by Lee Jackson
“It is simple,” Veniamin said, “but if done wrong, the system would either not work, or it could kill the person making the changes.”
Burly opened the suitcase on the table. Over the next three hours, Veniamin unsealed the bomb, disconnected and separated its components, and showed how he had wired it.
“One question,” Burly said when the old engineer had finished. “How hard would it be to replicate your bombs?”
Veniamin leaned back in thought. “Not hard. The difficulty was designing it. A good technician could reverse engineer what I did. As long as he understands the wiring and has the materials, it could be done. I did it. The first bomb took months because I had to design it. The other three I did in a few hours. Of course, the materials were delivered cut to my specifications. Then it was a matter of assembly.”
They broke for lunch. When they returned, Burly checked with other members of his staff, and took Atcho aside. “Have you heard from Sofia? I sent the fax to an FBI field office. I couldn’t send it in the clear. A special agent went out to deliver it. Sofia didn’t answer the phone, and when the agent arrived at the house, no one was home.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Atcho replied. “She keeps herself busy with the garden club and other activities, but I don’t know the schedule. She’s always shopping for things to decorate the house. She has one of those new cellular phones, but coverage is spotty in Austin because of the hills. Here’s the number.” He wrote it down on a slip of paper and handed it to Burly. “If I get to her first, I’ll let her know to call you.”
Veniamin re-entered the office. A few minutes later, Collins appeared. The two men greeted each other warmly. “I knew you would be here,” Collins said. “I hoped I would see you.” He turned to Burly. “I have the video we talked about yesterday. I spotted the man we think is Klaus.”
“Let’s see it.” Burly took a cartridge from Collins and slipped it into a machine connected to a television monitor. The four men gathered around to watch. Having been filmed by a professional news cameraman, the images were crisp and clear.
Collins took the remote from Burly and manipulated the video to a particular point. “He first appears way back here,” Collins said, and pointed out a figure far back in the crowd pouring through Checkpoint Charlie the night the Wall fell. “You see from his face that he’s in a great deal of pain. Then as he gets closer to the gate, right here,” he pointed the figure out again, “he becomes aware of the cameras, and tries to make a wide detour. The crowd was channeled through the border crossing there, so he couldn’t escape the camera completely. Next, the view is good enough that we see he carries a suitcase, and it looks like the ones we have here.” He paused the video. “And right here is the clearest shot we have of him.”
Frozen on the screen was the face of a man with unkempt dark hair and a day’s growth of beard. His face ducked away such that his right cheek was in shadows, but his eyes looked out of their corners, directly into the camera. They showed pain and insolence, and they burned with hatred between curled lips and a furrowed forehead.
“That’s him!” Veniamin exclaimed. “That’s Klaus. That’s his face, those are the clothes he was wearing, and that was one of my suitcases.”
“That’s the man who abducted me,” Atcho remarked.
“Zoom in,” Burly said.
Collins complied.
“That’s definitely him,” Atcho affirmed. Veniamin agreed.
“All right,” Burly said. “That face looks like the sketches Detective Berger sent us. I’ll get this enhanced and forwarded to all stations. We should have the surveillance videos from the embassy here later this evening. They might have a better view from the front.” He turned to Collins. “Great work.”
Collins thanked him, and then addressed Atcho. “Any idea where you’ll start and when you’ll go?”
Atcho nodded. “Berlin is the last place he was seen. He can’t be carrying that suitcase across borders. I don’t think he’d flash his Stasi ID around. The headquarters was sacked by mobs a few days after the Wall opened. Lots of Stasi officers went to ground, and others hopped across the border that night and later.
“Add in that Klaus needed medical attention. How would he have paid for it? He deserted the KGB, Yermolov could no longer support him, the Stasi disintegrated, and he had to live somewhere. He couldn’t go around bragging that he had a nuclear bomb. Plenty of people would be happy to take it from him. So, who’s funding him?”
