Collision of Evil (28 page)

Waldbaer nodded. “Good. We’ll do that.” The detective consulted the slip of paper on the table in front of him, securing it against the slight breeze with his beerglass. “That means we start with the empty place at eighteen Kramerstrasse. We search there and then branch out until we’ve covered all the abandoned storage sites.”

“We need to keep a low profile, Kommissar. The longer our search continues, the more likely it becomes that al-Assad and his friends get wind of it. They might figure that we’ve gotten our hands on their courier in Turkey. By the way, I received a secure call from my colleagues there a while ago. They’re going to make Baran phone al-Assad and explain that he can’t travel back to Germany yet. It’s meant to assure al-Assad that everything in Turkey is okay.”

Waldbaer’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Isn’t that tricky? Could be that something in Baran’s voice or intonation gives away that he’s nervous. I’d be careful. That decision is with your colleagues though. All we can do is hope the ploy works.”

“We move to Munich in the morning,” al-Assad instructed the other men, noting their expressions. Maintaining discipline would be important, and he knew he had to select his words with care. He spoke calmly to demonstrate that there was no reason to panic.

“Brothers, some things have changed, and we must react to the situation. When I went downtown earlier, I saw a large group of police searching a warehouse near the train station. I knew immediately that they were looking for us. How did I know? Because, brothers, I was graced with a vision last night and the vision provided a warning. I believe that our comrade Ibrahim has been captured or martyred in Turkey. Although Ibrahim doesn’t know every detail of our plan, he knows much, and if the infidel has acquired that information, it could lead them here.” Al-Assad glanced at his associates one face at a time, trying to read their reactions.
Good, they are concerned, as they should be, but there is no sign of hysteria.

He continued, his tone controlled. “I think the police have only a general idea as to what we are doing. They know that we are using a warehouse, but not which one. We must conclude our work quickly and move out, taking only what we need for the mission. I’m going to get rid of my cell phone shortly. It’s the only communications link that Ibrahim has to us and the phone is now surely being monitored. A cell phone is harder to trace than a landline, but is still vulnerable to technical attack. I’m going to throw the phone in the river. We work through the night, finish our project, and leave in the morning. We pack up our stuff in suitcases, take a bus to the Rosenheim outskirts, and take the
Interregio
train to Munich. We’ll find
accommodations there near the train station. That quarter of Munich is full of Turks and Arabs, so we’ll blend in. All will go well, brothers. Do you know why I am confidant, despite these difficulties?”

His accomplices remained silent, awaiting an answer.

“Because we have been provided this warning. Do you think it was coincidence that I saw the police search downtown? I ask you, what would be the chances of such a thing? No, it was the hand of the Prophet that impelled me there, at exactly that time. The Messenger is watching over us. We will pass through these trials, which purify us for what we will soon accomplish.”

The others nodded with animation.

Very good, al-Assad thought, they will follow my lead.

“All right, continue working until I return. Follow the written instructions. This is the final phase and we need to be careful. When we leave this place, we take the loaded canisters with us.”

He turned and left the warehouse, exiting through a side door away from the street. He walked through an abandoned lot and headed toward the banks of the Inn River, two miles distant.

Hirter had just entered the familiar lobby of the Alpenhof when his secure cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He found an unoccupied alcove and answered.

“Hi Robert,” a soft, female voice said, the voice distorted slightly by the phone’s encryption device. “This is Caroline O’Kendell. We met once or twice over on my side of the pond. Listen, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but I’m sort of your partner over here on the case you’re engaged in. I thought I’d try to reach you directly with some new information.”

Hirter smiled to himself, but was not entirely sure why. “Caroline, I remember you, sure. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m in a fairly private location so you can talk. The connection is decent, too.”

He made out Caroline’s slight laugh on the other end. “Secret technology gets better all the time. I remember using some of the old STU phones years ago and it was like conversing underwater.”

“I hated those phones,” he said, locating a lobby armchair and sinking into it.

“Robert, you’ll see this eventually in a cable, but I wanted to alert you. The possibility that we might be dealing with a chemical attack has a lot of people excited. We’ve found someone who can fly over to Bavaria to assist. He knows chemical weapons and has field experience in Iraq and Afghanistan. His name is Allen Chalmers. He’s getting a flight that reaches Salzburg via Frankfurt at ten tomorrow morning. I know its short notice, but we wanted to get someone there quickly in case the search turns something up. Can you
square this with your Kommissar and pick Allen up at the airport?”

“Caroline, thanks for your help back there. I know how slow things can be at headquarters; you must be powering through the deskbound types. Sure, I can do a pickup at Salzburg tomorrow. I’ll let Waldbaer know that we have an expert coming in. Can you give me a description of Chalmers?”

“Allen looks about forty. Six feet, average build. Glasses. Black man. Short hair, no mustache. For easy recognition, I’ll ask him to wear a green tie.”

Hirter chuckled. “No need for the green tie. I’ll find him.” Hirter thought for a second before continuing, listening to the background hiss of the encryption on the line. “You’re running the case back there. Why don’t you check out the scene here yourself for ground truth? Might make it easier to brief people at home on what it’s like on this end. Even a few days would give you the picture, and you could make your own assessment of Waldbaer and whether we should stay with this arrangement or bring in German intelligence from Pullach.”

He smiled at the feigned groan transmitted through the receiver. “You’re killing me. Twist my arm to visit the Alps in the autumn. Mountain scenery, Oktoberfest, apple streudel. I wish it were that easy. But I can tell you right now that Randolph Stockbridge will say that my job is here and not to interfere with the field.”

“Stockbridge. I’ve heard of him.”

