Collision of Evil Page 13

  As it was mid-morning, Hirter found the usually well-visited coffee house only partially filled. The outside tables facing the plaza betrayed no one of the proper description, and Hirter ventured into the cool and dark interior, its gravitas enhanced by heavy oil portraits lining the walls. The air was redolent with the scents of strongly brewed coffee, exotic teas, and rich chocolate. Hirter spotted his quarry, lounging at a corner table with a view of the door and the plaza beyond.

  The man in canary yellow appeared to be glancing at the English-language paper, but Hirter knew that his entry had been spotted and that his CIA colleague was checking to see if any activity in the plaza suggested that he had been followed. Through years of surveillance training, Hirter knew the answer to that question was no. He permitted himself the pleasure of deeply inhaling the inviting Tomaseli aromas and moved to his counterpart, taking an empty seat opposite him.

  “You’re clean,” the man in Tommy Hilfiger yellow mumbled, putting the paper aside. He looked about forty, ruddy, athletic, and with thinning hair.

  Hirter nodded in confirmation, adding, “I didn’t see anyone suspicious behind me during the trip. I’m sure we’re okay.”

  This established, the CIA officer in yellow folded his paper with studied care and regarded Hirter with a smile, sizing him up.

  “I’m Andrew. Coffee is on me.”

  Hirter shook his head. “Coffee would be great.” His interlocutor summoned a harried-looking waitress who, without remark, brought a steaming white porcelain cup of dark coffee, accompanied by a glass of water in the Austrian custom.

  Hirter extracted a thin manila envelope from his sports coat and inserted it into the officer’s folded newspaper. “Here’s everything the police have pulled together. Names, car rental agreement, photos, last known legal addresses, that kind of thing.”

  Andrew nodded, satisfied. “Date and place of birth?”

  “Yeah. Everything is there.”

  The other officer smiled again and took a sip from his mug of hot chocolate. “Great. I’ll get this stuff transmitted and it should be at headquarters by close of business today. I don’t expect it to take more than a day or two to get a response.”

  “Okay. Should I wait for another call from you at the hotel?”

  The man in yellow cotton shook his head. “No, that would just tie you down. I presume you’re bird-dogging the police and will be out and about.”

  Hirter laughed quietly. “A Kommissar, actually. There’s a Kommissar running the case, and I guess I’m getting more into his shadow than he’s comfortable with. So what do you suggest, Andrew?”

  Andrew extracted a Nokia cell phone from the pocket of his Dockers khaki slacks and passed it to Hirter. “This is for you. It’s got a prepaid card. It also has robust commercial encryption. I and the station are the only ones that know the number. I’ll use it exclusively to call you, and you can reach me the same way. Check the address book and you’ll find a number listed for Andrew. It all looks perfectly innocent to the casual observer. Don’t lose it, though, it’s an accountable item.”

  “Isn’t everything these days?” Hirter replied. “Thanks, Andrew. We’ll be talking.”

  Hirter gulped the remains of his coffee and started to leave when Andrew touched his arm lightly. “If we need to have another personal meeting, it should be in Munich; it’s bigger than Salzburg and easier to get lost in. There’s a little restaurant called Torbraeu; you can find the address in the phone book. We can meet there.”

  “Fine, Andrew. Torbraeu it is. Do they serve good food there?”

  The CIA officer wrinkled his brow. “No, not especially. But it’s located up one story and has a great view of the street in both directions.”

  Chapter 22

  The information on Mohammed al-Assad and Ibrahim Baran was transmitted electronically to CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia, from an agency communications facility in Austria. There it waited in queue for someone to read it on a secure PC. The message was one of thousands that inundated the CIA building on that day, as on any day, from scores of undercover locations around the globe.

  Caroline O’Kendell had gotten to the CIA compound early that morning in an attempt to beat the choking beltway traffic. Finding an empty space for her Audi in the west parking lot, she walked to the New Headquarters Building, constructed during the Reagan presidency, and entered a personal recognition code and ID card pin number at security. She smiled a good morning to the three armed guards and took the escalator down to the coffee shop where she picked up a large Starbuck’s and a cinnamon roll. She would work the calories off in the gym later, she assured herself. Her heels clicked against the polished marble tiles as she made her way back to the atrium, past the potted trees and under the black, large-scale model of a U-2 CIA spy plane. Sipping the hot coffee, she took an elevator to her office in the north tower.

  Caroline liked arriving early. She would be one of the first in the vault, aside from a secretary or two. She entered the cipher code on the door and stepped in. As expected, the spaces were nearly empty. Fluorescent lights glowed from the ceiling overhead, and she made her way past fabric-sided cubicles to her office with its view of the agency loading docks. At least she had a window, unlike many of her colleagues, allowing a glimpse of the Virginia countryside. The site had been rural once, having originally been acquired when avuncular, pipe-smoking Allen Dulles was director of Central Intelligence all those decades ago. Eisenhower had been president, and on his behalf, Dulles and the agency had sought to penetrate what had been called the “Iron Curtain” over Eastern Europe. Back then, McLean had been a perfectly isolated spot for an espionage agency that valued privacy—its own, not that of others. Now, past the treeline, the agency buildings were surrounded by mansions.

