Collision of Evil Page 32

  Holzer and Spockmeyer nodded to one another and applied the atropine syringes to their thighs, both of them wincing as they did so.

  “Let’s find that damned canister,” Holzer instructed his partner.

  A jarring crash in front of them drew their attention. A thin, middle-aged waitress had fallen to the ground yards away, a clutch of beer mugs rolling about her inanimate form, the frothing contents seeping into the floorboards.

  “God,” Holzer implored quietly, “don’t let it be that crap at work.” Running to the woman, the men noted that fluids were running from her nose and mouth and her limbs were twitching.

  The woman’s eyes were unfocused and she labored to draw in air.

  Holzer pulled another atropine injector from his pocket and slammed it into the waitress’s arm. A moment later her struggle for breath ceased, and Spockmeyer gripped her wrist. “No pulse,” he mumbled to Holzer.

  Nearby, a grey-haired, lederhosen-clad man vomited and moaned, staggering toward the tent entrance before collapsing in a quivering heap. The two officers noticed other people moving drunkenly, disorientation marking their features. More individuals fell to the ground. Some groaned, others emitted panicky whines. Still others, with red eyes or flowing nostrils, moved successfully out of the tent.

  Holzer again grabbed his police phone. “We have casualties. Over a dozen,” he said with a quiver in intonation. An auburn-haired woman fell a few feet distant; her male companion knelt by her side and tried to revive her.

  “Carry her outside,” Holzer instructed him. The man complied. His nose had started to emit a stream of bright blood, but he managed to carry the woman from the tent.

  Waldbaer and the others had reached the Löwenbräu tent and watched as a wave of people poured from the structure. Behind the detective moved a line of ambulances, inching through the crowds along the chaotic runway, emergency lights flashing. People kept issuing from the tent, hundreds of them, not out of control, Waldbaer noted, but not far from panic at their sudden, mysterious affliction.

  A guttural voice erupted through the receiver at the detective’s ear and Waldbaer strained to catch the transmission. “Holzer here. We’ve located the canister. It’s hissing, so it must still be active. We’ve moved the crowd away from it. What’s the course of action under the circumstances?”

  Waldbaer described the situation to Chalmers, who was watching the scene in front of the tent open-mouthed.

  Chalmers considered for a moment before replying. “Kommissar, we have to improvise. If they can cover the Sarin device with a trash bag or something, that’s a start. Have them see if there’s a water container in the tent. If they can submerge the canister in water, that should reduce dispersion of the nerve agent or incapacitate the device.”

  Waldbaer repeated Chalmers’s instructions and waited. He knew that it meant the officers inside the Löwenbräu tent would be directly exposed to Sarin at extremely close quarters.

  “Holzer again. We can use one of the trash barrel liners here. We’ll take the canister to the kitchen. They’ve got to have sinks there. We’ll report back in a few minutes.”

  Waldbaer turned to Chalmers. Robert and Caroline were huddled with them, both feeling powerless to influence the events that had been set in motion. “Mr. Chalmers, an answer, please. The officers in there have injected atropine against the Sarin. Will that be sufficient to protect them while they dispose of the device?”

  “I don’t know,” the chemist said. “I hope to God so, but there are too many unknowns at work. How concentrated is the Sarin in there? Did they employ the atropine injectors properly? Once they get that canister under water they need to leave immediately and let the doctors examine them.”

  Waldbaer nodded. “Right. Assuming they’re able to make it out of the tent.”

  Holzer and Spockmeyer stepped over the corpse of an elderly man wearing a Boston College sweatshirt and lifted the black plastic liner from a metal trash barrel located next to a support beam.

  “This will do the trick,” Spockmeyer muttered. The two men emptied the bag of its pretzel remnants, empty cigarette packs, chicken bones, and grease-soaked paper plates. They carried the plastic to the corner of the tent where the Sarin container reposed, hissing audibly like an enraged goose. Both men held their breath and enveloped the gleaming device inside the trash bag, twisting shut the folds of plastic. The act concluded, Spockmeyer ran ahead of his partner to the kitchen at the back of the tent and located an industrial-sized stainless steel sink. He placed a black rubber stopper in the drain, twisted open a faucet, and let loose a cascade of cold water into the basin.

