Nucflash (4 page)

Hopke shook his head, rubbing his eyes. “I think I'm getting a headache. Even Komissar couldn't follow such convolutions.”

“You would be surprised at what Komissar can do,” Inge said. “Please, Lieutenant. Please go on.”

“I'm out of points, and fingers,” Murdock said. “To put it bluntly, we want to know what the hell's going down over here. If the PDRK is dealing in nuclear material with either the IRA or the RAF, you can bet your last deutsche mark that a lot of people are going to be mighty worried, in Washington, in London, and in Berlin.”

“That is something of an understatement,” Hopke said. He considered Murdock carefully for a moment through narrowed eyes. “Tell me something, Lieutenant.”

“If I can.”

“I mean to give no offense . . . but why the two of you?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, why did they send the two of you, a lieutenant and a noncommissioned officer? This is no reflection on your ability, understand. But knowing your government's love of shows of power, I would have expected a delegation of a half-dozen generals and admirals at least on a mission as potentially, ah, delicate as this one . . . not to mention several of your congressmen! At the very least, this sort of information request is generally handled at a diplomatic level . . . not at the level of working people like Inge and myself.”

Murdock laughed. “Don't worry, you'll probably get the brass and the congressmen too. I know for a fact that this situation is being discussed right now at high pretty high levels of NATO in Brussels. Because of the political ramifications, though, I doubt that anything concrete will be worked out. NATO still can't do much without strong UN backing, and you know what a political swamp
that
is.”

“The fact of the matter is,” MacKenzie put in, “that our bosses back Stateside decided to handle this on at least two levels. The generals and the politicians will be discussing the overall situation, certainly, and I imagine half a dozen of our intelligence services already have requests in to your Komissar department. But in the meantime, it happened that some SEALs were already in Europe, taking part in a cross-training exchange program with the British SAS. SEALs already have a pretty high security clearance, because so much of what they have to do is classified. So the wheels began turning back in the Pentagon, and out popped a new set of orders. Murdock and MacKenzie, go talk to the Germans.”

“Often,” Hopke said thoughtfully, “the best liaison work is carried out between the ordinary people who have no . . . how do you say? Political axes to mend.”

“I think you mean ‘grind,' ” Murdock said. “But yes. You're right. The guys in the fancy uniforms at the expensive banquets are usually just putting their names to agreements that their secretaries and assistants have already hammered out.”

“And what is it you need from the BKA specifically?” Inge said.

“We need anything you can give us from Komissar's files,” Murdock said. “Information on these terrorists in particular, on their organizations, on any hints or rumors you may have picked up that might suggest there's some big operation pending.”

 

An hour later, the four of them were still going over the list of names and information that Murdock was requesting. “How soon could you run something off for us, Inge?” Murdock asked.

“I can have a preliminary report for you on disk by late this afternoon,” she said. “A complete rundown by tomorrow. Satisfactory?”

Murdock gave her his most dazzling smile. “No.
Not
satisfactory. Absolutely splendid.”

“Of course, it would help if I could question you further this evening.”

“Question me? About what?”

Inge gave Murdock a mischievous smile. “Well, about whether or not SEALs like seafood, for one thing. I know an excellent seafood restaurant in town on the Sonnenberger Strasse. Perhaps you would care to have dinner with me tonight?”

Murdock hesitated, glancing first at Hopke. He'd assumed the flirtation he'd seen between these two meant that they had a relationship that went well beyond the strictly professional.

Hopke caught his look and grinned back. “Go ahead, Lieutenant. I knew you American Navy men had a reputation with beautiful women, but you've made more progress with our Inge here than a platoon of GSG9 officers in a month.” Across the table, MacKenzie rolled his eyes toward the room's ceiling.

“Well, sure,” Murdock said. “Why not? I would be honored.”

Inge beamed. “Excellent! I'll need to stop at my place first, of course, to change. Perhaps I could show you some of the sights around town on the way.”

“Whatever you say . . . Inge . . .”

