The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho sat back to reflect. “Well, he’s Chechen, and his real name is Sahab Kadyrov. ‘Klaus’ was his alias for the conspiracy in East Berlin after he deserted from the KGB. It’s the name US intelligence first came to know him by. For operational simplicity, it’s still the name used to identify him. When we hear the name ‘Sahab,’ we link it to Klaus.”

  “Got it,” Sofia interrupted, “and Chechens hate the Soviets. The oldest known tribe of Caucasians comes from that region, and Chechnya has been under Russian rule for centuries. They resent that, and most of the population converted to the Sunni Islamic religion as passive resistance. Persia and Russia fought for centuries, with Persia supporting Chechnya. That aligns modern-day Persia—now Iran—with Chechnya, even though Iran is mostly Shia. Chechens were inspired by the takeover of the US Embassy in Tehran in 1979. First chance, Chechnya will buck the Soviets.

  “That means a target in the Soviet Union is possible. If that’s the case, that’s a Soviet problem, and you don’t need to be involved. Go on.”

  “Klaus had a network already established in Berlin that got him back and forth between the two halves of the city through the tunnels under the Wall.”

  “Okay, so he had support. Any idea where it came from?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he developed contact with Turkish immigrants in West Berlin. He’s Muslim, they’re Muslim. Turks came to West Germany for work after the war. Germany was short of men because of wartime casualties. So, Turks helped rebuild the country, but are resentful of their poor treatment there. I’d put my money on them.”

  “That makes sense. If his network is still active, he could strike a target in Berlin to disrupt reunification, but I don’t see what he’d get out of that. East and West Germany are about to formally reunite. They’ve got a long way to go to complete the process, but I don’t see how Klaus or his cause benefits by targeting there.”

  Atcho shrugged. “He could be acting as a mercenary. That’s what he did for Yermolov.” He searched his memory. “I overheard a conversation he had before the firefight where I killed Etzel. Klaus said that the jihad might come sooner than anyone thought.”

  Sofia looked at him sharply. “That’s right, he’s a jihadist. That puts another whole spin on things."

  “I don’t know his beliefs. I know what I overheard. He wasn’t motivated by money. When he abducted me, he demanded a bomb, not money. He wanted the nuke for his own use, and he got it. I don’t know what his agenda was.”

  “Well that begs the question about funding. He had to have had medical costs for his wounds, and he had to live somewhere. Come to think of it, he couldn’t meander around the world carrying that bomb. He would have to stash it somewhere until he was ready to use it. So, how is he paying for all of that?”

  Atcho stood and stretched, frustration showing on his face. “I don’t know, but your last thought brings up another question. How would he fix the bomb so it could be reactivated? Veniamin told us the fail-safe was a fake. The bomb would have to be rewired in order to be detonated. Klaus would have to find someone who could do that.

  “The US put Veniamin and his family under protection in a secret location, so Klaus would have to find another nuclear engineer. Before that, he’d have to figure out that the fail-safe was a fake. As far as he knew, if he opened the suitcase, he’d blow himself up. How would he find out that the fail-safe wouldn’t work?”

  Sofia absorbed Atcho’s musings. “I don’t know. If we still lived in DC, his coming after you at home might make sense. He could get personal revenge and hit a strategic target at the same time. Austin doesn’t offer that, and Berlin isn’t a target that forwards jihad objectives, at least not now. Being a jihadist, Klaus would strike in the Middle East. You know what’s going on there now.”

  Atcho nodded glumly. “Operation Desert Shield and the Kuwait-Iraq war. Sorting out whether he would support Kuwait or Iraq is murky. Since he’s Chechen, he’s probably Sunni.

  “Saddam Hussein and his ruling Ba’athist Party are Sunni. Then again, Chechnya has that centuries-old history with Iran, which is Shia. When you add in that Iraq and Iran just fought a seven-year war to a stalemate, the peace between them is tenuous at best. He could throw final victory either way in that war, depending on whatever outcome he wants. And that could dictate his target. He could become a potent force in the region.”

