by Lee Jackson
“You’re the guy that shot out his shoulder. You’d think he’d be mad at you too.”
“He never saw me.”
“Anyway, back to Sofia, my guess is she came here operating as a free agent.”
“Makes sense. I’ll have my guys keep an eye out for her. If we spot her, I’ll tell them not to engage, but to call for reinforcements.” His eyes twinkled. “All we got here is the Berlin Brigade. Do ya think that’ll be enough?”
Atcho smiled. “If you spot her, let me know. I expect to hear from her soon.”
“All right. What do we do next?”
“Not much. Sit tight and go through the motions the next couple of days until something breaks loose.”
The reception that evening was uneventful, with no more nor less news coverage than would have been present at any black-tie gala attended by public officials. Atcho mingled awkwardly and forced himself to stand his ground when he saw cameras aimed his direction. Fortunately, he had no press inquiries to deal with that evening.
The next morning, he sat with Ambassador McCay and Mayor Schneider for the AFN interview. When it was over, McCay and Schneider returned to normal duties while a few business leaders hosted Atcho on tours of potential sites for the proposed manufacturing facility.
Late that afternoon, Atcho and Horton reconvened in another secure room of the embassy, this one set up to address their specific needs. “We saw nothing unusual,” Horton reported. “I hope those business types don’t get wind that this is all for show. They’ll be all over you like bees on honey, only their stingers’ll be more like claws. They went all out to impress you.”
“I know, and they’re already offering incentives. Wouldn’t that be crazy if real business comes out of this?”
11
The next morning, Klaus walked into a barbershop in Little Istanbul. Dr. Burakgazi had called late the evening before.
“The lady we spoke about yesterday came in after you left. Her name is Ranim Kuti. She’s very concerned that her husband has gone too long without surgery. She said she could come tomorrow afternoon, if you can be here.”
Klaus had agreed. He came to the barbershop to ensure he made himself presentable. A number of customers were ahead of him. He picked up an Arabic language newspaper and scanned the top headline.
The article reported on the Iraq-Kuwait war. Iraq had consolidated its control of Kuwait, but pockets of resistance still existed. Saddam’s troops had been merciless in quelling opposition. Even when Kuwaitis submitted, whether soldier or civilian, they were treated with the cruelest humiliations and tortures. Homes were confiscated, wives and daughters raped and taken for slaves, and household goods looted to be carted off to Iraq or sold. Thousands of people were executed.
In retaliation, the world community, including much of the Arab region, sided with Kuwait in condemning Saddam. For his part, the strongman ruler remained pugnacious, maintaining his right to annex Kuwait, take its oil, and be unrepentant.
The article went on to report that US military staging in the region was reaching critical mass. Combat operations to oust Saddam were imminent.
Klaus read the piece with interest but without emotional attachment to either side. He had never tortured anyone but had done his share of killing, and he saw an element of reason in Saddam’s argument—if Kuwait had indeed stolen Iraq’s oil, then they should be made to pay. The price seems high, but if Kuwait had paid the money, this war could have been avoided.
He looked up from reading to check on the progress of those ahead of him. Several customers still had to be served, so he scanned further down the page. He found an article just below the fold titled, “US Ambassador and Berlin Mayor to Welcome US Businessman Xiquez.” He started reading, and then his eyes grew large as they locked in on the word, “Atcho.” Fury welled inside him. He took several deep breaths and started reading the article again from the beginning. When he had finished, he looked wildly about, ripped out the article and stuffed it in his pocket. He got up to leave but paused to check the date of the newspaper. It was published the day before. Atcho is already here.
Klaus left the barbershop and hurried back to the apartment. He turned on the television and tuned in to one of the news stations—and then another, and another... In frustration, he turned to the US Armed Forces Network. Usually the reception was weak because it was intended to serve those areas where US military members and their dependents lived. It broadcast on a low power transmitter, but sometimes the signal extended beyond intended limits.
Today, the channel was clear, and there onscreen, sitting in a discussion with Mayor Schneider, US Ambassador McCay, and a moderator, was Atcho himself. Klaus stared in disbelief and sucked in his breath. Shaking with anger, he reached over and turned up the volume.