“I don’t know if this helps,” Veniamin interjected. “While I was still in the Stasi director’s office, another man in the conspiracy came in. His name was Ranulf. He brought two duffle bags. He said there were five million dollars in them. His role in the conspiracy was to get the money. He told Yermolov he had bribed and threatened every East German official he could to collect it. Three million of it was supposed to pay me for the bombs, and the other two was to be divided among the other conspirators. When I escaped, those bags were still in the office, and so was Klaus.”
The other three men stared at him. “I never asked for payment,” Veniamin added quickly. “I built the bombs because of the threats to my family. Yermolov had ideas of using me for other things in the future. He thought the money would keep me happy.”
“Relax,” Atcho told him softly and grasped his shoulder. “You’re fine with us.”
“You know,” Collins muttered, thinking out loud. “I saw a man carrying two duffle bags that night. He called to me, telling me he loved America and that he was coming to America. He came through a few minutes before Klaus did. I got that on film. He shows up in an earlier segment. If he and Klaus met up after crossing through Checkpoint Charlie, that might explain how Klaus supports himself. Five million dollars would take them a long way.”
He manipulated the remote until he found the footage. They watched, mesmerized at the cheering crowd of celebrating East Germans moving across the screen. Then, a man passed by waving and smiling. “Thank you, America,” he shouted.
Collins paused the video. The man stood in profile, his face turned to the camera. Clearly visible was a duffle bag slung over the man’s left shoulder.
“Is that one of the bags?” Burly asked.
Veniamin stepped closer to the screen and squinted through his glasses. “I cannot be certain, but it appears to be the right size and color. I cannot see from this angle if he has another one on the other shoulder.”
“That’s good enough,” Burly said. “I’ll get this picture enhanced, enlarged, and send it and Klaus’ photo to Detective Berger. Who knows what might turn up?”
The four men stood silently around the monitor studying the photo, absorbing it in the context of the events that led to the footage. Then they took their seats at the conference table again.
Collins spoke first. “Getting back to my earlier question, Atcho, is Berlin definitely the starting point?”
“It is. I’ll fly over tomorrow. My appointments are set up.”
“My first articles will be ready to go. They’ll hit the wires as soon as Burly tells me, so they’ll have wide distribution in large newspapers everywhere. They’ll be placed prominently and will be printed in the major languages. If Klaus pays attention, he’ll see them. Or someone close to him will. Good luck to you.”
Late that night, Burly called Atcho. “I’m not trying to be an alarmist, buddy, but I’ve had people calling Sofia regularly. Not a peep heard back.”
“I know,” Atcho replied, his voice betraying his anxiety. “She called me a little while ago. I don’t know where she is, and she won’t tell me. She’s flown the coop.”
8
While Atcho and Burly discussed Sofia’s whereabouts, daybreak was three hours away in Berlin. Nevertheless, Sofia lay wide awake in bed. Setting aside the wave of nausea that hit her when her eyes flickered open, she felt regretful over her conversation with Atcho a couple of hours earlier. She had expected his frustration, and he delivered in Atcho-style, most of it controlled.
>
She had called to let him know that she was still among the living and to apologize for leaving with no notice. “Burly will not control what I do,” she said stiffly. “You’re going to need help in the field. No one’s more qualified for that than me.”
“Where are you?”
Sofia hesitated. “Darling, you know I’m not going to tell you,” she purred. “Why ask?”
After a short silence, Atcho replied, “I thought I’d give it a shot. You could’ve had a mental lapse. What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. Watch, listen, learn. I’ll pick up a thread and follow it. When I find out something useful, I’ll let you know. How will I reach you? Can you tell me on an open line?”
Atcho laughed, his tone ironic. “I’ll be highly visible. Intentionally. I’m leaving for Berlin tomorrow.”
Sofia’s breath caught. Berlin seemed to me the logical place to start. I guess they thought so too. “Why there?”