  “My head is about to explode,” Sofia said, burying her face in her hands. “Going back to how Klaus could reactivate the bomb. If he could do that, then he might also be able to replicate it, as many times as he wants. Talk about becoming a potent force.”

  Atcho mulled implications without expression before he spoke. “He’d be limited by how much plutonium he could get. I’m sure the Soviets tightened up security on their nuclear stockpiles after the episode in Berlin.”

  “Don’t count on it. Anyway, where does all this leave us?”

  “With more questions than answers. I’ve got to head to DC tomorrow to try to figure it all out and what to do about it.”

  Agitation showed on Sofia’s face. “Burly must have some preliminary thoughts, or he wouldn’t have come all the way here to see you. What does he want you to do?”

  Atcho stared at her, obviously reluctant to speak.

  Sofia’s nostrils flared, her eyes widened. “Don’t do this to me, Atcho. You know I can find out, so tell me now.” Her voice took on an insistent note. “What is Burly planning?”

  Atcho thrust his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. “All right,” he said slowly, “but you’re retired. Stay out of it.”

  “Just tell me. Whatever it is, I’d rather hear it from you. I’ll decide what I will or won’t do.”

  Atcho sighed. “Okay. But I don’t want to come home to an empty house because you got in the way of Klaus’ bullet or his bomb trying to save me.”

  Sofia stared back at him expectantly. “Tell me.”

  Atcho leaned against the wall, looking strained. “They want me to draw Klaus out, so they can locate him. I’m the bait.”

  5

  Five months earlier, August 2, 1990—The day Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. Nine months after the Berlin Wall opened.

  The orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Burakgazi, advised Klaus that the soonest he could operate was in early November. Klaus was happy for the timing. It left him three months to acquire more plutonium.

  In the days after leaving Rayner’s house for the last time, Klaus had carefully reopened and rewired the bomb as the nuclear engineer had indicated. When completed, he had been chagrinned at how simply Veniamin’s ruse had fooled him.

  Now all the component tests worked, and Klaus felt comfortable to arm and disarm the bomb at will. He even acquired a new remote control and entered the frequency. The bomb was ready to be placed when he decided on a target.

  He opened an account with cash at a bank, rented a large safety deposit box, and secured the bomb there. Then he made travel arrangements to Paris. Before leaving, he paid a visit to Kadir and worked out instructions for moving money into traditional banking accounts from remote locations. Finally, he purchased a worn briefcase from a special dealer. It contained a hidden compartment. In it he secured a large amount of cash and the documents needed to support several aliases.

  In Paris, Klaus rented a car and drove north to a village at the base of a forested hill. He knew the area well. At the top of the hill was a cluster of cabins. It was there he had first met Yermolov. The rogue Soviet general had been supported with money, cars, and shelter by a splinter group of Russian Orthodox Church members who still revered Rasputin.

  Near the base of the hill and in the village was a tavern. Although normally a strict adherent to Islamic proscriptions against the consumption of alcohol, Klaus had no problem with imbibing when doing so furthered the aims of Islam. He entered the tavern and took a seat at the bar.

  “Hello, friend,” he said to the bartender. “Remember me?”

  The bartender peered a
t him and broke into a smile. “It’s been a while. What brings you back?”

  “Business, I’m afraid. You know how that goes.” They both arched their eyebrows and nodded in mutual understanding.

  They spoke in broken English. Klaus ordered a drink. “I enjoyed my stay here. Can you believe that was two years ago?” He shook his head. “I came up to visit now while I had some free time. Does that group of Rasputin people still come in here?”

  The bartender smiled benevolently. “They do, and they still bring that awful fish soup.” The both laughed. He referred to a special concoction that had been passed through generations of Rasputin followers. Many regarded it as sacred as holy water. “A few members wander in and out most nights. Some should be here shortly.”

  An hour later, Klaus sat with several of the Rasputin followers at the back of the tavern. Curious about what had happened to the conspiracy to overthrow Gorbachev, they were happy to see Klaus. He did his own probing before responding. “I suppose you heard about what happened with Veniamin?”

