Blood Lines

Book 2: Scott Brodie & Maggie Taylor Series

by Nelson DeMille, Alex DeMille

Genres: Mystery; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

From New York Times bestselling authors Nelson DeMille and Alex DeMille, Blood Lines features the return of Army CID Special Agents Brodie and Taylor who are on the hunt for the cold-blooded murderer of one of their fellow agents.

Army Criminal Investigation Agents Scott Brodie and Maggie Taylor have been separated for five months following their last assignment, a dangerous mission in Venezuela to locate and detain an infamous Army deserter. Now, in Berlin, they are reunited and tasked with investigating the murder of one of their own: CID Special Agent Harry Vance of the 5th MP Battalion, an accomplished counterterrorism agent who had been stationed in western Germany, and whose body was discovered in a city park in the heart of Berlin’s Arab refugee community.

The authorities suspect this is an act of Islamic terrorism, but Brodie and Taylor soon believe there is more to this case. The reason for Vance’s presence in Berlin is unknown, and as Brodie and Taylor work to discover what the murder victim was doing in the days and weeks preceding his death, they become immersed in the many conflicts and contradictions of modern Germany—the Arab refugee crisis, the dark legacy of the Cold War and the Stasi secret police, and the imminent threats of a rising neo-Nazi movement. At the same time, they are butting heads with the authorities—both German and American—and facing a possible threat from American intelligence agents who fear that Brodie and Taylor might have learned too much about US clandestine operations during their mission in Venezuela.

Ultimately, Brodie and Taylor realize that the murder of Harry Vance was merely the prelude to a much more sinister future event—unless they can unravel the mystery in time to stop it.

Release date: October 10, 2023

Publisher: Scribner

Print pages: 432

Sample

CHAPTER 1

Harry Vance finished dressing in the dark bedroom, using his cell phone to find a pair of matching socks. It was past two in the morning and he was trying to leave without waking Anna, so he shouldn’t have been so partic- ular. But at the age of fifty-three, Vance had learned to accept and embrace his own bullshit. And he knew his steps felt a little less sure when his socks didn’t match.

He walked to the tall window and parted the curtains. The dark streets below were lined with turn-of-the-century apartment buildings and shut- tered storefronts, and the day’s rain had turned the curbside snowbanks into rivers of gray slush. The sidewalks were barren on this cold January night, but the bars and clubs tucked away in this trendy corner of Berlin were still open, their music and laughter echoing down the dark street.

Vance turned and looked at Anna, asleep under a thick blanket. A space heater hummed at the far end of the room. These old buildings were nice to look at, but they weren’t insulated, and nothing worked. Anna thought the building had “character,” a word that made Vance want to step into traffic. Well, that’s what he got for becoming involved with a younger woman.

He approached the bed and took a closer look at her by the dim light coming through the window. She didn’t look like herself when she slept. Her face was relaxed, soft. So different from who she was.

Vance reached his hand out to . . . what? Touch her? Try to wake her? Tell her where he was going? Why would he do something like that? Because you’re an idiot. Which is another way of saying you’re in love.

He withdrew his hand. The point was to not tell her anything. She didn’t

like that, of course. And neither did the brass back at headquarters when he froze them out of his investigations until it was time to make arrests. But this was how Army CID Agent Harry Vance had always approached his work. Just do it. Only amateurs and cowards needed outside opinions before the job was done.

So he hadn’t told her about tonight’s rendezvous, and he’d be back in bed before sunrise. They’d wake up together, maybe a morning roll in the sack, then fried eggs with black bread and coffee, watch the news. Sunday stuff.

Anna rolled over, muttering something in German that he couldn’t make out. Her arm flopped onto the empty side of the mattress, which still contained his impression in the cheap memory foam.

He pictured her waking up in the night to use the bathroom or get some water and seeing that he was gone. She’d freak out.

He took out his phone and typed her a text: Couldn’t sleep. Going for a walk. Back by dawn. He hesitated, then added: I love you.

Every word of that was true, though he might have left out a few things. He hit Send and heard her phone vibrate on the bedside table.

He walked to the foyer, where he put on his scarf and wool cap. He eyed a small table piled with yesterday’s mail, then slid open a drawer to reveal his Beretta M9 inside a pancake holster.

Vance stared at the pistol. He wasn’t doing anything dangerous. Unless, of course, he was closer to the truth than he realized. And you never know you’re there until you’re there.

