Collision of Evil Read online

  “Hotel first, so you can freshen up. Then we’ll introduce you to the police Kommissar running the case. Are you traveling under your real name or do you want to use an alias with the Germans?”

  “No,” Allen replied without hesitation, “Real name will do fine. I came out of the Directorate of Intelligence early in my career, which means I’m an overt employee, not undercover. Anyway, I’ll follow your lead. Give me the dos and don’ts. As far as I understand from Caroline, I have only one reason to be here and that’s to identify chemical equipment, chemicals, or trace elements.” He spoke in a soft, well-modulated voice that Hirter found comfortable.

  They exited the terminal, and Hirter led the way to the parking lot. “You mentioned Chemical Ali just now. Were you in Iraq, Allen?”

  “Sure was. I went in with one of our weapons-of-mass-destruction teams after the invasion. We spent weeks driving around the desert in armored personnel carriers in hundred degree temperatures looking for chemical weapons caches. I must have visited a hundred Saddam-era military bases. We found some rusty ten-year-old mustard gas artillery shells, but that was all. It wasn’t a very satisfying assignment. Unless you enjoy dysentery.”

  “I hope this turns out more to your liking. I’m not entirely sure what we’re looking for, but I imagine that Caroline briefed you.”

  “She did. Let me summarize what I was told back home: we don’t know what sort of chemical we’re looking for, but we do anticipate locating chemical weapons production equipment. Don’t worry, if we find suspicious-looking gear, I’ll be able to ID it. If we locate chemicals, I have the kit with me to test for pretty much any chemical that could have weapons use. Something else to consider. It’s true that a chemical weapon is easier to produce than a biological one and certainly easier than a nuclear one. Still, the level of ease is relative. To deploy a chemical weapon, a number of elements have to be right, such as the proper concentration of the chemical, an appropriate vessel for mixing a binary agent, and other factors. Target selection to inflict significant casualties. What I’m saying is that a terrorist group might want to employ a chemical agent, but that doesn’t automatically mean that they can do it successfully.”

  As they approached the car and Hirter pulled the key from his jeans, he noticed a familiar shape standing near the vehicle, hands in pockets. Waldbaer. He had told the Kommissar that he would be doing an airport pickup in Salzburg, but hadn’t expected the detective to meet him here.

  “Kommissar Waldbaer, permit me to introduce a colleague from my organization, Mr. Allen Chalmers. Allen is a chemical weapons expert on loan to us.”

  Waldbaer’s creased features eased into a smile and he extended his hand to the visitor. “Gruess gott and welcome to Europe. Your timing is impeccable.” He turned his eyes to Hirter. “I think we’ve found it. An abandoned warehouse as you suggested. Some suspicious looking items. We’re still looking around, but I think we won the lottery.”

  “When did this happen?” Hirter asked.

  “About two hours ago. I came here directly to let you know.”

  Chalmers stared off at the craggy contours of the Unterberg Mountain, near the Austrian-German border. “Well, gentlemen, freshening up at the hotel can wait. Why don’t we go directly to the warehouse and get to work. My curiosity is killing me.” No one objected.

  The first thing Hirter noticed as he followed Waldbaer’s car was that the industrial park had a derelict look. A few small, dubiouslooking businesses were evident, but most of the buildings seemed in various stages of disrepair, long wisps of grass growing through cracked sidewalks. Not far off, he noted a collection of police cars pulled up around a decrepit red brick structure. Yellow crime-scene tape staked out the building.

  Inside, the yawning storerooms reverberated from the exertions of the dozen or so policemen. Some were opening wooden crates, others applying fingerprint dust to surfaces, concentrating on doors and windows. The place was loud with echoing voices and the static of walkie-talkies.

  Waldbaer led the two Americans up a flight of stairs to the top floor of the warehouse. At the top, they entered a doorway, finding themselves in a cavernous space, lightbulbs dangling high above. Hirter noticed that there were cots and piles of blankets along one side of the room.