  No, they told him in hushed tones. All they knew was that the entire family had disappeared, their property sold.

  “General Yermolov protects him,” Klaus lied to them, their expressions incredulous. “Other people tried to coerce him into making bombs for them.” His audience collectively shook their heads in disgusted indignation.

  “What happened to the plan for the coup in Moscow? Didn’t it work?”

  In the dim light, Klaus looked into their faces sadly. “We were betrayed.”

  Silence. Then one person interjected. “A news reporter came here a few weeks after General Yermolov and your group left. He stayed around for a month and spoke with Veniamin. I was there when they met. The last question the journalist asked was where Veniamin got the plutonium. The reporter was here again looking for Veniamin a few days before the Berlin Wall came down. That’s been over a year ago.”

  Klaus felt the hackles on his neck rise. He fought down a sudden rush of anger. “What did Veniamin tell him? Do you remember the reporter’s name?”

  “Tony Collins. He writes for the Washington Herald. Veniamin wouldn’t tell him where he got the plutonium.”

  Klaus felt simultaneously relieved and in shock but kept his outward expressions in check. He threw his head back and laughed. “Ah yes. Tony Collins. We know him well. A good man, but it’s also good that Veniamin didn’t say anything. Let me tell you something.” He gestured for them to bring their heads close together. “General Yermolov wants to try again.”

  He sat back with a deliberately smug look and watched the mixed expressions of excitement and concern. He leaned forward again. “The nuclear fuel degraded and needs to be replaced. Yermolov sent me to get more, but I don’t know how to contact the arms merchant who sold it to us.”

  He watched closely for reaction. The faces looking back at him wore bewildered expressions. “Couldn’t Veniamin come, or tell you how to meet his contact?”

  Klaus sighed. “You’d think so, but Yermolov promised him a vacation in the Swiss Alps with no phone for a month. He’s there now with his family. We just learned about the problem with the plutonium, and we’re about to launch the new plan. We can’t wait for Veniamin to get back. Do any of you know where to locate that contact?”

  The men exchanged glances between themselves, and once again shook their heads in unison. “We never knew where Veniamin got the materials,” someone replied. “We led Yermolov to Veniamin in the first place, but then we knew nothing more about how it all came together.” They sat looking doe-eyed. After a couple more hours of small talk, Klaus bade the group farewell and returned to Paris.

  He had reached a dead end. Although disappointed, he lost only a day and still had three months to complete this stage of his plans. The positive aspect was that, regardless of success in finding more plutonium immediately, he already had a fully operational bomb which he could replicate—and he called his own shots.

  Klaus contemplated his next destination with trepidation. Moscow. He had been there many times and knew his way around, but his brother Etzel had always been with him. This time he was alone and a wanted man. Aside from having deserted the KGB, he had little doubt that his part in Yermolov’s coup attempt was known at the highest levels.

  To conceal his real identity, he wore body and stomach padding to look overweight and hide his trim physique. He let his beard grow and trimmed it neatly. He walked with a slumping gait, and he tied his bad arm beneath his business suit jacket.

  On deplaning at Sheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow, he presented a Soviet passport showing he was from Chechnya. The advantage of entering as a Soviet citizen was that he would not be trailed by a “minder,” a government official assigned to follow around and report the movements of foreign visitors.

  He walked through the airport noting a changed atmosphere from any he had perceived in the country before. Unfamiliar nervous energy seemed to pervade. People still walked like they were oppressed, but Klaus sensed furtiveness. They looked about with interest until they were observed doing so, and then quickly reverted to expected depressed behavior. The demeanor reminded him of people in East Berlin in the days before they coalesced into the huge crowds that made the Wall a relic of history.

  That’s it. He felt sudden excitement rising. I told Etzel that East Germany would fall, and it did, and that the Soviet Union was on its last legs. I feel it.

