he elbowed his way forward. Perhaps their decision to suddenly approach was prompted by the sound of his leg dragging, which gave them White’s general location and confirmed the fact he’d been injured but not immobilized; all White knew was that the faint profile of two men in a crouch and heading in his direction was the first thing he saw once he was in position. White knew his dark skin and dark clothes blended with the rubber of the truck tire, making him virtually invisible as long as he didn’t move. So he waited patiently as the two men came closer and closer. When they were about thirty-five feet out he took careful aim at Vadim firing twice in rapid succession, aiming for the man’s chest. Then, just as quickly, he fired one round at the other man, aiming low, hoping to wound, not to kill. With gritted teeth White scrambled forward as fast as he could, shredding the clothing at his elbows in the process, hoping to close with the wounded man before he managed to retrieve his handgun from wherever it had fallen. But as White got within ten feet of where the two men lay, the wounded man rolled onto his stomach and extended his right arm in White’s direction. White quickly slapped his left hand against his right, creating a stable aiming grip on his Glock 17 semiautomatic and fired, but not before the wounded man got off a shot. White felt the impact as the bullet smashed into the soft flesh above the bone of his left shoulder. He desperately fought to remain conscious despite the pain and shock. After a pause to assess the seriousness of his new wound, he resumed clawing his way forward, albeit with excruciating slowness—relying on his right elbow and uninjured leg to gain traction. When he finally reached the two men he confirmed both were dead. White’s final shot had hit the man squarely in the head, killing him instantly.