  After a sip of coffee, its temperature now tolerable, Caroline entered her password into a secure computer and began to troll the classified traffic that had arrived overnight. It was the morning ritual, as there might be an operational message from overseas requiring quick response. This morning’s traffic appeared staid. There were reports of meetings with foreign counterterrorist specialists in several countries, a request for funds to enlarge a surveillance team in Asia, an account of a meeting in Cyprus between a case officer and a Lebanese who claimed to have access to Hezbollah. Might be real, but he was probably a fabricator looking to pry cash or a green card from the Americans. She did not fancy herself a cynic, but had seen enough of human nature to make her suspicious of motives and skeptical about altruism.

  Another message caught her eye, from Austria. It was a name trace request, a query for information on individuals with Arabic names. She vaguely recalled the case. A fellow Clandestine Service officer whom she had met on a few occasions was involved—Robert Hirter. The circumstances were depressing. Hirter’s brother had been murdered while on vacation in Germany. No suspect had been identified. Robert had taken leave and traveled to Germany. She knew that he had been out of touch for a while before making contact with another field officer a day or so ago. That field officer had authored the cable she was reading.

  Caroline let her gaze move down the screen to the Arabic names. The information seemed sufficiently complete to permit a trace. An attachment contained photographs of the individuals. In the photos, both of the dark-haired, bearded suspects stared sullenly into the camera, their eyes no more expressive than those of a shark, their faces ciphers.

  “Let’s see who they might be,” she whispered to herself, punching a button on her keyboard and sending the cable to a printer at the far end of the vault. There were other things she could be doing this morning, she reasoned. Still, she knew Robert Hirter a bit, and found the task of aiding a murder investigation worthy of her attention. True, a police investigation was a law enforcement matter, not really something for an intelligence agency’s resources. Nonetheless, she had an intuitive sense that the massive CIA database might harbor useful information on the two severe-looking faces staring at her fro
m the computer screen.

  The Clandestine Service database was a vast and venerable repository of information, Caroline knew. Once, the holdings comprised paper files. Retired agency officers had told her how, decades removed, they had journeyed to the headquarters basement, a windowless and dim expanse, and returned with arms straining under bursting manila folders, to sort the contents at their desks. How archaic that seemed now, when a trace request could be processed via desktop computer. Still, she thought, there was a loss of atmosphere; the tactile sense of hunting through rustling paper documents was gone.

  Even devoid of atmosphere, the database was impressive. It contained information dating back to World War II and the CIA predecessor organization, the Office of Strategic Services, OSS. Most of the information had been covertly collected—stolen, purchased, elicited from the unwitting or extracted during interrogation. The ranks of subjects included legions of dubious characters from every country on the globe. The files held details on thousands of criminals, narcotics traffickers, information peddlers, arms dealers, terrorists, mercenaries, and extremists of every stripe.

  All of which meant that it was possible that CIA headquarters might possess some threads of information on the Arabic subjects living in the alpine fastness of Bavaria. She hoped the trace would turn up something of use to her colleague.

  Chapter 23

  Andreas Niedermeier had stumbled, as he often stumbled after finishing off a bottle of discount schnapps. An avalanche of the boxes and cartons that filled the poorly lit storage room had tumbled noisily to the concrete floor, upending him in the process. “Shit,” he muttered as he eased himself up, sore from the unexpected fall. He exhaled sour breath into his rampant, graying beard and stood upright, surveying the damage. Most of the boxes seemed empty and there had been no sound of breakage; for that he was grateful. He would rearrange the crates in a semblance of order and leave well enough alone. Nothing would betray his little accident.

  He had used the warehouse often in the past as a dry place to sleep off the effects of binge drinking and he did not want to foul the nest. Although Niedermeier did not engage in anything approaching future planning, he knew that he would continue to drink heavily whenever he could put together enough change for a bottle and would, accordingly, require these gratis accommodations in the future. Having discovered the weakness of the rusty door lock years ago, he did not want to be forced to find an alternate warehouse to protect him from the elements. There were always the wooden benches at the train station as a last resort, but the police showed up unpredictably and demonstrated little tolerance for his situation. He burped wetly and set about stacking the boxes with tremulous hands.

  Mohammed al-Assad had drawn the compact Walther pistol from his waistband and slipped off the safety, placing a finger carefully inside the trigger guard. Sayyid was behind him, a large, serrated-blade kitchen knife gripped in his fist. Soundlessly, Mohammed eased open the door to the storage area, just sufficient to permit a view into the room.

  He saw a man. Mohammed noted with satisfaction that he was facing the intruder’s back. The man swayed slightly as he replaced the fallen boxes, clearly oblivious to the presence of others. Al-Assad’s mind assessed the situation. The uninvited visitor was no police official. Even at a distance it was evident that his thick hair was matted and uncombed, betraying the greasy veneer of the long-term unwashed. The man appeared to be in his fifties and was dressed in a shapeless, stained cotton long coat torn at the collar and missing some buttons.

