Collision of Evil Page 23

  “Only as hard as we need to be, Herr Hirter.” Waldbaer glanced at his wristwatch. “We need more luck now, at least if Chalmers is right about the chemical shelf life. We don’t know where al-Assad and his gang are located. If they’re in a large city as I think they are, it could take time to root them out. Remember what Napoleon said, Hirter. ‘Ask me for anything but time.’ That’s my worry—we don’t have time on our side.”

  To this, Hirter could offer no consoling reply.

  Chapter 45

  The sounds of traffic drifted up from the urban street and seeped into the confined space of the hotel room. The noise was constantly present, sometimes more and sometimes less, but never absent. The hotel room itself had seen better days, but even in better days would have been regarded as pedestrian. The same could be said of the entire Rote Adler Hotel, from the musty dining room with its chipped white plates to the dim lobby lined with smudged paneling and plastic plants. Mohammed al-Assad and his associates inhabited rooms in the establishment because it provided anonymity. The hotel owner was a balding Egyptian in his seventies, and the staff consisted of Turks whose lack of energy was compensated by their complete disinterest in the comings and goings of guests. The hotel was precisely what al-Assad had been looking for as the launch site for the mission.

  They were gathered in al-Assad’s room on the fourth floor. They had checked in separately over the course of a day to avoid providing a profile as a group. Al-Assad passed around plastic bottles of iced tea that he had purchased down the street, across from the Munich main train station. Al-Assad sat on the narrow metal frame bed, Sayyid was slouched across from him in the room’s sole chair, an orange and chrome creation that screamed 1970s. The others leaned against the faded green wallpaper without complaint. The circumstances were, after all, no worse than in the warehouse they had so recently evacuated.

  “My brothers, we are safe. As I said, we are under divine protection. This hotel will be the last earthly roof over our heads before we meet in paradise, as a company of shahid. Only a few days more and our target will be ready, and we will be ready for our target. Fill the remaining hours with prayer. We will soon launch our attack against the kaffir. Although the infidels have captured Ibrahim and forced us to move more quickly than we might have liked, this has not compromised our plan.” Al-Assad looked from face to face as he spoke, careful to make eye contact. “The most difficult phase was the production of the chemical. That production has been successful, thanks to you.”

  Al-Assad reached beneath the bed and pulled out a scuffed black suitcase. With a fluid motion, he unzipped it and removed a polished metal canister from underneath some folded shirts. He held the gleaming vessel securely in both hands. “This is our sword, brothers. This is our destiny, the reason we were born. There is one container for each of you; take them back to your rooms and hide them among your clothes in the dresser.” He ran a hand down the smooth surface of the container. “These are one-liter vessels. They are fitted with a dispersing device. Be careful with these things, friends, they are sensitive. I need say no more.”

  Each man took a canister, cradling and examining it before setting the heavy cylinders softly on the worn gray carpeting covering the floor. There was a momentary silence punctuated only by the sounds from the street below.

  “Mohammed, can you speak to us once again of paradise, of what awaits,” Sayyid requested.

  Al-Assad smiled with a flash of teeth and folded his hands on his knees. “Of course, Sayyid. I will begin by telling you that a sanctified place is even now being readied for us, to celebrate our arrival. Be sure of this—black-eyed virgins prepare to greet us, and their unblemished beauty is unsurpassed on this earth.”

  The weary faces in front of al-Assad smiled broadly, certain in the probity of what they were ready to do, and of the rewards that awaited them.

  Chapter 46

  Waldbaer recognized the crisp-as-paper voice immediately and held the telephone receiver close to his ear. “Frau Bergdorfer, what an unexpected pleasure. How can I be of assistance?”

  The distant voice spoke with enunciated precision. “I expect you might be more interested in how I can help you, Herr Kommissar. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about trying to solve a recent murder. And as you noted, my husband is gone and is beyond harm. His past remains his past, that can’t be changed. But perhaps a piece of the past can be of utility in the present. I don’t mean to be cryptic, Kommissar, but if you are interested in driving to Freilassing I can provide you with something from long ago that might interest you.”

  “I’m on my way, Frau Bergdorfer; I’ll be there within ninety minutes. Auf wiederhören.” True to his word, the detective hung up the desk phone, pulled himself from his leather chair, and, car keys in hand, prepared to journey into the past.

  They stood again in the garden, wet now from a passing shower. Waldbaer had decided to travel to Freilassing alone, in the event that it made it easier for the old woman to impart whatever she had to tell. Waldbaer had a nagging sense that the widow had not quite revealed all that she knew about her husband’s wartime activities. He hoped that was about to change.

  The old woman smiled sadly and shook his hand, which the detective interpreted as not a bad augur. “Kommissar, I told you the truth when you were here last. I told you what I know of my husband’s conversations about the war. But I failed to provide you with something not spoken but written.”

  With difficulty, Waldbaer retained his calm demeanor and said nothing, permitting her to continue.

  “My husband left a Tagesbuch, a diary. There are entries from wartime. I decided to read through it after you left the last time, to see if there was anything about his last mission to Bavaria. There is nothing written during the war later than January nineteen forty-five, I’m afraid.”