“We found video showing Klaus coming through Checkpoint Charlie. Now we know that his right shoulder was wounded. Someone had to have treated him.”
“Where will you stay?”
“I’ll be at the primary location for the US Embassy at the Chancery in old East Berlin. We’ll see where it leads from there.” Germany was still in the midst of reunification, and the US along with other countries struggled with combining their embassies in Bonn with the consulates in Berlin. “Walking around in areas where a year ago I could get shot by government officers just for being there will feel strange. Once news of my presence is out, I imagine someone might site me in their crosshairs.” He laughed. “That’ll restore some sense of familiarity.”
“Don’t even joke about that. I want you back in one piece.”
“Ditto, lady. I’m being nice, but I’m not happy that you went indie again. I’m a husband now, your husband, and I don’t need to worry about where you are and what danger you’re in.” His voice grew heated. “I’m still hoping to have a family with you. If you don’t get yourself killed first.”
Neither spoke for a full minute. “I’m sorry,” Sofia said at last. “I’m just tired of seeing you go into these situations and having to drum up your own support. I know what I’m doing. I can help.”
“Well the difference this time is that I’m getting lots of support, and you’re out there alone.”
“And it’s going to stay that way,” Sofia retorted. “I can take care of myself. I’m not going back to DC so Burly can dictate to me. I’m most effective in the field.”
Atcho sighed audibly into the phone. “All right. There’s no changing your mind. One piece of good news, Major Horton is being assigned to help me. I requested him.”
Sofia chuckled. “Is he still in Berlin? That is good news. He knows his way around, he speaks the language, and he’s a fighter—when he’s not cracking jokes. He’s a good man to have at your back. I feel a little better now.”
“Good. Now will you go home?”
“No.” Frustration hung in the air, palpable through the phone. “How did your day go in DC? Did you learn anything useful?”
“Not much. We knew Klaus was wounded. He either got surgery, or he kissed that arm goodbye. That’s about it.”
Two hours later, Sofia got out of bed in the dark and fumbled in her suitcase. She found a pack of crackers she had picked up at the airport and nibbled down a few. When she lay back down, the wave of nausea gradually passed. She fell asleep.
When she awoke four hours later, the sun was already high in the sky. She dressed in Turkish garb and set out for Little Istanbul. Turkish immigrants had shaped the area toward their own culture. At the edge of the area, she looked for tearooms and cafés where customers had settled in for morning conversation.
Little Istanbul was run-down compared to most of West Berlin. Colorful graffiti adorned the walls on narrow streets. Women dressed similarly to Sofia scurried in twos and threes or in the company of a man, a family member. Along the sidewalks, chairs had been set outside of the eateries interspersed among various shops. Melodies of Turkey played amid the aroma of mint tea.
She entered a café and immediately noticed everyone staring. All were male. The proprietor, a portly man with an apron, hurried from behind the counter. He yelled at her in Turkish, waving his hands in the air. “You can’t be in here, whore. Get out!”
Sofia stood her ground. “Are all German Turks so rude?” she retorted in perfectly accented Arabic. “I’m here from Kuwait while the war is going on. All I want is breakfast, and if I can’t eat here, maybe you can show a stranger the courtesy of pointing out where I can eat.” She was on thin ice, and she knew it. If this man felt insulted, her life could be in jeopardy. She counted on the fact that she was in Berlin, not Turkey.
The proprietor diverted his eyes from her face, looking past her, still angry. “Where is your husband, or a male member of your family?”
Sofia pulled her cell phone from the folds of her clothing. “He’s a prince of the royal family, and he’ll be on his way. In Kuwait, it is permitted for a woman to go about alone for short errands. I was looking for a place for breakfast and then I’ll call him like a good wife should.”
The proprietor showed his uneasiness as the men around him mumbled between themselves. “You still should not be in here,” he grumbled. He started toward the front of his café, waving his hand for her to follow. “Go down to the next street and then turn that way.” He demonstrated with his left hand. “Go another distance and then you’ll see a Kemasil restaurant on this side of the street.” He gestured with his right hand. “I shouldn’t help you like this, but that’s where it is. They let women in there alone. Don’t come back here. This is a respectable establishment.”
