by Lee Jackson
She forced herself to moderate her breathing and calm down. It’s done. Focus on helping. She put the paper down and observed her surroundings. Where would Klaus get medical attention? She called the waiter over. “My family is staying in the city temporarily, and my husband needs a doctor. Can you ask the owner or manager if he would come speak with me to recommend one?”
“My father is the owner,” the young man said. “I can send you to our family physician. Let me get the address.” He left and came back with a note. Sofia read it aloud for correctness and a few minutes later, she left.
She found the doctor’s office. The room was crowded with patients wearing various versions of Middle-Eastern garb. “I’m looking for specialized treatment for my husband,” she told the young woman at the front desk. “He was wounded in Kuwait, and his shoulder needs reconstructing. Does the doctor here do that kind of treatment?”
The answer was no, but the attendant gave her a list of Turkish surgeons who might specialize in reconstructive surgery. Sofia moved about Little Istanbul, modifying her appearance as she went, to blend in with the surrounding population. She stopped in several of the surgeons’ offices on the list, asking the same question in each one. “Has the doctor performed reconstruction on a shoulder demolished by a gunshot wound?”
Her quest took most of the day. Before entering each office, she took a quick glance at the patients in the waiting room, and then found somewhere to modify her appearance to reflect them as much as possible. Then, she waited patiently for her turn to speak to the attendant at the front desk. As the day wore on, she embellished her story and her emotional expression, morphing into a sympathetic figure suffering from the war in Kuwait with a terribly wounded husband. She emphasized that she preferred an Islamic surgeon because she did not want an infidel touching him.
That evening, having struck out, she sat in her room to reassess. What if all Klaus did was stop his bleeding and close the wound without reconstructing the shoulder? If so, any doctor could have treated him—or first-aid could have been applied by anyone with a bit of competence. That would complicate the search.
She pushed the thought from her mind. Stay on this thread until it’s exhausted. There can’t be many surgeons who’ve done that type of procedure.
The second day yielded no better results. Exhausted from walking the streets for two days, she flopped on her bed, turned on the television, and roamed to a news station. Then she sat up in bed abruptly and stared at the screen.
In clear relief, the US ambassador stood in the office of the mayor of Berlin. They beamed at the cameras as they shook hands with a man standing between them. Then the cameras zoomed in for a close-up of all three. The caption at the bottom of the screen read, “Berlin Welcomes Atcho.”
9
Klaus groaned as Dr. Burakgazi pressed on his right shoulder. “It’s still painful.”
“The surgery was successful though. You’ve made a lot of progress since November—that’s only been a little over two months. I’m encouraged that you’re getting your strength back. That will increase with physical therapy. Shoulder replacement surgery is not easy, but it is common these days. You should have come to us as soon as you injured it.”
Klaus shrugged. “And I should’ve been born rich. I didn’t know about you then. I wasn’t high enough in the Communist Party. If the Wall hadn’t come down, I wouldn’t have known about this treatment.”
Dr. Burakgazi prodded Klaus’ shoulder again. “Let’s check the range of motion. Be patient, keep working your muscles regularly but not too much. You’ll return to near normal use.” While speaking, he lifted Klaus’ arm and moved it gently through circular motions. “You’re healing well. Thank Allah for his mercies.”
He cleared his throat and stepped back, clearly changing the subject. “Listen, there is a lady from Kuwait staying in Berlin. Her husband was wounded in Kuwait and he needs shoulder surgery. A colleague called me about her today. He wanted to know if he should refer her to me. He told the woman about your surgery and that I was the premier Muslim surgeon in Berlin in this specialty. She requested to speak with you so that she could explain to her husband what to expect. She told my friend that she has gone to all the Muslim surgeons she could find in Berlin. She will only go to an infidel doctor as a last resort.”
“Sounds like a good Muslim woman. Why hasn’t she come to you yet?”