Murdock felt a little out of his depth. Inge Schmidt was by far the most direct and outspoken woman he'd ever met, as well as one of the most beautiful. He was used to women who let the man take the lead, and this was a new experience for him.

Not that he minded new experiences. SEALs were well known for their willingness to confront all types of challenges head on.

“Wonderful!” she said. “This is going to be fun!”

“Maybe I should come along too,” MacKenzie said. “You know . . . swim buddies.”

“I don't think that'll be necessary, Mac. Besides, you're married.”

“It looks to me, Senior Chief,” Hopke said, “as though you and I will be stuck telling one another war stories, while these two investigate seafood restaurants.”

“It's a dirty job,” Murdock said resignedly. “But someone's got to do it.”

That evening, after a long day going over the data from the BKA's Komissar computer, Murdock and Inge Schmidt left the BKA complex, walking out to her sporty red Renault Alpine parked in the employees' south lot, then drove through the security gate and onto the main highway, heading toward Wiesbaden. Komissar had provided a treasure trove of data on Major Pak of North Korean Special Operations, and on the various RAF and Provo figures involved in an as yet unrevealed revival of Euro-terror, and Murdock had already arranged for a secure fax line to transmit the information back to Washington.

He and Inge had gotten to know each other a lot better during the course of the afternoon, their earlier flirtation somehow evolving into a rapidly deepening friendship. Murdock found Inge to be extremely bright and quick, with dozens of the oddest facts imaginable instantly accessible in the course of their conversation. Though she never mentioned it, a conversation with Hopke had revealed that Inge Schmidt and Komissar had been partly responsible for the chain of data that had led to the capture of the notorious Carlos the Jackal a year before.

Murdock could easily understand why Hopke had jokingly referred to her as the BKA computer, though that statement could certainly not have been a reflection on her personality.

Murdock genuinely liked her.

It was not a completely comfortable feeling. Murdock had been engaged to be married once, but Susan had died in a car accident while on her way to attend his graduation from Annapolis. He'd tried to steer clear of romantic entanglements ever since, especially after he'd gone against his family's wishes and become a Navy SEAL. Some of the SEALs in his platoon were married—Mac and Magic, Kos and Scotty.

Splitting his life between a woman and the Navy wasn't for him, though. Not anymore.

But he couldn't deny the attraction he felt for this woman, an attraction that she seemed to echo for him. Damn it all! Where was this thing going?

“So how does the GSG9 relate to the BKA?” he wanted to know. Traffic was heavy, but Inge steered the powerful little Renault with a sure hand, guiding them safely around the slower clumpings of traffic. Soon they reached the cloverleaf winding toward the east-west Autobahn leading to Frankfurt.

“Well, the German Federal Republic was caught totally unprepared by the terrorism that began appearing in the sixties and seventies,” she said. “In particular, well, there was Munich, you know. The GFR authorities did not come out of that situation looking so good.”

Murdock nodded understanding. The 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, West Germany, were best remembered now for the bloody attack by seven members of the Palestinian Black September terrorist group. Two Israeli athletes had been killed by the gunmen, and nine more taken hostage. Then, at Furstenfeldbruk Airport, an ambush by Bavarian State Police police sharpshooters had gone horribly, tragically wrong. All nine hostages, along with five terrorists and one policeman, had died in the bloody, botched rescue attempt.

“Munich was the reason the Grenzschutzgruppe was created in the first place,” Inge continued. “The after-action analysis indicated that the primary reasons the police failed during the attack were poor training, poor communications, and poor marksmanship. They missed their targets during the first round of firing, which gave one of the terrorists the opportunity to throw a hand grenade into the helicopter where the hostages were being held.

“GSG9 was raised out of the Federal Border Guard unit. Unlike your SEALs, the SAS, and every other elite counterterror unit with which I am familiar, it is a
civilian
force, actually a branch of our state police, though its people do undergo extremely thorough military training.”

“I've heard they're very good.”