He clipped the holster on his belt, then put on his camel-hair topcoat. He unbolted the heavy door and stepped onto the dimly lit landing, closing the door quietly behind him.

Vance descended two flights of stairs, then stepped out into the win- ter night and felt the sharp snap of cold air on his face. He lit a cigarette and walked north to the Prenzlauer Allee S-Bahn train station, a handsome turn-of-the-century brick building that—like Anna’s street and much of the neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg—appeared to have somehow survived the war intact. Though in Berlin you didn’t always know what was original and what got pieced back together from the rubble.

He walked down a set of icy stairs to the tracks, which ran along a trench

below street level. He checked his watch as he waited on the platform: 2:27 a.m. It was the weekend, so the S-Bahn ran all night. He watched a young couple huddled inside a glass-paneled shelter as a cold north wind whipped down the platform.

On a typical case, he’d have his partner, Mark Jenkins, with him. But this wasn’t a typical case. In fact, it wasn’t a CID case at all. He was moon- lighting here in Berlin, hundreds of miles from the headquarters of the U.S. Army’s 5th Military Police Battalion in Kaiserslautern, a small city near Frankfurt where Vance lived and worked. His colleagues knew he came to Berlin whenever he had time off. They assumed it was for a woman, and they made their jokes. But they were only half right.

He thought about his wife, Julie, back in Kaiserslautern, soon to be ex if the papers ever went through. German efficiency, he’d found out, did not extend to divorce proceedings. She was a good woman and didn’t deserve half the crap he put her through. Then again, she’d chosen to stay in the marriage. We all make our own prisons.

Vance spotted the train approaching and took a last drag on his cigarette. He flicked the butt onto the tracks, then took out his cell and texted: Ich bin unterwegs. I’m on my way.

After a few seconds he received a reply: Ich werde da sein. I’ll be there.

The train eased into the station and Vance boarded. He took a seat and looked around as the train pulled out. His car was mostly empty, as was the entire train, the length of which he could see due to the open gangways. He spotted a group of hyperactive twenty-somethings at the far end, prob- ably club-hopping until dawn. He’d done that once with Anna, which was one time too many. She thought she was keeping him young, but she was actually just reminding him of the gulf between them.

The city slid by out the grimy window. He was heading southeast to Neukölln, a neighborhood with a large Turkish and Arab immigrant popu- lation, made larger in the last few years thanks to Germany’s generous asy- lum policy toward Syrian refugees. It was a policy that made many Germans proud—and enraged and frightened just as many.

Vance tried to stay out of his host country’s internal politics, though as a Chief Warrant Officer in the CID’s Terrorism and Criminal Investigation Unit, or TCIU, this rapid influx of refugees had affected his caseload. There

were dozens of U.S. Army installations across Europe, and Vance and his colleagues in the TCIU were responsible for investigating perceived ter- rorist threats against all of them, as well as threats against any U.S. Army personnel located on the European continent or North Africa, which was his command’s area of responsibility.

In truth, most of the flood of refugees arriving in Germany came here to escape the ravages of war and create a better life, and even the criminal element among them largely restricted their activities to nonpolitical felo- nies. But it was the potential ISIS or al Qaeda operatives who managed to slip through, and also the jobless and isolated young men who became rad- icalized once in Germany, who kept Vance and his colleagues busy. As they say in counterterrorism, the good guys need to succeed every time; the bad guys need to succeed only once.

Vance looked out the window as the train crossed over the Spree River, and then passed from the former East Berlin into the West. What had once been a fortified wall of concrete, razor wire, dogs, soldiers, and searchlights was now a phantom border crisscrossed by twenty-four-hour train lines and rejoined streets, and you’d have to have a sightseeing guide to find the few shards of the Wall still standing. Vance figured that was probably a good thing. Berlin, more than most places, had to navigate remembering the past without becoming a shrine to its horrors.

He remembered watching the Wall come down on TV. The cheering crowds as people took sledgehammers to the hated structure. East German police and soldiers standing impotent as Germans from East and West de- fiantly held hands atop the Wall, one people again.

He had been in his first semester of his senior year at Johns Hopkins, thinking about a military career and what his role might be in helping to contain the Soviet menace. And then, in the blink of an eye, the forty-year Cold War was over. The Iron Curtain parted. The nuclear threat lifted. A new world had dawned overnight, and no one knew what to do about it. It turned out the new world was more complicated than the old, and thirty years later Vance was still trying to figure it out.