Burakgazi shrugged. “I understand she’s working from a list. She’s visiting doctors’ offices personally. My name must be near the bottom. After my colleague’s recommendation, she’ll be here tomorrow or the next day. Her husband must be highly ranked to travel to Berlin to get the care he needs.”
“If she stops in, and you think it makes sense, I don’t mind meeting with her.”
Burakgazi completed his examination. Klaus put his shirt back on. He started to leave but stopped at the door. “Doctor, what do you think of this war in Kuwait? Which side do you support?”
Burakgazi sighed. “That’s a tough one. You’re Sunni, aren’t you?” Klaus nodded. “So am I,” the doctor continued. “Kuwait is mainly Sunni, and so is Saddam Hussein and his party. But most of Iraq is Shia. Iran is Shia, and this whole mess was caused when Iraq invaded Iran in 1980 and started that bloody war. At the end of it, Saddam owed billions in loans from Saudi Arabia and Kuwait. He was furious when they refused to forgive the debt.
“You know he also claimed that Kuwait belonged to Iraq as a province. I’ve looked at the history. Saddam had no claim on Kuwait, but by making that nine-billion-dollar payment, Kuwait all but admitted that it stole Iraq’s oil. And don’t forget that Kuwait had been underselling OPEC pricing. Saddam claimed that cost him billions.”
“He has a point about who owns Kuwait,” Klaus responded. “Way back when, Kuwait was part of Iraq’s Basra Province.”
“Well, like you said, way back when, before the British created Iraq with lines on a map, and before the royal family in Kuwait ceded foreign policy to the British.”
Klaus nodded. “As you say, it’s a mess.” He sighed. “Let me ask the question a different way. How would Islam be best served? By Kuwait winning or by Iraq winning?”
The surgeon peered at him closely. “I’m not sure. I’m a doctor and took an oath to do no harm. Saddam is a monster. He treats his people in ways that hurt to think about. I’ve met some of his victims. One soldier was taken to prison because a member of the secret police on the street overheard him complaining that the price of tea was so high. At the time, Saddam could not afford to pay the army. They tortured that soldier, and one day they forced him to watch dead prisoners being pushed through a meat grinder.” He stopped talking as unwelcome visions of the horror invaded his mind.
Klaus studied his face. “The Kuwaitis are no angels either. And don’t forget that the US supported Iraq against Iran. They only did it to weaken Iran. Before that, the Soviet Union supported Iraq.”
“True. And not long ago, Kuwait’s people were a poor tribe in the desert. Now they are drunk with oil riches. Kuwaitis don’t work—they import foreign labor and have servants for everything. But that’s not the same as torturing people.”
Klaus weighed the doctor’s comment. “I see that.” He contemplated a moment. “Getting back to my question, take it from another angle. How is the infidel most harmed, by Iraq winning, or by Kuwait winning?”
Burakgazi took a seat on his stool next to the examining table. He shook his head slowly. “I really don’t know. I suppose if Saddam wins, he can continue to shake his fist at the West. That would deprive the West of an ally in the region.”
“A traitorous ally,” Klaus muttered scornfully. “Saddam has the fourth largest army in the world. President Bush won’t commit ground troops. He’s afraid of another Vietnam, and the American people have no stomach for another prolonged war. All this buildup is just a show of force.
“Bush gave Saddam a five-day ultimatum to leave or face combat. Like the lion of the desert that he is,
Saddam stayed. You’ll see, in a few more weeks, the US will withdraw, and Iraq will still own Kuwait.”
“I’m not so sure,” Burakgazi said doubtfully. “Bush is a combat veteran, and look what he did in Panama last year. He’s been very careful in how he’s built up forces in Saudi Arabia to fight Saddam.”
Klaus mulled. “Iraq needs a game-changer,” he muttered.
“A game-changer? What do you mean?”
“Never mind, I was thinking out loud.”
“Well,” Burakgazi continued, “if Iraq keeps Kuwait, Saddam will own one-fifth of the world’s oil supply and threaten Saudi Arabia. The US will never allow that.”