She smiled sweetly. “They are much more than
good,
Lieutenant. Tomorrow, back at the office, I will show you a trophy from the 1985 St. Augustine competition. An international and inter-service military competition, including marksmanship, hand-to-hand combat, and room clearing. The South Bavarian GSG took first place that year. The American Delta Force placed second, while your Navy SEALs took third.”

“Maybe we should demand a rematch.”

She tossed her head, laughing. “That might be fun. Anyway, since 1984,” she went on, “the GSG9 has consisted of four combat units, each of thirty-six men. Units One and Four concentrate on surveillance duties and various operations for the BKA. They also, however, directly support the Lander units in each of our federal states.”

“Wherever they're needed, huh?”

“Exactly. In addition, Unit Two has been tasked with protection of Germany's oil platforms in the North Sea and in the Baltic. Unit Three specializes in free-fall parachuting and, um, special entry. We call them for the assault when all other means of dealing with a particular threat have failed. I suppose you could say that the BKA coordinates GSG activities and operations, providing them with intelligence and, in some cases, with specific missions. We have to be extremely careful, however, because of our past history.”

“The Nazis?”

“Ja.
Exactly so. That is why the GSG9 was drawn from our civil police. If a military unit were so trained and so organized, there would be immediate charges that we were trying to revive the military elitism of the SS. It has led to some incredible stupidities. Not long ago, the GSG9 was brought in to help organize a sweep against terrorist targets throughout Germany, something they were uniquely qualified to take part in. At the last moment, however, the GSG was excluded from the actual operation. One of our honored members of parliament insisted that GSG9 operatives would be useless on such a mission because, his words, ‘all they can do is shoot.' The sweep, needless to say, was not particularly successful.”

Murdock could hear the pride Inge felt for the GSG9 in her words and in her scorn for the German bureaucracy. He had the feeling that she identified strongly with the Grenzschutzgruppe, even though she was actually employed by the BKA. A Grenzschutzgruppe groupie? Murdock grinned at the thought. “Well, I don't know about German Parliament,” he said. “But I can tell you that the GSG9 has a damned fine reputation throughout the rest of the world. . . .”

His voice trailed off. Casually, he reached up and adjusted the Renault's rearview mirror.

“Something wrong?” Inge asked, glancing across at him.

“Do you normally have a BKA tail?”

“A what?” She started to laugh, and then the impact of what Murdock had just said sank home. “A tail?”

“Someone from the office who follows you home. For security purposes.”

“Certainly not! Are we being followed?”

“A gray Mercedes has been trying to keep up with you ever since we turned out of the BKA parking lot. He's still there . . . about three cars back.”

Inge dimpled. “Perhaps it's Lieutenant Hopke. He is—how is it you say? He has the hots for me.”

“I don't blame him one bit . . . but I don't think that's Herr Hopke. Not unless he can afford a luxury car like that on a police lieutenant's salary.”

“That is true. Werner drives a Hyundai.”

“Hmm. It's probably nothing.” But he was worried. Inge's driving had been aggressive enough that Murdock would not have expected another driver to be able to keep up with her. Germany had a “recommended” speed of 130 kilometers per hour on the Autobahn, but if Inge's driving was anything to go by, there was no law against exceeding it.

“I have a turnoff coming up soon,” she told him. She grinned, and her eyes were sparkling.
Son of a bitch
, he thought. She was actually enjoying this! “Perhaps we can find out there whether or not they are following us.”

“Good idea.” He glanced back again. The other car was still there, third in line behind them. “Do it.”

The maneuver was so sudden that it caught Murdock by surprise, even though he'd been expecting it. Inge slowed the Renault slightly. Then, without warning, without turn signals, she swerved sharply right across two lanes of traffic and into an exit ramp. As she braked with a squeal of overstressed tires into the off-ramp's curve, Murdock heard horns blaring behind them . . . and then the gray Mercedes, trapped by the other cars around it, flashed past the exit and on down the Autobahn.