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  "Fast, relentless, and impossible to put down. Landon Beach's The Cabin is a must-read for fans of Ted Bell, Clive Cussler, and Bryan Gruley."

  - The Real Book Spy

  “The Cabin has all the elements of a great espionage thriller along with a dose of introspection on the state of the world at large. If you’re looking for an intelligent, high octane read, you can’t go wrong with The Cabin.”

  - Chris Goff, author of RED SKY

  THE CABIN

  A Novel

  Landon Beach

  The Cabin Copyright © 2019 by Landon Beach. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Design for Writers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Landon Beach

  Visit my website at landonbeachbooks.com

  For John Thomas and Barry Beam—two missed men who wore the badge with distinction, honor, fairness, and compassion.

  And, for Generation X.

  “A nation that wants to project its power beyond its borders needs to see over the horizon, to know what is coming, to prevent attacks against its people. It must anticipate surprise. Without a strong, smart, sharp intelligence service, presidents and generals alike can become blind and crippled. But throughout its history as a superpower, the United States has not had such a service.”

  -Tim Weiner, Legacy of Ashes

  “Why Americans believe that conflict is good within their own society and yet bad between societies is a fascinating question which, to the best of my knowledge, no one has seriously studied.”

  -Samuel P. Huntington, The Clash of Civilizations and the Remaking of World Order

  PROLOGUE

  BERLIN, DECEMBER 2005 – PART I

  The spy was late. CIA Officer Jennifer Lear sat inside a toasty café drinking a cappuccino, Die Welt open in front of her. She was at a table for two against the front window and right next to the door. Outside, the snow fell as if there was an unlimited supply, and Berliners wearing dark heavy overcoats and knitted hats made their way along the Kurfürstendamm. She felt a hint of sympathy for her partner who was outside weathering the freezing temperature a block away. A feigned yawn and stretch gave her the opportunity to glance at the clock on the wall above a booth with two loud Germans arguing over a game of chess. 7:02 p.m. Her agent, Sari, had never been late, which would give Lear the grounds to call off the meeting right now. But, Sari would be doing a surveillance detection run, and the weather might be slowing her down. Lear and her partner had decided on a 5-minute window. Sari now had 3.

  She moved her toes up and down inside her hiking boots. Her feet were sore from her own hour-long surveillance detection run with her partner, performed to make sure that no one was following them before she entered the café. First, they had driven around for a half an hour to spot anyone tailing their car. Then, she had gotten out and started to walk while he parked the car up the street in front of a bookstore. As soon as he exited the car, a third officer emerged from the store, took the keys from him, and drove the car out of the city. For the next half hour, Lear had strolled the shopping district while her partner followed from a distance.

  The door chimed, and Lear took a sip of her cappuccino to see who had entered. Damn. It was a heavyset grandmother with a scarf over her mouth. The woman shut the door behind her and moved toward the café’s bar. Lear set her cup down. Where was her agent?

  ✽✽✽

  CIA Officer Brian Turner shivered beneath his wool coat. The wind whipped against the snow on the ground, dusting it up like a snow blower and then scattering the flakes in a narrow blast pattern. He crossed the street and began to look in store windows. He pondered, he nodded, he abruptly stopped and acted like the deal he saw advertised on the storefront was too good to be true, and he kept watch on his surroundings to make sure that nothing interfered with Officer Lear’s meeting. He had last seen their agent at the rendezvous six months ago, and he wondered what information she would have for them this time.

  The corner of the awning above the storefront he was currently “browsing” gave way, dumping a pile of snow directly on his neck and coat collar. As he brushed the snow off with his gloved hands, some of it slipped under his shirt and ran down his back—Jesus, it was cold. The summer meetings were much more pleasant. Why did he keep getting assigned to winter meetings? Lear only handled one summer meeting and one winter meeting a year; the rest of the time she was probably at her cover job or working as an analyst at Langley. He was stationed in France, which made it easy for him to accompany her to Berlin. They were posing as tourists for a week and were enjoying all Berlin had to offer: the Gendarmenmarkt, the Brandenburg Gate, the Reichstag, the Berlin Television Tower, the Berlin Cathedral, Museum Island, and the Berlin Wall Memorial and Documentation Centre. Then, on a pre-arranged day and time, they would meet up with their agent. The usual protocol called for Lear to live in Berlin under the cover of some state job at the U.S. Embassy. Once the CIA had an agent for her to run, she would coordinate all of the meetings using classic tradecraft—dead drops, chalk markings, the opening of a window at a certain time, etc. But in the last decade, this had become more difficult to pull off since most foreign countries now watched every employee of the embassy. Updated techniques were needed to effectively run agents and gather intelligence. Using officers once or twice a year for the face-to-face meetings had proved effective. The Berlin station personnel would set up the meetings, but when the meetings actually took place, known officers were followed and unknown officers like Lear and Turner were not—allowing them to slide into a café or take a stroll in a park to meet with their agent. They would exchange money and other items for information, forward it to the Berlin office, then go on acting as tourists for a few more days.

