Collision of Evil (20 page)

Stockbridge considered, his flinty eyes focusing on the tabletop. “Let’s start with what we have. Have we picked up anything suspicious with a Bavarian connection in the last few days that might suggest a terrorist operation? Has anything come across our screen that could be a piece of this puzzle?”

Caroline arched her eyebrows and flipped through the folder in front of her. “Maybe,” she said, her voice barely audible. She located the piece of paper that she sought. “This is an intercept from a technical site near Bad Toelz. It’s cryptic and it might have nothing to do with this case.”

“Go on,” Stockbridge said. “You must find it interesting or you wouldn’t have raised it.”

“All right,” Caroline said. “Some guy in Ankara makes a phone call to a cell phone in Bavaria. Ostensibly, the conversation is about a pending wedding. There’s talk about the father of the bride and not postponing the wedding and everything being fine.”

“Sounds innocuous, Caroline,” Stockbridge said.

“Right. The thing is, our voice analysis guys think the topic is a cover. The conversation is stilted, unnatural. Now this doesn’t have to be terrorism, it could be narcotics trafficking. The call is from a male who identifies himself as Ibrahim. The male in Bavaria obviously knows him. One of the guys who rented a vehicle from Sixt is named Ibrahim Baran.”

“Phone numbers?” Stockbridge prodded, his hands gently working the smooth surface of his ebony pen.

“On the Bavarian end, a cell phone number that we have nothing on. On the Ankara end, the call originated from a public phone.”

There was an audible, collective sigh of resignation.

Caroline waved a hand to subdue the murmuring. “Just a second, here’s the interesting part. We show a trace on that public phone number in Ankara. The same phone has been used by an identified jihadist terrorist at least twice. Someone named Abdul al-Masri. Wanted in Pakistan since 2003, but never caught.”

“Wanted for what?” the gravelly voiced man asked.

Caroline drew in her breath. “Al-Masri was an associate of KSM, an experienced operator and a combat veteran of Afghanistan.”

The initials were shorthand for Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the architect of 9/11 and operations chief for Osama bin Laden. KSM had been captured in Afghanistan, rendered into CIA custody, and interrogated at a secret location to the edge of the law for
information that might prevent additional terrorist attacks. Initially arrogant and uncooperative, KSM had eventually offered up much of value to his persistent captors. He ultimately ended up at Guantanamo.

“Holy shit,” someone muttered.

Caroline did not want the tidbit to seem more meaningful than it might be and sought to dampen unreasonable expectations. “I know, it’s interesting. Still, it could be coincidence that al-Masri and this Ibrahim used the same public phone. How many people use public phones in Ankara on any given day? Ankara has a population of about four million, and a few hundred thousand people a day must be making calls. We need to keep perspective; it’s interesting information, but that’s all it is.”

Stockbridge rubbed a hand against his neck. “It might be all we have at the moment, Caroline, so let’s try to flesh it out. Talk tomorrow to the guys who listen to the tapes. I want to know what their wonderfully technical minds suspect. The number in Bavaria, you say we have nothing other than that it’s a cell phone?”

“Right,” Caroline affirmed.

“Pass the number to Hirter and have him give it to his German detective. Our informal cooperative effort should be a two-way street. Maybe that phone in Bavaria has history.”

Caroline made a note on a yellow sticky attached to her folder.

Stockbridge shook his silver mane. “And, Caroline, not now. To morrow. Tonight we are all leaving this conference room and going home. Even spies need sleep.” They rose to depart to the dispersed suburbs of McLean, Alexandria, and Reston.

Caroline felt the accumulated hours of the day weigh on her shoulders, but the weariness was subordinate to a growing sense that a major intelligence operation was underway.

