Collision of Evil Read online

  Chapter 35

  There was a breeze issuing from the south, sufficient to stir small waves upon the placid surface of the broad Chiemsee Lake. The waves lapped at the long, wooden wharf near the ancient convent on the Island of Ladies, Fraueninsel, the name a reference to the nuns who had tended the place for centuries, and continued to do so. The sky was iridescent blue laced with milk white clouds, and the distant mountains were starkly visible in the crisp autumn air. Waldbaer and Hirter sat outside at a small table on a leafy terrace of the Cloister Inn.

  The two men had identical meals in front of them; renke, a mild fish netted from the depths of the lake, and fried potatoes garnished with onion. Also gracing the table were two glasses of beer from a brewery in nearby Traunstein. Waldbaer had invited the American to the island so that they might speak with more privacy than at the police station and because the detective had a weakness for dining al fresco on sunny days. He enjoyed the atmosphere of the island and the boat ride from the nearby village of Prien.

  Waldbaer took a long swallow of beer and pointed to the sky. “Himmel der Bayer,” he said to his counterpart. “The heaven of the Bavarians. That refers to a blue sky with white clouds—the colors of the Bavarian flag. This kind of wonderful weather occurs mostly in the fall. Summer is often rainy or humid; autumn is the time for beer gardens.”

  “Not to mention the Munich Oktoberfest,” Hirter added as he stared out at the lakefront and a passing sleek white sailboat.

  “Right. The Oktoberfest usually enjoys good weather. Have you ever visited it? Two weeks long every year and millions of visitors. And even though it’s called the Oktoberfest, most of it takes place in September. The festival ends on the first weekend of October.”

  Hirter took a forkful of white fish. “No, I never went to the Oktoberfest. Some of my CIA buddies who’ve been stationed in Germany have told me about it. They think it’s a lot of fun, but it sounds like a mob scene to me. Giant tents full of thousands of sweating, singing drunks doesn’t strike me as a must.”

  Waldbaer laughed and lifted his face to the warming sunlight. “You’re a cynic, Herr Hirter, perhaps a snob. You’re right about the mob scene. All of the Munich breweries maintain elaborately decorated tents that hold several thousand people each. Low class? Absolutely. Fun? Let’s say I enjoy going once every year.”

  Waldbaer moved the conversation back to the investigation. “Regarding the case: the next step is to find the warehouse that Ibrahim Baran mentioned. He said it’s in Rosenheim, not far from here. Rosenheim is a fair-sized city, and finding the right warehouse won’t be easy. We’re putting together a plan to check warehouses systematically. I expect the first checks to start this afternoon, beginning near the train station and radiating outward. We might get lucky early on. I hope so.”

  Hirter nodded agreement. “This is a solid lead. As for what we’re searching for, I think we have an idea, and it doesn’t make me happy. Chemicals, laboratory equipment. I have a feeling that Kaltenberg’s background as a chemist is no coincidence. His widow says that’s one reason he was selected to move the goods. So we have a trained chemist and trusted SS officer in charge of the stuff that made its way to that cavern. Now, somehow, the Nazi cargo is in the hands of known terrorists. And, according to what Ibrahim admitted under interrogation, an attack is being planned. When I add it all up with my operational math, the answer I end up with is a chemical weapon.”

  Waldbaer thought for a moment and his eyes followed a bee’s flight until it disappeared into a bush of wild roses. “Kaltenberg having been a chemist makes me nervous too, especially with the press writing about weapons of mass destruction. Still, I just don’t know enough about the subject to judge what al-Assad is planning. Maybe it’s all coincidence.”

  Hirter shook his head. “My case officer instincts tell me otherwise. Kaltenberg is key to all of this, I’m sure of it. If we find the Rosenheim warehouse, all will become clear. I just hope that we find it before these guys blow something up.”

