Collision of Evil Page 29

  Jawad, the shortest and most rotund of the group was hunched against the doorframe and snickered. “We’ll look like those crazy ones here in Europe. What are they called? Goths? But it will certainly change our looks. You’re right.”

  Sayyid’s features creased into a frown. “Is this how we meet the Prophet? Is this how we will appear in paradise? With our hair painted like polytheist whores? How can we be proud of that? I don’t think we should defile our bodies on this jihad. We should conduct our martyrdom proudly, not lower ourselves to the depths of the enemy. I don’t want to do it. Shaving the beard I understand, but hair color goes too far. It’s not how I want my family to remember me.”

  Al-Assad measured Sayyid’s state of mind and weighed an appropriate response. He knew that he could not afford discontent at this stage. Should he demonstrate his primacy within the group, or would he be better counseled to act with flexibility? He silently implored the Prophet for guidance.

  “I understand your sentiments, Sayyid,” he spoke at last. “Of course you are uncomfortable. We all are. These are stratagems of war. They are permitted us. But I do not demand that you tint your hair, if you are uncomfortable with it, don’t do it.”

  Sayyid’s features lightened and he was clearly relieved. To ensure harmony, al-Assad returned to the dresser and retrieved another item, tossing it across the room at Sayyid, who, surprised, retrieved it clumsily. It was a navy baseball cap bearing the image of a Ferris wheel and a mug of beer. Underneath these icons was embossed the word Oktoberfest in bright orange.

  “This should cause you less displeasure than hair dye, Sayyid,” al-Assad intoned jovially to break the tension. “It’s our alternate solution to have you looking like a happy tourist.”

  Al-Assad was pleased when the others laughed, including Sayyid. Crisis avoided, he concluded. “All right, friends, back to your rooms. We must prepare ourselves on this final night. Be back here at seven tomorrow morning. I will have some final instructions to ensure our success.”

  Outside, the teams of police surveillants continued their search for memorized faces and suspicious shadows, but detected nothing.

  Chapter 59

  An almost physical anticipation of festivity laced the Munich air as the Saturday dawn broke over the city. As night reluctantly withdrew its hand, surrendering its dominion in measured stages, the sky became fragile blue, contrasting with the solid brick towers of the Munich cathedral. Preparations for the Saturday events had been underway for weeks, and the waking inhabitants of the city were well aware of what would transpire. As every year, the opening of Oktoberfest had been heralded loudly and with promiscuous frequency on radio and television. The headlines of the Munich newspapers announced the pending celebration, providing street maps delineating the line of march for the brewery parade.

  The parade, by long-established tradition, would wind a route through the narrow metropolitan streets and debouche onto the Wies’n, the meadow on which were encamped the long line of enormous beer tents, massive constructions of wood and canvas. The celebratory column of dray horses, flower-bedecked beer wagons, and brass bands would be followed at a short remove by the crowds, all intent on reaching the festival meadow and securing a place to sit and drink the specially brewed, strong and malty Oktoberfest beer.

  The meadow was a meadow no more, of course, but a flat, paved plain in the center of the city, a physical pause in the crush of apartment buildings and businesses that constituted Munich in the twenty-first century. It had been a true meadow once, verdant and pastoral. Those days were long gone, however, the first Oktoberfest dating to 12 October 1810. In that year, the august occasion was a wedding celebration for now-forgotten royalty, the marriage of Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria to Princess Theresa of Saxony. To win the acceptance of a suspicious populace for a non-Bavarian bride, the royal family had sponsored a festival and horse race on a pasture located at what were at the time the city limits. The celebration was a happy success and was subsequently repeated on an annual basis, supported by Munich’s brewers.

  The annual Oktoberfest moved through the centuries with few interruptions. The tents gradually became more capacious, the price of a liter of beer less reasonable, but a Munich time traveler from the nineteenth century would have recognized the Oktoberfest, nonetheless.