Ibrahim Baran drank the steaming hot, unsweetened tea from a small glass, holding it gingerly by the rim so as not to burn his fingers. He closed his eyes and savored the taste. He heard in the distance the bustling traffic of Ankara; aging and abused city buses, diesel auto engines, the soprano whine of underpowered motorbikes. Western machines, he thought, western inventions. Why did the faithful have to be transported to their daily chores in infidel devices? He frowned, having no answer to the question. Ibrahim breathed deeply of the pungent, urban Turkish air and opened his deep brown eyes again.

He was in an apartment on the fourth floor of a nondescript, concrete apartment building, its exterior a dull yellow faded by time and solar rays, the cheap paint layered with accretions of traffic soot. It was cool inside the thick walls, though, and comfortable to sit protected from the harsh sun reigning outside. The apartment was located downtown, not far from the heights of Anitkabir, the imposing, solemn stone mausoleum of Mustapha Kemal Attaturk, the relentlessly secular founder of modern Turkey. Attaturk, a man who stirred, even in death, passionate hatred in Ibrahim. The day will come, Ibrahim thought fleetingly, when the decaying bones of that scotch-swilling dog will be disinterred and scattered to the winds sweeping over this arid landscape. He shook the satisfying vision of vengeance away; there were more pressing concerns that required his attention.

Ibrahim glanced across the table to the serious, thickly bearded man who regarded him silently. Abdul al-Masri was a personage of
importance, someone who possessed a reputation as a man both resolute and ruthless in the performance of the jihad against the far enemy, against the inhabitants of the
dar al-harb,
the house of war.

“Brother, what are you thinking?” al-Masri asked after what seemed a full minute of silence.

Ibrahim looked the bronze-skinned man in the eyes. “I was just letting thoughts run through my mind. I couldn’t help thinking of that heap of stones on the hill, the monument to the apostate who betrayed Islam and ended the caliphate.”

Al-Masri’s lined visage acquired a small, knowing smile, hard and humorless. “Don’t worry about him. His heresy has doubtless been given justice by Allah. If you want to worry about something, worry about his misguided children.” He inclined his bearded head toward the window opening onto the street below. “Worry about these Turks who want to be like the crusaders, who reject the veiling of women and every other form of modesty. Worry about these Turks who call themselves Moslems but drink Effis beer and spend their nights in clubs dancing to western music. Worry about them, not about that rotting sack of garbage in a decaying suit, Attaturk. What we will do, Ibrahim, will bring many of these lost ones back on the right path, to the true meaning of the Koran and the Prophet. Peace be upon him.”

Ibrahim muttered agreement into his tea glass, impressed, as always with al-Masri’s pronouncements. They were, he knew, uttered with authority.

“We must talk about the business at hand, Ibrahim.” Al-Masri stood up slowly, moved aside a faded polyester orange curtain and glanced out the window, observing the street for any sign of a police presence. He detected nothing other than clutches of pedestrians crossing an intersection to the jeering beep of car horns and old women lined up at a take-out pastry shop across the street. He let his hand touch the butt of the Walther automatic pistol tucked into his belt, a ritual unconsciously performed a hundred times a day. He turned his attention back to the room and his seated companion.

“Ibrahim, let’s to go over the details of your return to Germany.
Get your ticket tomorrow at a travel agency. Pay by credit card, it looks natural; cash payments arouse suspicion these days. Book the flight for a few days from now. It can attract the wrong kind of attention to get a ticket at the last moment.”

Ibrahim smiled at his superior. “Yes, profiling. I know about air traveler profiling.”

Al-Masri nodded. They all understood the requirements of operational security in international travel. “I don’t want you to carry a written message. Memorize what I have told you and will tell you. Put some gifts in your luggage—Turkish Delight candy, trinkets, pistachios—just in case customs in Germany inspects your stuff. You need to look like every other Turk returning to Germany after a vacation in the home country. And don’t be nervous, there is nothing to be nervous about. You will be carrying no physical object, nothing to jeopardize the mission. Stay cool, that’s the most important piece of advice I can offer you.”