  Waldbaer felt deflated, and could not conceal the rush of disappointment.

  “Still, I did find some entries from nineteen forty-four that should interest you, Kommissar. You must be the judge, but I think some of the nineteen forty-four entries written in Dyernfurth-am-Oder might have a connection to the events of the following year. Much of it is too technical for me to follow, but perhaps it makes sense to you.”

  Frau Bergdorfer slipped a papery hand into the folds of her apron and removed two small books. The top book was bound in cracked brown leather. The word Tagesbuch was embossed on the surface, and underneath it the letters HK; initials for Horst Kaltenberg. The second book had a green fabric cover and was of more recent vintage.

  The woman ran her hand slowly over the volumes and passed them into Waldbaer’s palm. “I would like these returned when you’ve finished, Kommissar. You understand the sentiments of an old woman, I expect.”

  “Of course, Frau Bergdorfer, they’ll be returned to you shortly. We’ll copy them and get the originals back to you. This is your property, and I’m aware that you are providing it voluntarily. I thank you for that.”

  The woman nodded and folded her arms about her lean frame. “You might also find some of my husband’s later entries interesting. From after the war, I mean. Those are in the second book. Horst didn’t keep the diary regularly. But there are some entries from the nineteen eighties that you might profitably read, from his time as a chemical salesman.”

  Sympathetic but shrewd, Waldbaer assessed. As if reading his unspoken thoughts, the woman added in a clipped voice, “I am old enough to have learned, Herr Kommissar, not to pass judgment too quickly. To this day, I judge my late husband only on how he behaved to me. Why should it be otherwise? It would seem that he engaged in things that I do not understand, that I might have never done myself, but for all that I have not passed judgment. That much you will permit me, I hope.”

  Waldbaer took her hand in both of his in an old Teutonic gesture of respect that he had learned as a child. “Frau Bergdorfer, in my profession I’m forced to judge people all the time. It is, in a way, at the core of what a detective does for a living. Let
me tell you this. Whatever judgment I might pass on your deceased husband, I judge you to be a person of honor. You have helped this investigation, and I expect it has cost you more than a little sorrow. I appreciate your helpfulness.”

  He left her there in the garden, surrounded by the fragile, fading flowers of autumn and by a meadow of memories from very long ago.

  Waldbaer had ordered that three copies of the diary be made: one for the official file, one for his use, and one for Hirter’s review. He and the American sat in the detective’s office, Waldbaer in his desk chair and Hirter occupying a faded couch.

  “Start at the entry for November ninth, nineteen forty-four. Read it aloud, Hirter, I find it a good method to give a text complete attention.”

  Hirter flipped through the sheets of paper until he arrived at the desired date. Kaltenberg had written in disciplined block letters, making it a simple task to read the text. Hirter cleared his throat and read the entry.

  9 November, War Year 1944

  Today began directed assignment to the high-security facility at Dyernfurth-am-Oder. I had stated my preference for a frontline assignment but was overruled by the Office of the Reichsfuehrer-SS. Nothing to be done.The ride from Berlin was depressing. It rained the entire way, and I expect sleet tonight once the temperature drops. The officer quarters here are adequate, but there is little coal for the stove in my room due to a general shortage. After depositing my kit in my quarters, I was escorted to the facility and found it unscathed by bombs. In fact, I was told by a lieutenant that this place has never been hit by Allied bombers.They must be unaware of what work goes on here; otherwise we would surely merit their attention.

  Hirter looked up questioningly at his counterpart.

  Waldbaer nodded. “Keep reading.”

  Hirter found his place in the text and resumed the narrative.

  The production facility is now to come under direct SS control, as there have been too many accidents under the Army Weapons Office and a sense that the technicians are being sloppy. I don’t know if this is the case, but we’ll see. The equipment located in Building 144 is impressive, much of it lined with silver as an anti-corrosive. Production is dangerous work. When the production step is reached where the chemical agent is reacted with alcohol and degassed, there have been safety problems. As an alternative solution, we have experimented with a reaction using sulfur, which has advantages, but it’s complicated and adds further production steps. Air handling and filtering is a critical element, and this is where the facility has suffered fatalities. There have been ten deaths so far. The last was a month ago, when a tear in a technician’s protective clothing proved deadly. The poor fellow began experiencing breathing difficulty and he knew what that meant. His comrades tried to assist, but in his panic he fought them off, wide-eyed and screaming into his mask. The convulsions started shortly thereafter and there was nothing to be done, save the burying.These things have to stop; it is affecting morale. The present production design can be summed up graphically in the following way.

  Hirter turned the page and saw a complicated sketch. He dropped the papers into his lap. “Kommissar, we should get Chalmers. The content will make a lot more sense to him than to me.”

  “Chalmers gets a copy,” the detective replied. “But the point here, Hirter, is that Kaltenberg was involved in chemical weapons production, no doubt about it. And we know from Chalmers’s tests that the agent involved is Sarin. Fact: Al-Assad and his friends have been using German equipment and technical knowledge from the facility at Dyernfurth.”