  As every year, many participants in the revelry chose to shorten the path to the festival grounds by taking the Munich underground trains, the U-Bahn. Although the press of celebrants made the subterranean ride uncomfortable, the journey to the Wies’n was short and direct. From the underground platform, visitors had only to step onto stainless steel escalators and be lifted to the festivities above, deposited at busy stands selling pretzels, sausage, smoked fish, and souvenirs behind the boulevard of tents bearing the emblems of the Augustiner, Paulaner, Löwenbräu, and other municipal breweries. The sky promised to deliver the crisp, sunny weather that Munich residents associated with the Oktoberfest.

  Two blocks from the festival grounds, on a narrow residential street carpeted with burnished bronze leaves, Waldbaer leaned against an unmarked police van. A squad of surveillance team leaders was gathered tightly about him. Hirter was present as well, but to keep the group small and inconspicuous, Caroline O’Kendell and Allen Chalmers had been instructed to join them later in the morning.

  “Gentlemen, the chances of finding our targets yesterday was a long shot. Today is the day that counts. Today these guys can’t conceal themselves. They have no choice but to move to the Wies’n. If we’re alert, we’ll get them. That’s my unshakeable conviction.” Waldbaer was conscious that he was sounding more optimistic than he privately felt. “Some of your teams are deployed along the parade route. Schneider, where have you stationed your boys?”

  “In front of the Tannenbaum restaurant, Herr Kommissar. They have a perfect view there and can blend in with the onlookers,” answered a tall, redheaded undercover officer in a checked shirt and brown lederhosen.

  “Good. We cover the route to the festival ground. That said, ladies and gentlemen, I believe our best chance is on the Wies’n itself. I’ve ordered most of the teams to deploy there. I know we have to cope with an enormous number of people storming the place. We have to stay alert, but we can handle it. We have teams at the main entrances to the grounds and scattered along the boulevard in front of the tents. We have a separate cordon of officers at each tent, disguised as crowd control employees. Perfect cover. It gives them a reason to get eyes on everybody who tries to enter a tent and a chance to inspect backpacks. Remember, our targets have to be carrying canisters. Most likely, they’ll be carrying backpacks to conceal the devices. Holz, what are the procedures if someone discovers a suspicious canister?”

  A short, broad-shouldered officer spoke as if from a memorized text. “Immediately separate the backpack from the owner with force, alert other colleagues nearby, and apprehend the suspect.”

  Waldbaer nodded agreement. “And if the suspect resists apprehension or attempts to use the canister?”

  “Shoot to kill. First shot to his center of mass, second shot to the cranium.”

  Waldbaer studied the sidewalk. He felt Hirter’s eyes on him. “Right. Bam, bam, dead, if there is the slightest resistance. Now, let’s be honest, it’s one thing to say that. Doing it can be altogether different. Most of us here have never shot anyone. It would be natural to hesitate, understandable not to want to kill. Understandable but not justifiable. We can’t take chances with Sarin. I will take personal responsibility for your actions. If you have a canister and a terrorist, you cannot hesitate. Is everything clear?”

  A hushed murmur of agreement drifted down the street. Hirter took in the proceedings but had no real sense of how ready the undercover officers were to shoot without warning. He touched the compact nine-millimeter parabellum concealed under his shirt. He, at least, was ready to kill if required. But would he hesitate a second, perhaps providing a terrorist with a wink of time to wreak bloody havoc? It was somethin
g he could not know.

  “Another thing,” Waldbaer continued. “Atropine. Are you all comfortable with how to use it? You have your injectors? All you need to do is to administer or have a comrade administer one shot. Then we’ll get you to the Ministry of Health doctors in this van.” Waldbaer rapped the metal side of the vehicle lightly with his fist. “They’re trained and ready for the Sarin threat. You just need to administer initial aid. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Questions?”

  Holz shot up a stubby hand. “Kommissar, we’re wired, what’s the communications protocol?”

