Desmond heard the bathroom door creak open. A second later the lights flipped on. The police officer looked back at his partner and the security guard. Standing his ground, his hand still on his sidearm, he shook his head quickly.
“Yes. We are done here,” the other officer said. “Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Hughes. Please enjoy your stay in Berlin.”
The three men gathered at the door. The security guard had just gripped the handle when a sound erupted in the room: skin sliding across glass. The squealing noise ceased, and all three men paused, then turned back to face Desmond. Behind him, gravity had taken over, pulling Gunter Thorne’s dead body down toward the floor. Desmond had propped the dead man against the window in the corner and covered him with the drapes—but he was free now. His face rubbed across the glass a second more before his body hit the heating unit and tumbled to the floor with a thud.
Desmond didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, covering the distance to the three men in less than a second. He swung his right hand with all the force he could muster. It collided with the rightmost police officer’s face, on the cheekbone below his left eye. The man’s head flew back and hit the metal door casing. He was knocked out instantly.
Desmond rolled and pressed his body into the security guard, who was standing between the two officers, keeping the man from extending his arms. The remaining police officer drew his gun and was raising it, but Desmond quickly completed a 180-degree spin and rammed his elbow into the officer’s forehead. The man slammed back against the wooden door, then tumbled forward, unconscious, his gun flying. Desmond leapt to it, picked it up, and pointed it at the security guard.
“Hands where I can see them. Step away from the door.”
The guard’s hands trembled as he raised them.
“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you yell out, I will. Do you understand?”
The man nodded.
“Why were they here?”
“It is as they said—a call.”
“Who called them?”
He shook his head. “I do not know—”
“Who?”
“They said it was an anonymous tip.”
“Are there more downstairs?”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Desmond said, raising the weapon.
The man closed his eyes. “Two cars arrived. I don’t know if they stayed or not.”
“Turn around.”
The man didn’t move.
“Do it.”
Slowly, the security guard turned, his hands shaking violently now. Desmond drew the butt of the gun back and clocked the man on the head, sending him to the floor.
He dragged the guard’s body back from the door, then ejected the gun’s magazine and verified that there was no bullet in the chamber and the safety was on. He pulled his shirttail out and tucked the gun into his waistband, then collected the spare magazines from both police officers. He took the younger officer’s police ID and the radio from the security guard. He tucked the clear earpiece in and listened to the chatter for a moment. It was sparse and in German, but he understood it for the most part.
He had to decide: stairs or elevator. Front door or back.
Each route had pros and cons. Racing down the stairway would only raise the suspicion of anyone monitoring the security cameras, as would going out the back. So: elevator, front door.
He collected all the cash the three men carried—312 euros in total. He needed the money to get away, and as he was already on the hook for resisting arrest, assaulting a police officer, and possibly murder, he figured robbery wouldn’t complicate his situation that much.
In the hall, he marched casually to the elevator and punched the button. It opened after a few seconds, revealing a white-haired woman who didn’t acknowledge him.
There was no chatter on the security channel as he rode down. When the door opened to the lobby, Desmond stood aside, allowing the woman to exit first.
On the radio, a voice in German asked, “Gerhardt, are you still in 1207?”
Desmond fell in behind the woman.
“Gerhardt, come in.”
By the revolving glass door, two uniformed police officers stood chatting and smiling. They were twenty feet away. When they saw Desmond, they fell silent and stared at him.
Chapter 5
Peyton arrived at CDC headquarters shortly before four a.m. The campus, though typically associated with Atlanta, was actually located just outside the city limits, to the northeast, in the affluent Druid Hills community in unincorporated DeKalb County. The CDC’s precursor organization had been founded in Atlanta for one simple reason: to combat malaria. At the time, in July of 1946, the disease was America’s greatest public health concern, especially in the hot, humid southeast. Being centrally positioned in America’s malaria hotbed had been a significant advantage.
When Peyton first began working at the CDC, getting into the building had been as easy as swiping her card. Now the process was much more stringent and included an x-ray and pat-down. She knew security was important, but she was still anxious to get in and get started. Every second mattered.
Once security checked her in, she made her way directly to the CDC’s Emergency Operations Center—the organization’s command center for outbreak responses. The EOC’s main room looked like mission control for a NASA launch, with rows of connected desks filling the floor, all with flat-screen monitors. A wall-to-wall screen showed a map of the world and tallied statistics related to current operations. The EOC could seat 230 people for eight-hour shifts, and soon the center would be buzzing with activity. Even at this early hour, more than a dozen EOC staff members sat at their desks, fielding phone calls and typing away.