“Saudi Arabia,” Klaus growled, his voice thick with disdain. “They defile Islam by selling out to infidels for oil riches and letting them put military bases on the sacred Arabian Peninsula. If Allah wills it, and I pray that he does, Saddam will win this fight in Kuwait, and then roll over the top of Saudi Arabia.” He started for the door again. “Thank you for a very interesting discussion, Doctor.” He left, calling back over his shoulder. “Let me know about that woman, when she wants to meet.”
10
That same day, Atcho arrived in Berlin. He did not care for the spotlight. He had endured it once before under coercion when Ronald Reagan honored him at the State of the Union Address, but he shunned publicity as much as he could. Therefore, when he descended onto the tarmac from a private jet in the general aviation section of the Berlin Tegel "Otto Lilienthal" Airport, he steeled himself to appear relaxed and affable. He knew that an official welcoming delegation would greet him, but when US Ambassador McCay showed up with a gaggle of reporters and television crews, the effort to be gracious was more than he had expected.
McCay escorted him to a waiting limousine and whisked him to the main embassy compound. “You understand that you’re getting royal treatment,” McCay told him. “Ordinarily, an ambassador wouldn’t come to greet a businessman at the airport. But I understand that raising your visibility for a classified purpose is the intent, with German cooperation. I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks for your courtesy.”
“I read up on your company, so I know it’s bona fide and impressive. Are you really considering opening a plant here?”
Atcho smiled blandly. “Our hands are full, servicing the markets we have. But who knows? We might do it someday if sufficient demand is there, and the timing and finance came together.”
McCay nodded. “Well, the articles covering your arrival and the stated reason were published this morning in major newspapers in multiple languages. You’ll have a long interview tomorrow morning on the US Armed Forces Network, and you’ll have at least one televised interview each day for three days. Those will be more like informal press updates. All of those interviews will be shared on German television multiple times a day. By the second or third day, everyone in Berlin should know your name and face.” He shook his head. “That’s probably not an enviable position. I hope we can keep you safe and that your risk is worth it.”
Atcho was touched by the ambassador’s humanity. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your concern.”
“There’ll be a reception in your honor this evening, and Mayor Schneider will be there. That’s to be consistent with the attention you’re getting. The real show starts tomorrow morning with the interview. Between now and the reception tonight, relax and enjoy yourself. The next few days are not likely to be fun.”
They arrived at the embassy. Self-important assistants bustled about, opening doors and taking his bags. A few reporters jammed microphones in his direction and yelled questions. Atcho waved at them with a smile he did not feel and followed the ambassador through the main door. Another group of attendants waited inside. Then, he caught sight of a man who made him smile for real.
At the end of the hall, a US Army major in a dress-blue uniform stood with a huge grin on his face. When his eyes met Atcho’s, he pulled his face into a serious expression and moved his eyes from side to side as if checking to see if anyone was observing him.
Atcho knew the major could not care less. “Major Joe Horton,” he exclaimed in a command voice, and held out his hand. “Why are you all dressed up?”
“It’s about time you got here, sir,” the major responded. “I’ve been standing here waiting for at least,” he looked at his watch, “two minutes.” He broke into a grin again. “Good to see you, Atcho. As for this monkey suit, I got to escort you to that soirée.” He intoned the last word with a dose of sarcasm in a heavy Texas accent, and then turned to the ambassador. “I got him from here, sir, unless you have something else right now.”
McCay shook his head, clearly amused at the interplay. “Nothing now. I’ll see you both at the reception.”
Atcho thanked McCay and followed Horton from the foyer. “Let’s get someplace where we can talk,” Horton said. “How’s the little lady?”
“Independent as ever,” Atcho replied. “I’ll tell you more when we’re in a secure location.”
“You mean we gotta talk quietly about what she’s doing too?” He looked up at the ceiling as if pleading for sanity. “What have you got yourself into this time, Atcho? When they said you needed my help, I said hell no, I won’t go ’cuz I like living.” He led Atcho through a door into a conference room. “We’re good here. This place is secure.”