  Holzer followed and dropped the Sarin container into the filling sink. It sank to the bottom, the hissing now silenced beneath the surface. Holzer activated his phone. “Holzer again. We’re done. The device is immersed in water. We’re coming out.”

  Both men moved hastily across the kitchen, heading for the tent entrance.

  “Let’s hope to hell that worked,” Spockmeyer said to his colleague.

  Ordered chaos prevailed outside the Löwenbräu tent as the two officers emerged. The mechanical lion continued its programmed pattern of activity, but no one noted its incongruous behavior. Walbaer slapped Holzer and Spockmeyer on their shoulders and ushered them to an ambulance and a waiting physician. A police cordon had been formed, isolating the tent and the people who had issued from it.

  Hirter approached Waldbaer and spoke in a low voice. “What do we know about casualties?”

  “Holzer estimates thirty to forty bodies inside. One of the medics said that at least three people have died outside. Some of the others being brought to hospitals have severe symptoms and could go either way. It looks like hundreds of others have symptoms of some sort, but most of them should recover with treatment. That’s all I know. This will take time to sort out. We still have one more of these bastards on the loose. We’re evacuating the other tents. With luck we can deny him a target.”

  Chapter 67

  Al-Assad watched the scene outside the Löwenbräu tent with mixed emotions. Passing by the tent on the way to his own target, the Hofbräu tent, he had spontaneously decided that it made sense to wait a few minutes and ensure that Jawad attacked successfully. He loitered at a souvenir tee-shirt stand and was rewarded by a rising aural tide of commotion from the Löwenbräu structure. He could not suppress a smile as he contemplated the image of Jawad activating the Sarin in the crowded confines of the tent.

  Al-Assad’s momentary satisfaction was jarred by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. One round followed some seconds later by two more. Had Jawad been found out? Seconds later, people began streaming out from the tent’s interior. Al-Assad detected that a number of them were stumbling, some falling to the ground incapacitated. Good, he thought, the Sarin has been discharged. Many infidels would certainly die. He hoped that Taamir and Sayyid had carried out their attacks as well.

  Turning to continue his trek to the Hofbräu tent a few hundred yards distant, Al-Assad found his way blocked by a cordon of police. Worse, he saw in the distance that throngs of people were being ushered from Hofbräu and other beer tents. He cursed to himself and could not fathom how the authorities had reacted so quickly. He closed his eyes for clarity of thought. He saw again the gleaming sword of his jihad, floating above a burgundy tide of blood. He flashed his eyes open and knew that he had to change targets. He would still succeed in his mission. Physical speed would be required, but al-Assad knew that he was a strong runner. All would be well.

  Al-Assad left the souvenir stand and walked deliberately toward the police line.

  “Everyone stays here, those are our orders,” a green-uniformed police officer was advising a confused-looking man in farmer’s garb.

  Al-Assad moved steadily toward the officer, carefully fixing a pleasant smile on his face as he approached. The officer glanced up at him just as al-Assad drew the Walther from his belt, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The policeman went down instantly with
a low moan, his peaked cap in the dust at his side. Al-Assad fired another round and a second policeman crashed face forward.

  Screaming erupted and the crowd surged in blind panic as al-Assad had expected.

  The police cordon broke in confusion and al-Assad sprinted from the crowd, pistol in one hand and the plastic bag clutched in the other. The layout of the Oktoberfest imprinted securely on his brain, he headed for the amusement park section of the festival grounds, fixing on a large Ferris wheel revolving in the distance.

  Waldbaer and the Americans squatted low and looked up as the two shots tore through the air nearby.

  “I see him,” Hirter yelled. He tore off after the sprinter.

  Waldbaer drew himself to his feet with a huff and followed Hirter as best he could, Caroline and Chalmers by his side.