  As he walked through the concourse, he reviewed the historic events of the past few years. Soviet troops had been forced out of Afghanistan. Poland had seized its independence much like the East German regime had been vanquished—by the force of its citizens. Czechoslovakia and Hungary had been early in securing greater autonomy, although with less drama. They had now sealed their independence from the Soviet Union. All three Baltic states appeared to be on the verge of gaining their liberty, within months. Demand for greater national self-rule permeated through every country of the Soviet empire, including those in the Islamic sphere of influence.

  Klaus stopped walking with a stunning realization: The Soviet Union was already unraveling. He looked up at the massive ceiling in the terminal, seeing past it into the heavens. I told you, Etzel. I told you that the Soviet Union would fall. You and I will stamp our mark on the rise of jihad. It’s started, and we’re the proof.

  Klaus moved into the underworld of Moscow with skill. He understood criminals, their habitats, common practices, how to identify the hierarchy and make contact, and how to limit his risk of bodily harm. Within a week, he started negotiations to acquire plutonium.

  The first part of the transaction required establishing credibility that the black-market merchant could deliver. Next came confirming that the product was genuine and could be delivered at the desired level of quality and quantity. Finally came the trickiest part: agreement on price and terms, including time, place, and delivery method.

  Klaus hoped to find the man who had provided nuclear material to Veniamin for Yermolov. Since he had no clue of the man’s identity or location, he thought that possibility to be an idle hope. If he could find the merchant though, the advantage would be dealing with a known entity who had already delivered reliably.

  He moved about carefully, purchased a pistol with ammunition from street thugs, and stayed in places where he could rest while assured of minimal to no government attention. As he gained confidence in his knowledge of “who’s who” in capabilities and the pecking order of those he met, he let drop among specific people that he wished to purchase a small quantity of plutonium. He also dropped Yermolov’s name.

  Moving about the city, he found it remarkable that his initial sense of a population anticipating imminent, cataclysmic change became reinforced. As he had witnessed in East Berlin, people rapidly shed their fear of authority. He mentioned his impressions to a few select people.

  One man in particular, Rostislav, spoke brashly. “The Soviet Union is history,” he said with such finality that Klaus coul
d only stare. He had no response.

  “Look,” Rostislav continued, “Ronald Reagan mounted an arms race that all but bankrupted us. We lost the space race years ago. Gorbachev’s glasnost and perestroika not only urge people to speak their minds openly, but they also encourage national governments of Soviet republics and satellites to push for greater self-rule. Those countries demand independence. Look what happened in Germany, Poland, Hungary…” He ran down the list. “Mark my words. Within a year, the Soviet Union will be finished.” He smirked. “That will create enormous opportunity for our ‘profession.’”

  As he spoke, Klaus studied him. Despite his rough appearance, Rostislav was educated, stayed up-to-date with current events, and thought deeply. Klaus weighed his risks and informed him in greater detail of his wishes. “I’d like to find the man who dealt with Yermolov. He’s already performed, more than once.”

  Rostislav scrutinized Klaus. “I might be able to find him. Only a few people can deliver plutonium, and I have contacts in that specialty.” He chuckled at his use of the last word. “First, I need to know that whatever you do with it won’t happen in Moscow. I don’t want to be anywhere near the explosion.”

  “I’m Chechen. That should tell you something.”

  Rostislav eyed him and nodded slowly. “You’ll hit either a Soviet target in your own region or somewhere else that helps Islam.” He inhaled and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll see what I can do. How much is it worth to you? I’ll expect to be paid for trying and for delivery. The more you pay, the higher the priority.”

  “How do you want to be paid?”

  “In American dollars. I have a Swiss bank account.”

  They negotiated for several hours and reached an agreement. Rostislav would put highest priority on the project for a month, for which he would receive twenty thousand dollars, deposited immediately by wire transfer to his bank. When Rostislav delivered, Klaus would transmit an equal amount. The identity of the merchant would be confirmed by correctly detailing the last three transactions the arms merchant had conducted with Yermolov, including where and to whom the product was delivered. Final payment to Rostislav was due regardless of whether or not the merchant supplied more plutonium.