  Al-Assad nodded in comprehension. A common drunk. The type of inveterate alcoholic to be found throughout Germany, al-Assad reflected with a shiver of disgust at life in the Western world. He knew the type, had sometimes been forced to serve them a Doener kebab at his shop when they showed up with a handful of smeared euros. Al-Assad judged that he was observing a homeless drinker who had broken into the warehouse for some fitful sleep before another foray with the bottle.

  But there would be no future foray, al-Assad knew. The drunkard might decide to explore farther in the warehouse and discover them. That could not be permitted. With this type of human flotsam it was unlikely that a missing person notice would even be filed.

  Al-Assad signaled his partner to hold the door open as he silently approached the distracted man from behind. From a step away and with adrenalin-driven force he slammed the metal stock of his pistol into the back of the man’s head, feeling the shivering connection of metal with bone.

  Andreas Niedermeier dropped wordlessly to his knees, which cracked loudly against the concrete. He lurched forward full on his face, once again upsetting the boxes he had moments ago so carefully arranged.

  Al-Assad turned and signaled his compatriot to enter the room. Sayyid, kitchen knife at the ready, stood above Niedermeier’s pros trate form and pushed at it roughly with his foot. There was no response. “He’s dead. Now what?”

  Al-Assad had already worked it out like a mathematical problem. “I’ll tell the others what happened and clarify that there is nothing to be concerned about.”

  Al-Assad noted uncertainty in his comrade’s eyes. “Don’t worry, brother, this changes nothing. For him maybe,” he wagged his chin at Niedermeier, “but not for us. We just have to do some cleanup work.”

  “Cleanup work?” Al-Assad noted the slight tremor in Sayyid’s voice.

  “Yes, Sayyid. You have a knife, and we’ll put it to good use. Slaughter him as infidels should be slaughtered, in the manner that Al-Zarqawi, peace be upon him, slaughtered many of our enemies. Then pack him up and toss his filthy remains into the empty freezer at the other end of the building.”

  Sayyid nodded and tugged at his beard. He seemed uneasy, but al-Assad decided that such a reaction to an unexpected situation was permissible.

  “The manner of al-Zarqawi. You mean the head?”

  “Yes. A proper slaughter; cut off his filthy, canine head. If he’s still alive, he won’t be when you’ve finished. If his neck sprays, it means he’s still pumping blood. When everything is done, find some garbage bags and fit him into the freezer. Make him fit, I don’t care how. When you’re done, we can get back to our work.”

  He stopped and considered. “It’s almost like this is a message for us. To demonstrate that we live surrounded by danger but are nonetheless protected. This worthless type could have discovered us and reported us to the police. But that was not permitted to happen. What you will do to him now is ordained. Rejoice, Sayyid, rejoice, and send him off to hell.”

  Sayyid nodded firmly, with renewed determination in his eyes.

  After al-Assad left the storage room, he grabbed a handful of Niedermeier’s greasy hair and pulled the man’s head back, exposing the neck. Niedermeier’s features were slack, eyes closed. The man was either dead already or unconscious and uncomprehending of what was about to happen. Sayyid placed the metal blade along the curve of neck, directly against a visible artery. He began to carve at the flesh as he would at a thick piece of meat. Immediately a spray of blood shot forth like a geyser followed by a strong convulsion of Niedermeier’s torso. Sayyid kept working the blade the way he had studied in Internet videos of al-Zarqawi in Iraq.

  Niedermeier made no sound other than a wheezing rush of air from his windpipe as it was severed. A moment later the head of the alcoholic had been separated from the body and Sayyid lifted it triumphantly like a trophy. He let the knife fall from his grip, the blade a thick, viscous blanket of red, flecked with dangling pieces of tissue.

  “Allah Akbar,” he cried out, as the severed head secreted thick streams of dark blood onto the bare concrete floor.

  Chapter 24

  The trace results had been assembled into a cable classified “secret” and sent to Caroline O’Kendell for transmission overseas. Since the contents were intended to be shared with German authorities, the details in the message were presented in a manner to protect the sources of the information.

  Caroline read the cable one last time, one hand absent
ly toying with the collar of her business suit. She found the substance of the message troubling. It was five p.m. by the time she had edited the cable into final shape. The radio on her desk announced that afternoon rush hour traffic was building on the beltway. The sky was slate gray and rain was expected, guaranteed to make the traffic worse.

  After a final review of the text, Caroline clicked the “release” box on the cable template that sent the message across the building to the communications center where it would be encrypted and transmitted in unbreakable form to a CIA facility in Vienna. Given the time difference, Caroline knew—it was now eleven p.m. in Vienna—there would be no one present at this hour to read the message. The CIA cable would be automatically decrypted and sit in the Vienna inbox, waiting for the case officer named Andrew when he arrived the following morning.