  “Stay here,” he rasped, and Chalmers obeyed.

  The lithe woman remained in motion with the panting detective. “Not this time, Kommissar.”

  Waldbaer did not argue and pushed through the disrupted police line. “Follow me,” he shouted and three uniformed officers picked up the chase.

  Al-Assad quickly darted off of the main runway and onto a back alley behind the beer tents. The narrow way was devoid of people and al-Assad moved ahead unobstructed, keeping the Ferris wheel in sight. He was pleased that he had kept a fallback plan in reserve. Al-Assad reflected that his secondary target might even be better than his first. After all, what demonstrates a government’s weakness more than its inability to protect its children?

  Hirter watched the man with the firearm and plastic bag launch away from the main avenue. He made the same turn moments later, legs pistoning against the ground. He heard voices and knew that Waldbaer and others were following him. Hirter wondered if the target intended to leave the fairgrounds and disappear into the anonymity of Munich, hoping to strike another day. Or did this last remaining terrorist still have a target in mind? Hirter felt himself slowly, but perceptibly, close the intervening space separating them.

  Waldbaer and Caroline watched the progress of both men. The detective held his service pistol above his head. He felt winded from the exertion of the run, and was frightened that he might not be able to keep up for long. “Halt or I’ll shoot,” he yelled with a sandpaper voice, hoping that the terrorist ahead of Hirter might react. He did.

  Al-Assad had not focused on his pursuers until he heard the rasping command from behind him. Filthy kaffir, he thought as he stopped and turned, aiming his pistol. Hirter pitched to the ground to make a smaller target.

  The terrorist’s move had caught him by surprise.

  Al-Assad ignored the man on the ground and fired at the rumpled shape in the near distance. Waldbaer’s pistol barked at the same time. Caroline winced at the percussion as both rounds found their targets.

  Waldbaer felt the impact of the bullet as it tore through his jacket and upper right arm, entering and exiting. His pistol tumbled to the ground, and Caroline retrieved it as it fell.

  The blow to his hip pushed al-Assad sideways, and he felt an electric wave of pain travel up his side. He forced himself to remain standing and dropped neither the pistol nor the Sarin. Seeing that his bullet had disabled his attacker, al-Assad turned on his heel and, despite his throbbing wound, urged himself along toward his target.

  Caroline watched as al-Assad lumbered off and turned her attention to Waldbaer’s wound. She tucked the Walther into her waistband and yanked the scarf from her neck and wrapped it tightly around the detective’s arm as a tourniquet.

  “I know where he’s going,” Waldbaer gasped. “Damn it, there’s a children’s event by the Ferris wheel. He’s after the kids.”

  The trio of uniformed policemen caught up with them and one of them called for an ambulance.

  “Leave me here,” Waldbaer growled. “Stop that bastard.”

  The officers and the female CIA operative broke into a run.

  Hirter was on his feet. Keeping to the shadow of the tents as much as possible, he quietly gained on al-Assad who was now moving at a much reduced pace. The American saw his target dart around a smoked fish concession, heading for the the Ferris wheel. He could make out a crowd in the distance, gathered under a blue and white striped canopy. As he continued to close on the scene and on al-Assad, Hirter saw a gathering of children, several holding balloons. Al-Assad was limping directly toward them. Hirter forced himself to pick up speed, sucking in oxygen for his aching lungs.

  Ten yards from the crowd of children cheering the antics of a clown on stilts, al-Assad heard a rhythm of pounding feet and labored breathing behind him. He turned and saw Hirter close enough to make out his features. Al-Assad recognized him as the man he had covertly observed weeks ago in the mountain meadow. I should have killed him then, he thought in self-reproach.

  Al-Assad raised his pistol and fired, but Hirter dodged to the left and the round went wide. He took aim again, but the man crashed heavily into him before he could exert trigger pressure. On impact, al-Assad’s pistol spun away.