“He’s a great guy, Robert, don’t get me wrong. But he’d see my travel there as a junket—and he’d be at least partially right. So, I’ll spare myself the embarrassment of raising it. But thanks for coming up with the idea.”

Hirter mumbled something, weighing the odd disappointment he felt with the satisfaction he was deriving from the simple conversation. “Okay, your call, Caroline. The invitation is open if the opportunity arises. I’ll keep our Vienna friends in the loop so there’s no heartburn about coordination.”

“Good. I’ll tell Allen things are arranged for Salzburg. He’ll be
leaving soon for Dulles to catch his flight. Let’s cross our fingers that something turns up in the search. The more I contemplate the information we have, the less I like it. And by the way, when this is all over and you’re back in headquarters, I’ll spring for a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll bring the apple streudel,” he said, before ringing off.

Al-Assad pushed through a brilliant yellow meadow of waist-high rapeseed, crossed through a narrow belt of birch trees, and found himself on a mossy bank of the river Inn. The river, heavy in natural chalk, flowed deep and light blue through the surrounding farmland. The water was very cold, he knew, much of it originating from snow-melt runoff from the mountains. Taking his time, he surveyed the opposite bank and found it deserted. He was alone. No fishermen or kayakers there to observe him. He tugged the cell phone from his pocket and was about to toss it into the driven swells when the device rang, nearly causing him to drop it. He listened to the phone’s musical tune for a moment, unsure what to do. He decided to answer. The piece of plastic could no longer betray him.

“Hello,” he said simply.

“Ah, Mohammed, it’s good that I have reached you. Ibrahim here. I hope you are well. I’m calling to say that I will be delayed in my return. I have been ill, food I think. I can’t travel yet. A few days and I’ll be fine. My friend here is concerned about the wedding and asked that we delay it until I return, bringing his gifts for the bride.”

Al-Assad felt cold sweat form on his forehead. Ibrahim had not employed the parole indicating that he was free from duress; al-Assad’s fears were realized. There was nothing more to be said.

“Ibrahim, I wish you well, brother. Remain resolute and may the Prophet protect you.” He detected what sounded like a choked sob on the other end of the line.

He prepared to launch the phone into the river when he picked
up sounds of commotion in the receiver. Another voice reverberated from the phone, gritty and angry, the pronunciation urban Turkish.

“So, you’ve figured it out, you bastard? It doesn’t matter. We’ll get you. Your crying, quivering little friend here has been very helpful. You have no idea how cooperative he’s been. He knows more than you think. Not really cut out to be a martyr, I might add. You and all of the fanatic deviants like you have defamed the name of Islam around the world. You’re no better than a common criminal.”

Al-Assad heaved the cell phone into the river, watching as the black shape performed a graceful pirouette in the air before plunging into the swirling eddies of the Inn. He was breathing hard and his limbs were shaking. He struggled to regain self-control, to leash his anger. Who had spoken to him in this way? Some corrupt Turkish official no doubt. Some apostate Moslem working for the infidels.

With effort, al-Assad calmed himself and his anger slowly subsided. It didn’t matter. There was no imminent danger from far away Ankara. It was true that they held Ibrahim and had forced him to talk, but Ibrahim did not know everything, and could not provide the Turks with key information to disrupt the mission. Al-Assad had employed solid security to protect the mission, and this had paid off. The strike would proceed unhindered.

Breathing normally now, al-Assad did not linger by the foaming ribbon of the Inn, and headed back toward the warehouse. No need to tell the others of Ibrahim’s conversation, he reasoned. It would only upset them, and they were not as strong as he. They would proceed with the final phase before the attack.

“I can’t say I’m happy with what you did, Ahmet,” the American told his Turkish counterpart. “We didn’t need to let al-Assad know that we’re on his tail. No percentage in it.”

Ahmet nodded almost imperceptibly, his dark Turkish features revealing nothing. He adjusted the knot of his blue on orange striped tie. “We revealed nothing. It was clear to me that our friend here,”
he gestured at Ibrahim, handcuffed to a stool near the speakerphone, “failed to convince. Probably didn’t use some recognition code that he should have. Anyway, al-Assad knew that Ibrahim was lying. So, might as well play with the mouse before we kill it.”

The American stared unhappily at his liaison partner. “Let’s hope we kill it. Al-Assad and company aren’t exactly in our grasp.”

The squarely built Turk shrugged his shoulders, wrinkling the fabric of his brown suit. “I planted a seed. I suggested that Ibrahim knows more than al-Assad suspects. Not true, of course. But terrorists are paranoid. I’m hoping that he starts wondering whether we might have more information than he thought. That, in turn, could cause him to do something stupid. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

The American smiled. “I hope you’re right. I would have kept my mouth shut, but the cat’s out of the bag now. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my office and send an update to Langley. By the way, what do you think the chances are that al-Assad is still hanging onto that cell?”

“No chance at all, Peters. None at all. Your colleagues in Germany aren’t going to catch this guy with something as simple as tracing a cell phone. It’s going to take men on the ground, hard work, and luck.”

The Salzburg Airport radiated an unashamedly provincial look, betraying little in common with its larger cousins in Vienna, Munich, or Frankfurt. Robert Hirter was thankful for the airport’s diminutive size. It would make it easier to locate Allen Chalmers.

Inside the terminal, Hirter noted there was a coffee shop and precious little else to distract the bored traveler. Hirter did not require distraction, however, as he noted from the television monitor that Chalmers’s flight was on time and would touch down within minutes.

There were perhaps twenty passengers who passed into the arrival lobby, most in business attire. Chalmers, outfitted in blazer and tie with a raincoat over his shoulder, rolling a burgundy suitcase behind him, was the only black man. Hirter waved and caught the man’s attention.