  Hirter considered. “We have the equipment now. Al-Assad can’t produce any more of it, and he’s probably more concerned about hiding from the police than anything else. We have them off balance.”

  “For the moment. But they produced the Sarin and doubtless have it with them.”

  Hirter frowned slightly. “I guess that’s true. Do we have any clue as to the Sarin dispersion mechanism?”

  Waldbaer repositioned himself in his oversized chair. “Keep reading.” Hirter returned to the text, skipping past the illustration.

  The production of Sarin is not the sole reason that I was sent here. My superiors have made it clear that the Reich requires a means of chemical agent delivery other than artillery shells, the manner in which mustard gas was employed at the front in the first war.We are devising a delivery mechanism portable enough to be carried by a single soldier.

  The tactical requirement is for the gas to be used against Allied troops in enclosed spaces. Barracks, for example. Or a staff meeting of enemy officers in a house. A dispenser solution seems the most attractive for this purpose. I presume that we will need to marry the delivery device to a timing mechanism to activate distribution. To be militarily useful, our end product needs to be a Sarin container that can be infiltrated behind enemy lines by action groups and covertly deposited in enclosed spaces where troops are gathered. A timer is engaged and the device activates at the assigned hour and minute, giving the German soldiers time to leave the area before the Sarin is spread.

  The idea is to create panic behind the lines, bringing the Allied advance to a halt.This will require mass use of the devices, presumably hundreds of them. I find the idea compelling. Sarin in its gas form is odorless and invisible. Its presence is extremely hard to detect. Enemy forces will start dying and not know why. Employment of this weapon will not only cause significant casualties, the psychological impact should be tremendous, spreading horror through enemy ranks. Chaos could ensue.

  Employing Sarin tactically can change Germany’s strategic fortunes. If the relentless enemy advance can be halted, we will have time to get other weapons into the fight in quantity – jet aircraft and more accurate versions of von Braun’s rockets.The fact that so much hinges on this Sarin weapon places enormous responsibilities on my shoulders. I get stomach cramps just thinking about it. I must not fail, whatever the difficulties.

  Hirter lowered the pages to his lap and raised his eyes to the detective. “What a horror show. This Kaltenberg was a choice son of a bitch.”

  “Yes,” Waldbaer replied, the single word unadorned.

  Hirter drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair for a moment and raised his eyebrows. “Wait a minute. As chilling as it is to read this diary, there’s something we shouldn’t forget. Sarin was never used. As far as I’m aware there wasn’t one instance of chemical weapons being employed in the Second World War, at least not in Europe. Am I right, Kommissar?”

  Waldbaer pulled himself from his chair and strolled the office, hands thrust into his trouser pockets. “You’re right, Hirter. The Nazis didn’t use gas. Hitler never gave the order to use it. Hitler had been gassed on the Western Front in 1918. Maybe he retained an aversion to the weapon. Or maybe the Germans knew that if they employed gas, the allies would eventually do the same, wiping out any strategic advantage. Who knows? Based on the diary entries though, Kaltenberg seemed convinced that if he could solve the problem of a viable delivery system, Sarin would be employed. Desperate times produce desperate decisions, and things were not looking good for German fortunes in late 1944.”

  “Maybe Kaltenberg was overly optimistic about his ability to weaponize Sarin. What was it Clausewitz said? In wartime even the simplest task becomes difficult?” Hirter said.

  “Let’s read on,” Waldbaer instructed.

  The diary was not an uninterrupted chronology of nerve agent production. Waldbaer and Hirter flipped through pages dealing with Kaltenberg’s comments on food shortages and the poor quality of wartime sausage. He noted the passage above Dyernfurth of allied bomber fleets on their way to pulverize German cities, and he wrote of the carnage wrought in Berlin, Chemnitz, and Frankfurt.

  Some entries were more memorable.

  Two Wehrmacht deserters were discovered Tuesday as they passed through Dyernfurth.The field police asked me what to do with them. I had them hanged in the town square. We let their corpses swing for two days before burial. I had placards strung arou
nd their necks reading “I betrayed the Fatherland,” in the hope that it will be a salutary message for other weak hearts contemplating desertion.

  Eventually, the account of events at the chemical production site resumed. Hirter read aloud to Walbaer.

  Today a breakthrough.We have fabricated a nickel container and filled it with Sarin. A corrosion-resistant spray mechanism my team developed has been fitted to the top of the container, wired to a compact timing device manufactured in Essen. Although heavy for its size, the container can be carried by an infantryman. We set the timer for an hour delay and conducted a field test. It worked perfectly! When the timer engaged, the sprayer activated and distributed the Sarin gas, propelling it several feet in all directions, a result of the rotating head that we used. The dispenser heads are pointed upward, to counter the effect of the particles descending to the ground too rapidly. I am extremely pleased with these results. I had the test filmed and have ordered the film dispatched to the Reichsfuehrer-SS for viewing.With developments at the front being so grim, this breakthrough came not a moment too soon.