  “That’s another point,” the detective said. “We don’t know the intended target for the attack. The prisoner in Turkey doesn’t know himself. This means that we can’t put security on a specific location. If we knew the target, I’d feel a lot better than I do right now.”

  Hirter nodded. “I know. Let me tell you something, Kommissar. I’ve learned about terrorist modus operandi over the years. The real professionals know how to keep a secret and restrict information even in their own circle. The plans for nine eleven weren’t widely known within Al-Qaeda. Even some of Mohammed Atta’s people aboard the aircraft weren’t sure what was going to happen until the last moment. Baran is telling the truth. He doesn’t know the target because he doesn’t need to know it. My suspicion is that the cell leader alone—al-Assad—knows where they’re going to strike. I think the terrorists are exercising good operational security. That doesn’t mean they can’t slip up, but I don’t count on identifying the target until we can scoop up these guys.”

  Waldbaer gazed out over the sparkling water of the Chiemsee and focused on a pair of gulls hovering over the wharf. Gulls are perpetually hungry, he thought, never content, never satisfied. “They might slip up. We might get lucky. But all in all, Herr Hirter, I’d prefer better odds. Let’s eat up, catch the boat to Prien, and drive to Rosenheim to check some warehouses. That, at least, will give us the illusion of progress.”

  Chapter 36

  He stood in a vast sea of blood that stretched off to a distant horizon. A soft, warm breeze caressed his face and the sun reflected like thousands of twinkling diamonds on the brilliant red surface of the sea. The sky above was indigo blue and shorn of clouds. There was no sound, only perfect silence, ineffably pure and soothing. He had never in his life felt so at peace.

  His feet and ankles were immersed in warm blood, washed by it. He was garbed in a robe of spotless white that moved slightly with the gentle touch of the diffident breeze. Even when the hem touched the red sea it remained unsullied. His hands were at his side, palms up, and he could feel the persistent warmth of the sun embrace his skin. He stood like this for a long time and no longer cared about minutes or hours or days.

  After a while, how long he could not say, he noticed another object in the sky aside from the orb of the sun. This object reflected the sun with such intensity that he could not readily determine its shape. Without worry, he watched the object and determined that it was growing in size and brilliance. No, he concluded, it is not growing in size, it approaches. The reflection was moving toward him and it cast a black shadow upon the blood of the sea. It is meant for me, he knew. He was not surprised when the object, moving with stately deliberation, came to rest in the air directly in front of him at a distance of a few feet. He looked upon the shining object, but his eyes were not troubled by its intensity, and he knew that the thing was enchanted. By stages, the reflection on the surface of the object dulled until he could perceive its form.

  It was, he saw, a sword, a curved scimitar, its burnished blade engraved with script, its hilt ornately crafted from solid gold. He began to weep with the unrestrained happiness of the saved because he knew that the sword was a gift for him. He reached out his hands until they closed on the warm metal hilt gently and reverently. This was no dead thing; the weapon’s energy pulsed into his palms. He brought the blade to his lips and kissed it. I will be worthy, I will not dishonor you. The weapon, he knew, was intended for use and he had been selected as the warrior who would wield it.

  He looked again at the extraordinary scene before him, the expanse of burgundy blood merging on the horizon with the flawless blue sky. He intuited that there was something else yet, and waited. Eventually, he noted a change in the distance. The deep blue of the sky deepened further still until it became a wall of black cloud, its surface billowing and angry. At intervals he could detect a jagged flash of silent lightning, there and gone. The storm was at a great remove from him and did not threaten. Still, he felt tendrils of concern. The
storm blemished the perfection of the scene. And provided a warning.

  Mohammad al-Assad awoke with a start and was, for a moment, unsure of where he was. In a few seconds, he could make out the dark confines of the warehouse walls and the stained ceiling above his sleeping bag. He released a deep breath and heard one of the other men turn in his sleep, seeking a more comfortable position on the concrete floor. He closed his eyes again and considered the dream. No, he corrected himself, not a dream. It was a vision, doubtless similar to the mystic episodes that the Prophet, peace be upon him, had himself experienced. He did not doubt that what he had witnessed was real, that the blood red sea physically existed in some other place. It was too vivid to have been a mere dream, those nocturnal chimeras that were even permitted to the infidel. His vision had been a message.