Sofia thanked him and started off. She knew Kemasil was a more secular practice of Islam. In the melting pot of Islamic culture that Germany had hosted over centuries and accentuated in Berlin, Kemasil was a fairly recent Islamic splinter group. Its practitioners prospered better and were more educated than most of their Islamic brethren. Professional women were not uncommon among them. Sofia knew that the Kemasil philosophy had separated Islam from politics under Ataturk, a revolutionary leader who transformed Turkey into a democratic republic in the early twentieth century. For governing purposes, Islam had been removed there.
She found the establishment. It was off the street, and comparatively upscale. Before entering, she went into the ladies’ room of an adjoining office building and changed her appearance by removing the scarf over her head and the outer layer of the robes wrapped around her. She stuffed them into a plastic net-bag she took from her purse. When she presented herself at the door of the restaurant, she appeared in more Western attire, although still having the distinctive flavor of Islamic culture.
She ordered a breakfast of Turkish breads, meats, and cheeses, and requested a copy of the International Herald Tribune. She scanned the headlines and articles. At the top of the news, Saddam Hussein, the dictator of Iraq for decades, still ruled Kuwait with an iron hand. Reports of his troops’ looting and raping were widespread.
Sofia knew the history. Saddam had long maintained that Kuwait rightfully belonged to Iraq as another province. The royal family in Kuwait had ceded defense and foreign policy to the British near the beginning of the twentieth century, and the country had regained its independence in 1961. Over the intervening years, Kuwait had grown its petroleum industry, and had become a wealthy country.
According to an article, a major section of Kuwait’s oil fields bordered those of Iraq’s Ramallah. Hussein accused Kuwait of slant-drilling and siphoning petroleum from Ramallah. He demanded ten billion dollars in reparations. When Kuwait paid only nine billion, Hussein used the underpayment as a pretext to annex Kuwait and invaded. US President George H. W. Bush pledged military support and organized a coalition of thirty-three nations to expel Iraq from Kuwait. Full combat operations by the US and its coalition were imminent.
Sofia shook her head
. What a world. She scanned other articles. Then her attention riveted on an article in the center of the front page, below the fold.
US Ambassador and Berlin Mayor to Welcome US Businessman
Ambassador McCay and Mayor Schneider will welcome Eduardo Xiquez to Berlin today for discussions regarding potentially opening a manufacturing plant in the city. Xiquez is a minor celebrity in the United States, having been honored by former President Ronald Reagan in a State of the Union Address. Reagan introduced him to the nation as “Atcho,” his code-name during his days of fighting Castro in Cuba. He is the chairman of Advance Power Source Technologies, a Texas-based company that manufactures an alternative to batteries. His units are reported to be lighter, more efficient, and more cost-effective. The United States’ defense industry is a major customer. The technology to produce the power source is highly classified. Many hurdles exist to locating a plant in Berlin. US NATO allies are anxious to apply the product in their equipment. Having such a facility located in central Europe would accelerate availability and shipping time at a lower price. Xiquez is expected to tour various places in Berlin for the next three days. He might extend his European trip to visit sites in other NATO countries. Experts say that the power source is a game-changer in war fighting because of its much lighter weight and greater reliability, crucial to smooth communications and targeting systems. In particular, the technology is better able to deal with extreme temperatures as will be experienced in upcoming combat operations in Kuwait.
Her heart in her mouth, Sofia read and re-read the article. Talk about exposing Atcho! She was suddenly furious with Burly for recruiting him, with Atcho for accepting the mission, and with Tony Collins for providing so much key information. If Klaus intends to hit Atcho at home, now he knows where to look. We’ll need heavy duty security for the rest of our lives. In Berlin, Atcho’s a sitting duck.