  Turner entered a store directly across from the café. The warmth inside restored him. He took off his gloves, smiled at a salesperson, and meandered through an aisle of clothes until he was facing the window. He could see Lear sitting at the table. The other chair was empty. Something was wrong.

  He turned toward a rack of men’s coats and picked up the sleeve of one to study the price tag, which also gave him an opportunity to glance at his watch. 7:04. Four minutes late. If Sari didn’t show in one minute, they would leave. A no-show agent was a pain because of the time devoted to the meeting’s set up, communication, and surveillance detection run, but it didn’t necessarily mean that anything was wrong. Perhaps the agent was being followed and had to abort. Not a problem, they’d set up another meeting. But still...

  He let the coat sleeve go and gave the street a quick survey as if to check the conditions outside. The snow continued to pour from the sky as shoppers walked the Kurfürstendamm. The agent was nowhere in sight. Less than a minute left. He felt uneasy.

  ✽✽✽

  Officer Lear finished her cappuccino and dabbed a napkin across her lips. Convinced that her agent was not going to show up, she started to slide her chair back away from the table. It had only moved a few inches when the door to the café opened and Sari entered.

  Lear bent down and tightened the laces on both of her hiking boots. The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in months, and the snow tracked in had turned the dirt into a wet grime. She sat up. Placing her elbows on the table top, she rested her chin on her hands and stared out the window disinterestedly as if she’d be there to pass another hour.

  Sari joined her at the table.

  “Guten Abend,” Lear said, still looking out the window.

  Sari affectionately rubbed Lear’s right arm. “Alles klar.”

  Lear turned her head and released a smile. “Ja, alles klar, danke.” She took out a handkerchief and surveyed the café as she wiped her nose. Nothing seemed out of place, and no one was paying attention to them. Lear put the handkerchief back in her pocket.

  Sari had spotted the folded newspaper on the table. After a pause, she laid her large purse next to the paper and began to search the middle pocket with her left hand. With precision and timing, she slid her right hand between the folded sections of Die Welt, as if to stabilize the purse, and then removed it, joining her other hand in the search of her purse’s contents.

  Lear pretended to be annoyed with Sari’s searching until Sari finally pulled out a pack of gum. Lear’s face said: about time.

  Sari offered her a stick, which was accepted, then took one out for herself.

  Lear said, “Danke,” and put the green piece of gum into her mouth while Sari placed her purse on the floor. Lear slid the newspaper into her backpack with her right hand. With her left hand, she took a small cookie tin out of her coat pocket and placed it inside Sari’s purse. The tin was filled with cash. When they had started exchanging information, Sari had asked for more specific items—an original Michael Jackson Thriller record, two cartons of Treasurer cigarettes, a Gucci scarf—but now she just wanted cash.

  “Bitte schön.”

  Lear relaxed. The Berlin exchanges were always quick, and the signal that everything was fine was communicating in simple German phrases that any tourist would know. If there was anything wrong and they needed
to split, Lear was to say a long sentence in English, and, if there was anything wrong on Sari’s end, she was to say a lengthy sentence in German. Lear didn’t know why Sari was late, but she was convinced that, whatever the reason, all was well. She made eye contact with her agent and then, using her right index finger, rubbed her watch face in two slow circles.

  Sari patted Lear’s arm. It was time to get going.

  Lear rose from the table and pushed in her chair. She said, “Gute Nacht.”

  “Bis dann,” Sari replied.

  Lear put on her backpack and headed for the door. The two Germans playing chess had escalated their insults as Lear slid by their booth. She pulled on the door handle and heard, “Wir fahren morgen mit dem Zug nach Hamburg, wenn ich dich wider sehe, lieber Freund.” We’ll take the train to Hamburg tomorrow when I see you back here, dear friend.

  Lear looked over at Sari, gave her a nod, and then exited the café.

  Outside, she noticed Turner leaning against a lamppost across the street. After tilting her head back and looking at the sky, as if pondering whether to venture out or head back inside, she took a pair of reading glasses out of her right coat pocket, examined them, and then put them in her left pocket.

  ✽✽✽

  Turner’s heart started to beat faster, and his situational awareness became even more acute. Lear had just signaled him that something was wrong. But what was it? It appeared that the meeting had gone smoothly; it definitely hadn’t been rushed. Surely, Sari would have signaled trouble as soon as she entered the café, but the two had sat down like old friends. Had Lear seen something after the meeting? He put his hand inside his coat and felt the handle of his 9mm. He slid his fingers down the barrel and felt the silencer attached—the pockets were extra-large to accommodate the handgun. At the same time, his eyes swiveled left and right, then up and across the rooftops. Nothing seemed out of place. He looked through the café window. Sari sat, reading a paperback. She seemed in no hurry.