  He understood what had been revealed to him. That warm and sunny place was the threshold to Paradise, the domain of the elect. The sea of blood represented his earthly mission, the blood that he would shed in the cause of Allah. The sword was his exalted weapon that would be returned to him in Paradise. Here on earth his weapons were less glorious, but their imperfect forms were sufficient to an imperfect world. But the sword meant that he was recognized as a warrior on the righteous path of jihad against the ranks of takfir and kaffir. It was he who would release the sea of blood, feeding its depths from springs of death.

  There was also the storm cloud to be considered. There was danger loose. He knew with certainty that there were forces at work that meant to prevent his mission. The menace was not imminent; the storm had after all been a distant one. Still, there was no room for complacency. They needed to complete the mission before it could be compromised. What he could not know was how fast the storm was approaching. Had the vision offered further clues? He considered. The storm appeared out of a clear sky. This meant that an untroubling situation had altered. The storm front was far away. If the storm represented a threat, why was it not close at hand?

  Al-Assad thought about this and ran through the possibilities. And then he knew. The distant danger. What element of their endeavor was far away? Ibrahim in Turkey, on his visit to al-Masri. He had talked to Ibrahim a few days ago and all had been well, but like the blue sky, the situation must have changed for the worst. If Ibrahim or al-Masri had been captured or compromised, he had to consider the implications. How much could they reveal under duress? Of course, if they had been martyred rather than captured, as bad as that would be, the risk of compromise would be greatly reduced. But no, he concluded, the storm in his vision had not diminished.

  The danger was alive and would doubtless relentlessly move in the direction of Rosenheim. Under such circumstances, he had to plan. He unzipped the sleeping bag, stretched, and made his way to the improvised kitchen where he could consider what to do. He squinted at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch and saw that it was midnight.

  Chapter 37

  In Langley, it was six hours earlier than in Germany. At six p.m. in the Counter Terrorism Center, Caroline O’Kendell placed printed copies of the Ibrahim Baran interrogation cables on the desk in her office. She took an orange highlighter from the desk drawer and tapped it rhythmically on the desktop as she read Peters’s reports. The interrogations were turning up useful information, she concluded. They had names now and a sense of the terrorists’ plan, even if details remained lacking.

  The arrangement between Robert Hirter and his Bavarian Kommissar seemed to be working well. Initial information from Baran’s interrogation had been passed to them and was being acted upon. A search of warehouses in Rosenheim was underway.

  On the negative side, the failed raid on al-Masri’s Ankara apartment was a major disappointment. Capturing al-Masri would have been significant, given his position in the Islamist hierarchy. Al-Masri had outfoxed them, inflicted casualties, and gotten away. At least the young, first-tour CIA case officer wounded in the raid had sustained only superficial injuries and punctured eardrums, and he was being flown home for further treatment.

  Caroline shuffled through the documents on her desk. She read Hirter’s account of the interview with Kaltenberg’s widow. Hirter had written he was troubled by Kaltenberg’s chemist background. She shared that sentiment, but had nothing substantial to back up the feeling.

  She again surveyed the cable recounting the conversation with Frau Bergdorfer. Caroline noted that the widow was certain her husband had been specially selected from the ranks of SS officers to lead the convoy. Caroline was inclined to pursue the chemical angle further. She reached for the secure telephone on her desk and punched in the extension for an office across the headquarters building.

  “Technical services,” a deep male voice rumbled on the other end.

  “Hi. This is Caroline O’Kendell in CTC. I’d like to talk with somebody responsible for chemical detection. I want to see if you have an officer available to fly to Germany on short notice to check something out.”