They sat across from each other at the table. Atcho studied his friend’s face. He had not changed in any way that Atcho could detect. “I see that you have at least three more wrinkles under your eyes.”
“Yes sir,” Horton replied stone-faced. “That’s from laughing so hard about your screwups last time you were here.” His face broke into its characteristic grin. “Now are you going to fill me in, or are we going to sit and gab all day?”
To Atcho, Horton was a one-of-a-kind, a maverick, a stocky Texan who was proud to be one and enjoyed exaggerating the accent. He had entered military service in the enlisted ranks, fought in the swamps of Vietnam as a foot soldier, traveled that country on loan to the CIA for special missions, and advised the Montagnard tribes in Vietnam’s central highlands. He could be singularly irreverent and respectful at the same time, an aspect that sometimes bewildered his superiors. But he was the man they wanted at their side in a firefight.
Two years ago, he had been assigned as a team leader to the Berlin Brigade’s Flag Tours, special intelligence assets that roamed East Berlin. Ostensibly, they enforced the travel and accessibility rights accorded by the Four Powers Treaty that governed post-WWII Berlin. In reality, all such teams gathered intelligence. In effect, they were legal spies.
Horton had rescued Atcho out of East Berlin at a time when they both could have been shot, before the Wall came down. At Atcho’s request, Horton had been assigned to assist in a mission that led in part to opening the Wall. With his tenacity, experience, and knowledge of Berlin and the German language, there was no one Atcho would rather have backing him.
“Sofia was thrilled that you’re working with me. I don’t know how she’d feel about your still calling her ‘little lady.’ She might smack you.”
Horton’s eyes grew wide. “Well then don’t tell her. I sure as hell don’t want her coming after me.”
The truth was that Sofia loved Horton. She had seen him bring out a rare side of Atcho that could relax, laugh, and even crack jokes.
Horton had met Sofia and Atcho in Berlin. He knew Sofia’s capabilities from personal experience.
“Where’s Miss Sofia now?” he inquired.
“We don’t know.” Atcho related what had transpired between Sofia and Burly. He went into detail about Klaus and the lone nuclear bomb still outside of the control of authorities. He also recounted what they’d learned from the videos.
“I’m here to draw Klaus into the open,” Atcho concluded.
Horton listened intently. “So that’s why all the special attention,” he said. “I wondered, ’cuz you sure didn’t earn it.” He broke into his wide grin. “Wo
uld you do me a favor, sir? Would you and Sofia invite me over for dinner sometime? Just a nice dinner with no excitement.” He chuckled. “I could use the peace and quiet.”
Atcho laughed. “You’re welcome any time, Joe.”
Horton looked at him through squinted eyes. “Be sure to have a fresh bottle of cognac.” He pronounced it “cony-ak.” “I like my cognac.” He leaned back, spread his legs apart, and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “I got read in on the plan this morning, and I gave my guys a warning order. They’re ready. It’s a little easier moving around in Berlin now. We can use civilian cars instead of those olive-drab sedans we had, and we don’t have to wear uniforms.
“We’ll shadow everywhere you go. We’ll augment the normal security that surrounds the ambassador and the mayor. We’ll be invisible, but, and this is a big but, when you’re not with him or the mayor, you won’t have their security.” He grinned. “Then it’ll just be me and my guys. As far as anybody watching will know, you’ll be traveling solo. That’ll leave you exposed.”
“That’s the idea.”
Joe scrunched his mouth and shrugged. “OK, it’s your neck.”
“That’s what you told me going into Stasi headquarters last year.”
“You mean that night you almost got me killed?” He rubbed his left thigh. “Ooh, that wound still smarts sometimes. You made me screw up my perfect score on the PT test. Any idea where Sofia is?”
Atcho nodded. “She’s a logical thinker. She’ll come to the same conclusion we did, that Klaus is probably still in Berlin, or that he’ll come to Berlin when he knows that I’m here.”
Horton nodded. “He was sore at you for killing his brother. He won’t let that go.”