  Waldbaer glanced at the thick chestnut tree limbs above him and sighed. “Simple answer: with the noise level from those crowds, we’re going to have trouble hearing clearly. It’s a disadvantage we have to live with. Identify yourself and your location when you transmit. Speak slowly. Communicate discreetly. Remember, we’re dealing with fanatics. I don’t want them spotting an earpiece or microphone.” The detective paused and thought for a moment. “This will work out. Not everything about it is optimal, but it will work out. Other questions?”

  There were none.

  “Okay. Go walk around. You have time before you need to move to the Wies’n. Good luck to all of you.” The cluster broke up and the men shuffled slowly away, their movements betraying restrained tension.

  Waldbaer turned to Hirter. “So, Hirter, what do you think?”

  Hirter stretched his arms. “Kommissar, this is your show. You’ve done everything that can be done. It’s like an espionage operation: the planning is everything. There comes a point where fate deals its hand. There’s nothing more you can do.”

  “You believe we’ll get them?”

  Hirter considered. “They have to go to the Wies’n and try to get into the tents, you’re right about that. I think we have a good chance of spotting them. Can we stop them before they do damage? I don’t know. But there’s nothing we can change at this stage. We stick with the program and hope for the best.”

  The detective displayed a weary smile. “You and your friends have been a big help, Hirter. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without CIA assistance. However it goes, this will be a hell of a day. Times like this, I wish I had become a lawyer or a teacher.”

  “No you don’t,” Hirter replied, allowing his own smile.

  Chapter 60

  Television camera crews were setting up positions along the parade route as several blocks away, al-Assad’s companions gathered in his musty hotel room for a final briefing. Al-Assad looked approvingly at the tinted colors in the men’s hair and at the jaunty angle with which Sayyid wore his baseball cap. Al-Assad detected tension, his own, and that of his men. That was all right, he thought, given what would be accomplished over the next few hours. He stood at the window to address them one final time.

  “Brothers, our attitude must be one of submission. Submission to Allah and the jihad. How fortunate we are to have been selected for today. Our names will be honored by coming generations of the ummah for what we accomplish here in the House of War. Are you ready?”

  The men nodded in unison.

  “Good. As we move into battle, there are a few final preparations. First, we leave the hotel not as a group but separately, at fifteen minute intervals starting an hour from now. I will be the first to go. Then Taamir, then Jawad, and finally Sayyid. All of us except Jawad go to the U-4 subway station at the end of the block and ride to the Oktoberfest. Jawad, to break up the pattern, I want you to walk to the Wies’n along the parade route. It’s only a fifteen-minute stroll. All of you try to blend into the groups of people, feign being one of them. Remember, we are swimming in a sea of Oktoberfest visitors. I want you to look happy like the rest of the crowd. If the police are looking for us they expect to see earnest faces. Don’t oblige them. Now, I have a few items for you.” Al-Assad gestured toward the bed and the objects atop the blanket.

  “Plastic bags,” murmured Sayyid, confused. Assad smiled broadly.

  “Yes, plastic bags. One for each of you. They bear the Oktoberfest logo. These are bags you get when you buy a festival souvenir. These bags will arouse no suspicion. Thousands of people will be carrying them. We place the Sarin canisters into the bags. Next to the bags you will notice square cardboard containers. Those are what souvenir beer mugs are packaged in. I bought four mugs downtown and threw them away, just to get the containers. The canisters fit inside the containers snugly. We place the canisters into the cardboard boxes and the boxes into the plastic bags. The police will likely be expecting us to carry backpacks, but we are a step ahead of them. When you find a place inside the tents, choose the right moment, reach into the bag, open the carton and activate the device. The rest takes care of itself; you will have accomplished your mission.”

  Taamir spoke up, his soft voice sounding almost shy. “How long will it take? How long before we are martyred?”