  Waldbaer turned and addressed them. “Unfortunately, there was no one home when we came to call. As you can see, they were camping out in here, probably for some days judging from the food wrap pings and empty water bottles. It seems that they left in a hurry; maybe they figured out that we were conducting warehouse searches. My suspicion is that they pulled out in the past day or two. We’ve put up checkpoints in the area and we have foot patrols going through the neighborhood, but, frankly, I think al-Assad and his band are far away by now.”

  Hirter moved on the balls of his feet. “Kommissar, let me ask you something. If you were al-Assad and you knew the police were on your trail, where would you go once you left here?”

  Waldbaer thought a moment. “If I were al-Assad I’d hide in an urban area. I’d get to a big city and blend into the environment, exploit the anonymity, keep a low profile. He and his men have had to leave their homes, and they can’t go back. They can’t stay around Rosenheim either because they know we’re on to them. If I were al-Assad, I’d take off for Hamburg or Frankfurt or Berlin, put some geography between themselves and here. Given their ethnicity, I’d choose a city with a mixed population, so as not to stand out. I’m sure that they’ve moved to a large city.”

  “Makes sense,” Hirter replied.

  “Our friends left something behind. I expect this will interest you.” The detective shepherded the Americans toward the far end of the storage area, where there were a number of long tables, an array of metal equipment, and a collection of glass tubes and laboratory items.

  “Bingo,” Hirter said.

  “I would have to agree with that sentiment,” said a smiling Chalmers. “Gentlemen, I think I can be of utility to you at this point. Kommissar, do you mind if I conduct an inspection of that material?”

  “Be my guest, Herr Chalmers.” The chemist pulled a pair of white rubber gloves from his pocket and stretched them over his hands, retrieved a ballpoint pen and small notebook from his pocket, and began to survey the equipment. Hirter and Waldbaer watched, but said nothing.

  Chalmers ran his hands over a large, gray cylindrical device and pursed his lips. “This is called a distillation column. There’s a manufacturing plate attached here at the base. This piece of equipment is older than it looks. It was produced in Berlin, Germany in nineteen thirty-eight by a company named Kuhn AG.”

  “Does that tell you anything?” Hirter ventured.

  “Not much in itself, but I can research the company’s history.

  What’s important is that this appears to be made of a nickel alloy.”

  “Why is that important?” Hirter queried, feeling like an untutored schoolboy in basic chemistry class.

  “It’s important because it suggests that the equipment was designed to be resistant to corrosion. In other words, this is specifically constructed to handle highly corrosive ingredients.” Chalmers continued examining the metal column, slowly tracing a gloved finger down the side almost reverently.

  It was Waldbaer who spoke next. “Corrosive material means something like acid, a concentrated form of acid?”

  Chalmers did not move his gaze from the equipment and replied in almost a whisper. “In view of the other equipment here I’d imagine that this was designed to be used with an extremely corrosive liquid, yes, but let me look further.”

  With some effort he unfastened four large clamps at the top of the column and, standing on his toes, peered inside, and smiled grimly. “This vessel is double walled. There’s a gap between the walls intended for air circulation. No doubt about it, this was built to handle extremely corrosive substances. The piping connecting the various pieces of equipment for chlorination is double-walled as well.”

  Hirter spoke u
p. “Can you tell what this stuff was used for?”

  Chalmers looked up from the metal objects and fixed Hirter with a stare. “I need to examine this equipment in more detail, of course. But I can tell you without doubt that I’ll be able to determine what this equipment was designed to do. More important for our interests is that if this gear was ever used in the past—recently or during the war—I’ll be able to find trace elements of the chemicals that were introduced. That much I can guarantee.”

  It was Waldbaer’s turn to smile. “That’s excellent news, Herr Chalmers. Please, conduct your examination in peace. Herr Hirter and I will wait outside. If you need anything, just ask.”