  The other end of the line was silent for a moment before the bass voice resumed. “We probably do have somebody qualified for that. We can talk, Caroline, but what you’ve said sounds pretty vague. Remember, we have lots of competing calls to use our technical folks. Our question is always ‘is it worth it?’ So, you’ll have to make the case.”

  “Right. How about this: determining whether there is a convergence of an active terrorist cell and the possession of a chemical weapon left behind in Europe after the war by the Nazis. A collision of two evil forces, one past, one current, combining to create a present threat.”

  There was again a pause on the other end. “That would pretty much work,” the disembodied voice conceded evenly.

  Chapter 38

  Robert Hirter watched a red Deutsche Bahn passenger train hurtle by on tracks located a few feet from the loading dock of the warehouse. Hirter counted twelve cars. He watched the rattling mass of metal recede in the distance, on its way south. Turning back to the warehouse, he entered the cavernous space he had left moments ago. The light was poor, and Hirter squinted until his eyes adjusted. The place held the foul smell of industrial oil and wet cardboard mixed with cigarette smoke. A number of crates had been forced open and their contents spilled onto the stained concrete floor. Colorful plastic pellets in large cellophane bags intended for some extruder machine in a distant factory. Stacks of hubcaps emblazoned with the Opel automobile logo. Chinese-manufactured lawnmowers in long boxes.

  The banal freight items of the industrialized world were on display, but nothing remotely sinister had been detected. The policemen with the crowbars appeared bored. Hirter saw Kommissar Waldbaer at the other end of the hall engaged in conversation with a blonde pony-tailed policewoman. The two were standing directly under a bare lightbulb suspended on a long cord and their features were angular and severe. Hirter decided to join them.

  “Have everybody clear out, there’s nothing here. Have your people take a coffee break, and then move to the Schenker warehouse down the tracks. It’s huge, so inspecting it might eat up the rest of the day.”

  The policewoman glanced at Hirter as he joined them. “He’s okay,” Waldbaer said.

  Hirter noted that the woman was petite for his image of a policewoman. She was pretty as well, though he noticed that she had a split lip and wondered why. The woman adjusted her black leather service jacket and pulled down on the visor of her white polizei cap, as if aware she was being scrutinized.

  “Herr Kommissar, the problem is that we don’t have a good idea of what to look for. Something big? A single object? How many crates, if the stuff is still in crates? Will this be tubes or centrifuges or what? I feel like we’re flying blind.”

  ”We are flying blind, but at least we are flying,” Waldbaer breathed with a resigned grin.

  Hirter cleared his throat and joined the chat. “Here’s what I think. We’re going after something old. We’re looking for items that were stored over half a century ago. I think that the stuff looks like laboratory equipment, mixing vats, test tub
es, vials. If you find that sort of thing, there’s a good chance you’re on to something. And there’s a possibility that we might find some actual chemicals. Maybe in sealed drums. As to how much, something that would fill two truck beds at least. Right, Kommissar?”

  Waldbaer ran his shoe over an indentation in the concrete floor. “I agree. Keep an eye out for chemicals, but God knows, there are lots of legitimate chemicals stored around here. One more thing, remind your people that it’s possible we might get lucky and find the suspects along with the goods. Your people have the photos we provided. I expect that they’re armed, so make sure your uniforms are ready to use their weapons. We aren’t dealing with teenage bike thieves.”

  The woman nodded and stole another look at Hirter, still unsure of his role. “Alles klar. Don’t worry, Herr Kommissar, if we find these gentlemen, my boys will know what to do. It’s the finding part that’s difficult, but we’ll keep at it. If that stuff is anywhere near Rosenheim, we’ll find it. It might just take a while.” She snapped a salute to Waldbaer, nodded to Hirter, zipped her polished leather police jacket, and marched off.

  “A while is precisely what we don’t have,” Waldbaer exclaimed to Hirter. “I can’t escape the sensation that we’re fighting time.”