  Hirter slammed a fist directly at al-Assad’s bleeding hip, evoking a shrill scream as a tide of pain coursed through his body. Al-Assad fought back with animal fury, splitting Hirter’s lip and chipping a tooth. The two men rolled across the ground, while the children regarded the scene as another form of entertainment.

  “Everybody get out of here,” Hirter screamed, but there was no response from the young crowd.

  Al-Assad scratched at Hirter’s eyes, gouging a bleeding furrow in his cheek. Hirter grasped at al-Assad’s wound. Al-Assad used the moment to reach into the plastic bag and tear the lid off of the card board container. Hirter slammed a fist repeatedly into al-Assad’s ribs. Despite the onslaught of blows, al-Assad pulled the gleaming cylinder free of the bag.

  “No,” Hirter yelled through bloodied lips as he saw a grinning al-Assad depress the activation button. The device began to hiss and al-Assad raised his voice in a triumphal roar, oblivious now to Hirter’s continuing assault.

  “Allah Akhbar,” he chanted.

  As he opened his mouth again to repeat the ancient invocation, Hirter grabbed al-Assad’s head with both hands and slammed it down hard on top of the cylinder.

  Al-Assad felt his teeth break as they impacted the metal device. He felt powerful and determined hands remorselessly force his mouth over the canister. He felt as well the cold spray as it coated his mouth, throat, and gums. He flailed blindly at Hirter, but his hands found no purchase. He tried to lift his head from the spraying vessel, but could not counteract the pressure Hirter applied. He was conscious that the man was whispering in his ear.

  “This is for Charles, you piece of garbage. Drink in deeply.”

  This was not in the vision, al-Assad thought as his eyelids began to flutter uncontrollably along with his limbs. Blood ran from his nostrils and mouth, coating the slick sides of the Sarin cylinder. His heart was racing and he felt his bladder empty, soiling his twitching legs. Not in the vision at all. The mechanism atop the cylinder continued to efficiently spray its contents into al-Assad’s throat and was carried deep into his lungs.

  By the time Caroline O’Kendell and Waldbaer reached the scene, al-Assad was staring lifelessly at the ground, mouth still firmly fixed to the Sarin dispenser. Caroline turned her gaze to Hirter, whose face held a coldly contented look that was, she knew, in all aspects primordial. She knelt down at his side and, professional demeanor vanished, encircled him in her arms.

  Chapter 68

  Waldbaer’s recovery was slow on all fronts. His physical recuperation took longer than expected. The shoulder wound became infected in a Munich hospital and required a series of operations. Eventually the damaged arm was repaired and functional.

  Waldbaer’s professional health was more complicated. The nerve gas attack on the Oktoberfest had been disrupted, it was true, but not entirely. When the final tally was taken, sixty-eight people had been killed and hundreds sickened. The two policemen shot by al-Assad had also died.
Some newspapers applauded Waldbaer’s performance, others criticized it. Politicians were equally split in their comments, and the Bavarian Interior Ministry conducted an official investigation. The Kommissar was fully exonerated in the ensuing report, but any chance of Waldbaer being promoted or assigned to a more prestigious location than Gamsdorf was buried by the controversy.

  For his part, the detective did not seem to care a whit and went about his tasks with the same irritable attitude that he had always evidenced. Waldbaer had been invited to spend a week’s vacation with Robert Hirter in Washington the next summer and had accepted. He told his beer drinking friends at the Alte Post that he intended to stop smoking within the year. He usually exclaimed this with a weary sigh as he reached without enthusiasm for a cigarette.

  Robert Hirter, Allen Chalmers, and Caroline O’Kendell were presented with Exceptional Operational Performance awards by the director of the CIA’s Clandestine Service. Their actions in working with foreign police to disrupt a major Islamist terror attack were regarded as a textbook example of joint operations by the agency’s Counter Terrorism Center. Robert Hirter and Caroline O’Kendell joined a Fairfax County tennis club together and, mutual acquaintances believed, were on their way to building an association deeper in nature than friendship.