Free Ring of Lies by Roni Dunevich

zipped up his jacket. His body was buffeted by the strong wind and his face stung from the freezing snow. The forest was filled with night sounds: distant growls, chilling shrieks, hoarse croaking.
    Nearby, under a layer of ice, flowed the Havel River. It felt as ifthe wind was about to uproot the whole mountain. A mysterious whistling pierced the air.
    The wall along the steps was tattooed with overlapping bursts of graffiti, and the acrid stench of urine hung in the air. As he climbed to the second floor, his high hiking boots crushed shards of glass and ice underfoot.
    Somebody tried to kill me tonight.
    His foot hit a heavy metal disk, causing it to spin away noisily. He heard the creaking of a steel door. He froze, straining to listen. The mysterious whistling grew louder. He tightened his grip on the Glock. The gale swirled around him, and he was almost blind in the spectral darkness. Dull footsteps sounded somewhere above him. The wind lashed at the tarps over the radomes as if they were giant tom-toms. He continued upward, sticking close to the wall and trying not to slip on the ice under his feet, until he saw an interior set of steps leading up to the roof.
    Slowly he climbed the stairs, all his senses primed. He glanced at his watch: he was two minutes early. The whistling was louder, almost deafening. He heard a groan and took the last few steps at a run.
    Footsteps were gradually fading into the distance. He hid behind a flap of canvas. Then he moved forward, holding the gun out in front of him. The snow was coming down hard, turning the air white. Toward the east he caught a view of the needlelike TV tower.
    â€œBerlin?” he whispered into the darkness.
    A nocturnal bird of prey shrieked overhead.
    Alex entered the first radome, five stories high.
    â€œBerlin?”
    Crouching, he exited quickly and scanned the roof beforeentering the second radome. Graffiti-covered torn Teflon sheets flapped in the driving wind. His phone told him that the time set for the meeting had passed.
    Alex turned on his flashlight and passed the beam over the concrete floor. A rusty metal frame in the shape of a hexagon was anchored to the floor by fat screws as big as soda bottles. Near the edge of the radome, the beam landed on a dark mass.
    The hair on his neck stood up.
    Someone was there.

TEUFELSBERG, BERLIN | 23:37
    The man was lying on the floor surrounded by a dark stain. Blood spurted upward like water in a fountain. His throat had been ripped open, the damaged windpipe visible. His eyes gaped in terror.
    â€œWho did this to you?” Alex demanded.
    A weak gurgle.
    â€œWho?” he repeated, louder.
    â€œKahl.” The single syllable issued directly from the torn throat, together with bubbles of blood.
    â€œWho?”
    The blood slowed. “Kei . . . keine Augenbrauen.”
    The man shuddered, his hips rising and then dropping heavily to the floor. He emitted a long sigh, followed by silence.
    Keeping hold of his pistol, Alex felt with his free hand for the artery in the man’s sticky red neck. No pulse.
    Was this Berlin?
    He used his phone to check the meaning of the man’s last words. “Bald. No eyebrows.”
    Leaving the radome, he jogged around the edge of the roof, peering into the darkness below. There was no one there. In the distance, he heard an off-road motorcycle start up, the wind distorting the sound of the rough roar. The beam of a headlight flitted among the dark trees and disappeared.
    Shit. The motorcycle was already out of range of his gun.
    Whoever had attacked Berlin could easily have come after him as well. The killer had followed Berlin here for the sole purpose of taking his life. As soon as he’d done what he came for, he left. He had no interest in Alex. But what about Jane? She was a Nibelung. If the killer knew Berlin’s identity, he might also know hers. Alarmed, Alex realized he’d left her alone in the restaurant.
    Nevertheless, he went back to the