Drone Threat

44

The night air was cool, even though it was summer.

One of Frankfurt’s most popular destinations, the Römerberg plaza was brilliantly lit and still crowded with tourists. The tables outside the restaurants and bars were packed with customers downing sizzling sausages and tankards of frothy beer.

“If you had come in the winter you could have seen the Christmas Market, one of the oldest in all of Europe,” Mann said in faultless English. His eyes kept scanning the bustling crowds. Quite a few hijabs and Middle Eastern men among them, he noticed. He felt guilty for resenting them.

“I love the architecture,” Myers said, standing in front of the famous eastern facade of the Römer and its “stair-step” rooflines. The small plaza off the main boulevard was a circular enclave of tall medieval-styled buildings of various designs in hues of green, red, beige, and yellow. It looked like every postcard she had ever seen of Germany.

“They still register weddings in there,” Mann said, nodding at the Römer. “On the weekends there is a traffic jam of wedding parties out here in the plaza.”

“Must be delightful to see. I envy you having a country with such a long history. I read on the plane that the Romans first settled this city nearly two thousand years ago.” Myers thought Mann looked like a dashing U-boat captain in his scruffy beard, dark woolen coat, and fisherman’s cap.

“Don’t be fooled by what you see. This city was leveled by Allied bombers during the war. This plaza was rebuilt to appear like a medieval square back in the eighties to celebrate our heritage, but also to bring in the tourists.”

“Tourists like me.”

“Ganz genau. Exactly.”

“Still, it must mean something to you that Charlemagne once ruled from here. Maybe even stood exactly where we’re standing right now.”

“History is a double-edged sword. How it cuts depends on where you stand.” He steered her gently by the elbow toward a large commemorative bronze plaque in the midst of the cobblestones. They stood over it. In the center of the plaque were bronze book pages and licking flames with an inscription in German in the center.

“What does it say?”

Mann translated. “In this place on 10 May 1933, National Socialist students burned books by writers, political commentators, scientists, and philosophers.”

“That’s terrible. What does the rest of it mean?” She pointed at the words circling the plaque.

“It’s a famous quote from a nineteenth-century German Romantic poet by the name of Heinrich Heine. It says, in effect, ‘Where they first burn books, they will later burn people.’”

“Did the Nazis burn his books?”

“Of course. He was born a Jew, though later he converted to Christianity. In the context of this quote, he was actually writing about the danger of burning the Koran. History is a circle, yes?”

Myers glanced over at the statue in the center of the plaza, surrounded by a fountain. A great bronzed woman with a sword and scales.

“That is Lady Justice, a Roman goddess,” Mann said. “This is her plaza and her fountain.”

“I like her. She’s fierce. Her sword is already drawn and she isn’t blindfolded,” Myers said. “Justice can never be blind.”

“She is fickle, this one, I think. Or perhaps her back was turned when the books were burning behind her.” Mann nodded at the head of his security team standing near the Old St. Nicholas Church on the edge of the plaza. He whispered German in his comms as he scanned the crowd for the rest of his team. Once he made eye contact with the others, he turned his attention back to her. “Perhaps we can leave now?”

“We just got here. I’d like to look around.”

“There are too many people here. I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“First let’s have a beer and a schnitzel or something. I’m starving.”

“As you wish, Madam President.”

“Margaret, please.”

Mann led the way through the milling crowd toward one of the beer gardens. Myers watched him whisper in a waiter’s ear and the surprised expression that lit the old man’s pale blue eyes. A smile creased his wrinkled face and he bowed discreetly toward Myers, an old reflex. She smiled warmly in response and the waiter grabbed two younger men, and a small portable table was set up with such efficiency and speed that the other tourists hardly paid attention.

Myers took her seat. She noticed Mann remained standing. “What are you doing?”

Mann looked embarrassed. “I’m standing watch.”

“You’ll sit down and eat with me. I insist. It’s been a long day for you, too.”

“But my team—”

“We’ll feed them next. Please, this is all such a fuss over nothing.”

Mann shrugged, resigned. She had a commanding voice and he was truly famished. He took the seat opposite her. He ordered for the two of them and ten minutes later, two towering mugs of a carefully poured local pilsner were set before them along with plates of steaming potatoes, beef brisket, and two small bowls of green sauce.

“What’s this?” Myers said, dipping her finger into the sauce and tasting it.

“Grüne Sosse. It means—”

“Let me guess. Green sauce?”

“Your German is excellent.”

“Don’t kid a kidder, August,” Myers laughed. “It’s delicious. I’m tasting dill, sour cream, and chives. What do I do with it?” The crowd of tourists around them chatted and laughed, enjoying the festive evening.

“If you were Goethe, you’d pour it all over your potatoes and meat. It was his favorite dish. Or you can just use it like, how do you say, a dip.” Mann dumped his bowl all over his food. Myers followed suit.

“Why don’t we hear about German poets anymore?”

“Nihilists can’t rhyme.”

They drank and ate like old friends, which they really weren’t, but the shared experience of near death in the Sahara with Pearce had brought them closer than most. Mann was telling a funny story about Pearce when his earpiece crackled with a panicked shout from one of his team, but before Mann could react, the pilsner mug in front of Myers shattered in a cloud of glass and beer foam and she tumbled backward to the stony ground.