  His eyes met Lear’s, and she turned left out of the café. This was the direction they had agreed upon if there was danger. He let her get a block ahead and then began to follow. In another block, he would cross the street and—

  There. A man wearing a driver’s cap and carrying a shopping bag from an upscale clothing store entered the sidewalk from an alley. He took a little too much time searching the crowd of fellow shoppers until he spotted and began to follow Lear. Trouble.

  Turner kept his eyes on the man. After a few paces, the man made a second mistake and turned his head to the right, keeping it fixed for a moment in the direction of another man who was across the street. The second man was half-a-block ahead of Turner and walked with a smooth, confident stride. He had on a black overcoat with a scarlet scarf, and his mop of salt and pepper hair blew in the wind.

  Then, the second man veered off the sidewalk and entered a store; the other man continued to follow Lear. Turner saw his opportunity and crossed the street, cycling his eyes between Lear, the man following her, and the storefront where the second man had disappeared. As he passed the store, he did not see the man inside, but he only had a second to scan. There was no time to double check, and he could not reveal himself by stopping and looking in the storefront window. He focused his attention solely on Lear.

  ✽✽✽

  From a corner inside the store, the man with the overcoat and red scarf watched his fellow agent follow the woman. He waited an entire minute until they were far away down the sidewalk. He approached the window and scanned both sides of the street. Confident that he had not been seen or followed, he exited the store and headed back toward the café.

  ✽✽✽

  Turner began to close the distance between himself and the man following Lear. Up ahead was an apartment complex, and if he could walk past both of them like he was in a hurry to get somewhere, then he could warn her. It was his only chance. He sped up.

  ✽✽✽

  Lear saw the apartment complex looming two blocks away. Should she dart into the main office, take an elevator up, walk all the way down the hall, take the stairs down, and then exit out the rear entrance? It was a simple evasion technique, and they had discussed it last week when they arrived and again this morning. She wasn’t sure if she was being followed, but Turner wouldn’t be far behind. He would join her in the building and they would go from there. The one thing she could not do was turn arou—

  “Apartment plan,” a voice said next to her, and before she could turn her head, she saw Turner running past her. Ten yards ahead, she saw him look at his watch, shake his head, and then swear loudly in German. He continued to run—past the apartment complex, past another store, and across the next intersection.

  Now she knew something was wrong. Twenty yards until the entrance of the apartment complex. She maintained discipline, never speeding up or looking around, and her hiking boots continued to crunch though the freshly fallen snow.

  Ten yards.

  She put her hand inside her coat pocket and fingered her own 9mm with silencer attached—she hadn’t fired a gun since the range, right before she left the United States for the mission. She had never fired at a human being before.

  She reached the double glass doors and entered the apartment building. Then, she picked up her pace and strode toward the elevator—the doors were just about to close. She slid her hand between the doors, and they opened. An elderly German couple frowned; she apologized. The doors closed, and she saw the 11th floor’s button was lit. The elevator started to climb; she pushed the button for floor 3.

  ✽✽✽

  Turner watched as the man followed Lear into the apartment complex. Then, he stepped away from the outdoor restaurant table he had slid behind and scooted around the space heater before heading back toward the apartment complex’s back door where he would take the stairs up to meet her.

  ✽✽✽

  Lear exited the elevator and made her way swiftly down the long hallway. At the far end was a door with the sign reading “Ausgang” above it that led to the stairwell. Almost clear. She would go down the stairs, out the back door, and head straight for the waiting car, which would be two blocks away. She knew the car would be there because if everything had gone as planned, they would have already been picked up on the other end of the Kurfürstendamm; her team would have switched to the alternate pick-up location immediately when she and Officer Turner hadn’t shown up. She continued to hustle toward the door.

  ✽✽✽

  Turner entered the stairwell and was already on the second flight when he heard the door below crash open. He looked down and saw three men with guns drawn enter the building. They saw him and started racing up the stairs. Then, he heard something that made his insides turn: They were shouting at each other—in Russian. He ran up the last flight to the door numbered 3.

  ✽✽✽

  Lear grinned as she moved to within ten feet of the stairwell door. Piece of cake. Then, the door burst open. It was Turner.

  “Run!” he said.

  She stopped, confused. “Brian—”

  “Now!”

  She turned and sprinted away down the hall.

  1

  STATE HIGHWAY 250, NEW YORK, THURSDAY, JUNE 29, 2006

  “We’re almost to our little bungalow, babycakes,” Iggi Hilliard said to his wife as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Gonna seduce your ass before our company arrives.”

  Maria Hilliard’s large sunglasses stayed focused on the People magazine she held in her hands. “Keep dreamin’,” she said. “Plus, you just got some last night, and you’re lucky you got that.” She grinned. “Don’t you need a few days to recover?”