  “Fine. Before you go, Kommissar, pass me my attaché case. It’s a suitcase laboratory. It will do the heavy lifting in identifying the substances that passed through this equipment. And, in case you’re wondering, this won’t take forever to figure out.”

  In front of the warehouse, the sun wrestled with broad banks of cloud, occasionally breaking through to illuminate the yellowing leaves of the chestnut trees bracing the street. Waldbaer permitted himself a cigarette. “I’m cutting down,” he said almost apologetically to Hirter. “Well, Herr Hirter, Chalmers knows what he’s doing, and he’s convinced he can give us the answers we need. I applaud you for getting him here.”

  Hirter shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea. A female officer back home thought of it. You’re right though, this is a big step. Remember what Chalmers said in there about that column? Manufactured in Berlin in 1938. This has got to be the stuff in Sedlmeyer’s story. That SS convoy wasn’t carrying Goering’s old masters or Nazi gold. It was transporting equipment for a weapon never employed by the Germans during the war. By the look of things, the equipment is still functional, unfortunately. Once Chalmers figures out exactly what it was used for, we’ll be in a better position to deal with things.”

  “Gentlemen.” Chalmers’s dry voice was instantly recognizable. The chemist stood with his back to the warehouse, removing the rubber gloves from his manicured hands. “I’ve conducted sufficient testing to tell you what you need to know. The equipment represents an entire system for chemical weapons production, soup to nuts, including degassers, reactors, and glass-lined storage tanks. All of it first-class stuff, even though the most recent date of manufacture is 1941. The equipment permits the chlorination and fluorination steps in a fairly complex chemical process and there is air-handling equipment in there to boot. I also found a number of respirators and rubber lab suits in a pile against the wall. These boys knew what they were doing and were fully aware of the dangers.”

  “Dangers?” Waldbaer said, a note of concern seeping into his voice.

  “Dangers,” Chalmers repeated. “To cut to the chase, gentlemen, this equipment was designed to produce a nerve agent. A nerve agent, in turn, is designed to produce mass casualties. It is quickly lethal, and any exposure to it in its liquid or gaseous state while handling or producing it can kill.”

  Hirter frowned. “Do you know which nerve agent”?

  “Yes. My suitcase lab confirmed it. This equipment was designed to produce Sarin. Sarin, by the way, was a German invention. My testing demonstrates that the stuff in there produced Sarin very recently. I measured a lot more than residual traces from the 1940s. The bottom line is the fellows who were working here produced a quantity of Sarin within the last few weeks, probably within the last few days. Whatever Sarin was produced is gone. In my view, we are almost certainly faced with a pending Sarin attack aimed at producing mass casualties. I also think the attack will happen soon.”

  Waldbaer looked at the chemist with a hint of skepticism. “How can you know that they intend to use it soon? That goes beyond chemical tests to guessing the intention of the terrorists, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really,” Chalmers replied. “Sarin has a lot of qualities that make it a desirable nerve agent. But on the debit side, Sarin has a shelf-life problem and degrades over time. Storage is also problematic. Suffice it to say that immediately upon production, Sarin is at its optimal state as a weapon. It’s the reverse of wine; it doesn’t improve with age. If these people know what they are doing, and I expect that they do from what I’ve seen, they aren’t going to let this stuff deteriorate before they employ it.”

  A high-pitched scream erupted behind them, followed by muffled shouts from inside the warehouse. Hirter, Waldbaer, and Chalmers ran toward the door. Before they reached the warehouse entrance, the gray door was flung open and the blonde policewoman with a ponytail staggered out and into the grass. Bending forward, she clutched her hands to her knees and vomited a brown stream into the weeds and then gasped for breath.

  “Oh, God, please don’t let it be the Sarin,” Chalmers mumbled.

  Waldbaer heard the imploration with quiet horror. He approached the retching woman and placed his hands on her leather-jacketed shoulders. “Were you near that equipment?” He took care to keep his voice calm.