  Al-Assad nodded understanding. “Not long at all at that proximity and with these high concentrations. The symptoms will occur rapidly. Your nose will begin to run and you’ll feel a headache. You will start to salivate and it will become hard to breathe. By that point, you’ll feel dizzy and your limbs might start to twitch. It is over soon after that. Don’t worry, our way will be made easy for us. Remember—get as deep into the crowd as possible. We want many to fall today. I have no more to tell you, brothers, except to state my respect at your fortitude. I will see you all again later today. But not on this earth.”

  He dispatched them to their rooms for the remaining hour before the sequence of departures would begin, his first of all. Al-Assad found that he did not feel nervous; felt only contentment. He went to the bed and reached down to retrieve his battered suitcase from underneath. Unzipping it, he extracted the metal canister secreted underneath some folded shirts. Al-Assad smiled, luxuriating in the feel of the object in has hands. He slipped the cylinder into the cardboard jacket emblazoned with the words Original Oktoberfest Krug and displaying a picture of the Munich cathedral. He nodded in satisfaction. The box was the image of innocence. He placed the container into the shopping bag and consulted his wristwatch. Soon. He turned toward Mecca, knelt on the hard hotel room floor, and began to pray.

  Chapter 61

  Caroline O’Kendell and Allen Chalmers were dressed in blue jeans and sweaters to blend with the crowd. They disembarked from a beige taxi directly at one of the Oktoberfest entrances. Caroline spotted Robert first, his tall frame easy to pick out as he stood in a relaxed pose underneath the twenty-foot-high, garlanded archway at the entrance to the Wies’n. She waved and Robert raised his hand in reply. She found him attractive in an understated way she decided, but pushed the thought aside with a nudge of professionalism.

  A moment later the three CIA officers were huddled together.

  “Time to party,” Chalmers offered, with a glance at the brightly colored Oktoberfest structures stretching out before him. His eyes fixed on the imposing beer tents dominating the fairgrounds, the perfect environment for a mass-casualty Sarin attack.

  Caroline crossed her arms around her lithe torso and shivered. “Munich will be associated with a new type of warfare—terrorist use of chemical weapons. The city will be twice-cursed. Remember the Munich Olympic massacre, back in the days of Mark Spitz? You can imagine what another terrorist attack will do for this city.”

  “You’re right,” Chalmers agreed. “But if they pull this off it will make the Olympic massacre fade into insignificance. Look at those tents. We could be talking about thousands of fatalities.”

  “Caroline, anything new?” Robert inquired.

  She shook her head from side to side, her dark hair shimmering with the motion. “Nothing. I placed a secure call to headquarters, but there haven’t been any intercepts. There’s no more time, Robert, the parade has started. The tents will be opening soon.”

  Robert smiled at her, aware of how pretty she was. “You’re right, Caroline. Let’s head toward the tents. The Kommissar has already ordered his men to
their positions.”

  The parade of brewery wagons wound its way through the Munich streets, thronged with loud, mirthful crowds. Each garlanded wagon was laden with rows of oak kegs and drawn by a team of sturdy dray horses, their hooves clanging rhythmically against the pavement. Each steed was a paragon of equestrian finery, outfitted with silver or bronze accouterments, their formidable sides bedecked with the escutcheon of the brewery represented, a snarling, stylized lion for Löwenbräu, a hooded monk for Paulaner, a bishop’s kreutzer for Augustiner. Unbeknownst to the laughing onlookers, stern-faced teams of surveillants silently monitored the faces and movements of those present, covertly searching for the earnest, bearded faces they had imprinted in their brains.

  Chapter 62

  Now, al-Assad concluded, glancing at his wristwatch. He studied the hotel room one last time, looking in the mirror at the blond streaks recently added to his hair. He went to the dresser and tugged a Walther pistol from the drawer and inserted it into his trousers. He doubted that he would need it, but it offered a reserve of protection. Pulling a blue windbreaker over a gray sweatshirt that read “Let’s Party,” he exited the room, took the stairs to the lobby, and paid his bill to a bored checkout clerk who didn’t notice that al-Assad had no luggage with him, other than an Oktoberfest plastic bag.