Ibrahim nodded to al-Masri, confidant that there would be no problem, not in Ankara, not in Munich.

“Once you clear customs in Munich, take the S-Bahn to the city and spend the night. Find a hotel. This is a precaution. Frankly, if there is any compromise of our operation, I would rather that the Germans got you alone rather than you and the group together. We will let al-Assad know when you should arrive. If your arrival is delayed without explanation they will know to go ahead on their own.”

Ibrahim became more somber. “Don’t worry, Abdul al-Masri, I will do my duty. I am prepared to sacrifice all for this task. Even if I must become a martyr, a
Shahid
.”

He means it, al-Masri thought. “I know your quality, Ibrahim, may you be blessed for it. I expect nothing to happen; this has been a most secure operation. You and your friends are professionals and have been discrete in your activities. All of you have earned my unqualified trust.”

That was not exactly the truth, he knew. Al-Masri was somewhat troubled by al-Assad, the group leader in Germany. Dedicated, undoubtedly; clever, yes. But impulsive, maybe too thirsty for infidel
blood, as demonstrated with the hiker. Such emotions were understandable, but emotions had to be controlled, individual personalities had to submit to the needs of the cause. One bad choice, one hot-headed moment could compromise the careful work of years.

Still, al-Masri knew that he had to work with those in place and hope for the best. And, indeed, there had, to date, not been a hint of compromise, now that the special material had been removed from the cave.

“All right, Ibrahim. Now is a good time for us to review the message for your friends. We will go over this several times until you are comfortable with having it down. We have as much time as you need, so don’t be anxious. Relax and listen. I will relate the orders to you and then repeat them, until you are able to repeat the message back to me easily and accurately. Sit comfortably, Ibrahim, and listen.”

Outside, the traffic sounds of Ankara droned on.

Sayyid forced the green garbage bag containing Niedermeyer’s torso deep into the recesses of the freezer. It was a tight fit; the dead man had broad shoulders underneath his soiled shirt. Still, after a few minutes struggle with the segmented corpse, Sayyid was satisfied; the body was jammed tight in the depths of the copious freezer. Niedermeyer’s head was concealed in a smaller plastic bag that Sayyid had located. The freezer was very cold and no scent of corruption should betray the presence of the dead man. Relieved that his disagreeable task had been accomplished, Sayyid washed the clotting blood of his victim from his hands in the tiny downstairs bathroom and rejoined his comrades on the floor above.

Al-Assad greeted Sayyid and slapped him on the back in approval. “Well done, brother,” he said. The others were leaning against the stained walls, listening. Al-Assad moved to the center of the room and addressed them, arms folded across his white shirt.

“Everything is fine, my friends. The intruder is dead and no one will miss a worthless type like that. We are free to continue as planned. Ibrahim will be returning to us soon with final instructions from al-Masri. It is for us now to put the devices into their final configuration. All of the equipment seems to be functioning perfectly, the move damaged nothing.” Al-Assad’s features became more solemn, his voice lower.

“Before we get to work again, there is something I ask of you. Each of you should write a farewell letter. I will do the same. On the day we leave to conduct the operation, we’ll post the letters to our families. Let them know that you died a Shahid
—
a martyr for the
faith. Let them know that you will await them in paradise. Write that you have worked in Allah’s holy cause against the arrogant infidel. We will be an inspiration to generations of Moslems in the
dar al-islam
. Our names will be spoken with reverence and captured in poetry. As you write these letters, do not be sad. Be full of pride and the strength of your faith.” He did not doubt that all of what he said was true, every word, he did not doubt it for an instant.

Robert walked into the cool, shadowed lobby of the Alpenhof. He paused in the nearly empty expanse of lobby, contemplating the dark, nineteenth-century hunting scenes for a moment and debating whether to duck into the alluring shadows of the hotel bar for a glass of red Franconian wine, to end the day on a civilized note. Before he could move, he heard his name spoken in a young girl’s voice.