  The policewoman noisily sucked in a gulp of air and shook her head sideways. “Freezer,” she said weakly, before unleashing another thick torrent into the tall grass.

  “I don’t understand,” Waldbaer pleaded.

  The woman regained her breath and seemed less convulsed, if pallid. “The freezer downstairs, in the back room. I was checking for chemicals. There’s a corpse in there. Hacked up. He’s decapitated, and the body has been cut into pieces like a pig at the butcher’s. Damn it, I wasn’t expecting something like that.”

  Gently, Waldbaer eased her upright and patted her back. “It’s okay, stay here, get some fresh air. Better yet, go over to the van, there are bottles of mineral water in the back. We’ll take it from here. Good work, finding what you did.”

  “Jesus,” Chalmers exclaimed, his features also taking on a pasty cast. “Boys, this part is out of my league. If you don’t mind, I’ll watch after the young lady here.”

  Moments later Waldbaer and Hirter found themselves staring into the fishlike, lifeless eyes of a severed head. The eyes, like the rest of the body parts, were dusted with ice crystal. The body had been chopped into sections and the bottom of the freezer was a frozen black mass of coagulated blood. In addition to Waldbaer and Hirter, several policemen gathered around, taking in the grotesque sight.

  “Get someone here with a camera,” Waldbaer ordered with a tremor of anger in his voice. “Call the crime scene boys and have them get the coroner.”

  “I think I know who he is,” a tall, gaunt policeman muttered from just behind Waldbaer.

  “You know who this man is? Well, let’s not keep it a secret.”

  “I used to do the night patrol at the train station. He slept on the benches in the lobby some nights. I rousted him a few times. He used to drink cheap schnapps by the liter, like a lot of those guys. I brought him into the station once or twice for making a nuisance of himself, the usual homeless alcoholic stuff. I think I know his name.” The policeman removed his peaked service cap and stared at the ceiling for a moment, his brow furrowed. “Yeah. Niedermeyer. I never heard his first name, the other drunks called him Niedi. That’s him, I’m certain of it.”

  “Bravo,” Waldbaer replied. “At least we won’t have to waste time trying to identify him.”

  Hirter shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. Why was he killed like this? What connection would a garden-variety drunk have to a terrorism case?”

  Waldbaer put his hand on Hirter’s shoulder. “That’s easy. He had no connection to al-Assad and company at all, none. I can see what happened. Niedermeyer is homeless and wanders around finding a roof to put over his head every night. Sometimes it’s the train station, but the police kick him out of there. He has other places where he gets some schnapps-induced sleep. Under a bridge one night, in some garage the next. And sometimes in an abandoned warehouse. He just picked the wrong night to nest here. He stumbled onto our chemical hobbyists or they stumbled onto him. They couldn’t take a chance that he’d report them. He was done in here in the w
arehouse. What to do with the corpse? These guys don’t have time to go wandering around with a body. The most logical thing to do is put him in this freezer. Problem: the freezer isn’t large enough to take a corpse whole. Solution: chop it up and make it fit. That’s how it happened, Herr Hirter.”

  “I’m impressed,” Hirter said. “I guess that’s why you’re a Kommissar. Bad luck for this poor bastard.”

  “And bad luck for us. This makes at least two murders, and the terrorists still evade us. And now they have a chemical weapon. Bad luck for us again.”

  Waldbaer turned away from the corpse, having had enough of the scene, and what always struck him as the tawdry inelegance of murder. Hirter followed, feeling sullied and diminished by the sight of the dead man and desiring fresh air. They arrived at the main door and walked outside. The blonde policewoman was leaning against a van and gulping mineral water from a plastic bottle.

  “You know, Kommissar, it’s not all been bad luck. We were lucky in a positive way to find the equipment intact. Lucky to have had Chalmers on site to tell us what it means. The Turks were lucky in grabbing Ibrahim and getting him to talk. We shouldn’t be too hard on ourselves.”