“...but it’s a fairly new technology,” Atcho was saying. “I was fortunate to become acquainted with the company as it emerged from infancy. I’m pleased to help it grow.”
“It seems you’ve done a good job,” the moderator interjected. “I’ve heard the technology described as a game-changer on the battlefield. Is that true?”
Atcho appeared to choose his words carefully. “I don’t want to overstate, but our units should have a positive effect. When you think of the weather extremes that our forces will meet in Kuwait if fighting extends into summer months, a power source that continues to operate reliably in those temperatures might make the difference in securing a military objective.
“Interchangeability between multiple pieces of equipment means that fewer spare units must be carried. Add the weight savings resulting from a lighter source and the increased range might be enough to tip the scales in a battle, not to mention operational cost savings.
“Then throw in fewer communications or computer breakdowns from overheat or battery expiration. That translates into better intelligence collection, analysis, and decision making. It means more heavy munitions delivered on target. Yeah, we think our little piece of technology can make a difference.”
Mayor Schneider sat quietly listening to the discussion. “You’re talking over my head,” he said in English with a Germanic accent. “I’m not a military man. I don’t understand military discussions. But I do understand commerce and jobs, and as you know we are working hard to absorb our cousins from the former East Germany. I know that the Pentagon is enthusiastic about your product, and our European defense industry shows great interest. How many jobs do you think could be generated if you were to install a plant here?”
“Let me take Mr. Xiquez off the hot seat,” the ambassador broke in. “By the way, Americans fondly call him Atcho.
“We don’t know the answer to your question, but that’s why Atcho is here. As chairman of his company, he’ll be meeting with various defense officials to assess the demand. He’ll also tour sites where manufacturing assets exist. He’ll see vacant properties for building new facilities. We think the project could be good for Germany, Berlin, the US, and our allies.”
“That sounds great,” the moderator interjected. “I hope you’ll keep us informed of your progress.”
The interview continued. Klaus snapped off the television. He sat staring at the blank screen for an indefinite time, livid, shaking. He breathed in short gasps. Every ounce of anger and hatred he had known on that fateful night when he found his brother Etzel’s limp body surged through him. He left the apartment to take a walk, and to think.
For the next two hours, Klaus roamed the streets. His mind was too numb to conduct any deliberate thought but gradually his pace slowed, and his mind calmed. Impulsiveness kills. He stopped in a café to rest. While drinking tea, he decided to take a day to absorb the implications of Atcho’s arrival back in Berlin.
He glanced at his watch, remembering he had promised Dr. Burakgazi that he would come by to speak with Ranim Kuti. That was in twenty minutes. He paid his bill and hurried to keep the appointment.
Sofia sat in a crowded tearoom situated where she could observe the approaches to Dr. Bur
akgazi’s office. She dressed in the garb of moderately fundamental sects of the Muslim religion. Her face was partially covered.
Pedestrian traffic was fairly thick, so keeping effective watch over everyone who entered the building was difficult. She finally gave up the effort, left the café, and hurried to Burakgazi’s office. On arrival, instead of checking in at the reception desk, she sat among the waiting patients, looking as obscure as possible.
She had been there twenty minutes when a man entered. Before approaching the receptionist’s desk, he surveyed the room.
Sofia’s heart beat faster. She felt her palms moisten. She averted her eyes, but she had already taken a quick glance at him. He was the right height and build for Klaus, but he was dressed in a business suit and his hair and beard were trimmed. Nevertheless, she was sure it was him.
Klaus’ eyes passed over her and the other patients in the room. Then he announced himself to the secretary. “Oh yes,” the young woman said, “the doctor is expecting you.” She stood and gestured for Klaus to follow.
As soon as he disappeared into the inner offices, Sofia hurried back to the tearoom. She asked to use the phone, called the doctor’s receptionist, and made apologies for not being able to keep the appointment. She gave no reason.
She waited. Five minutes later, she saw Klaus leave the office building. He looked angry and walked at a swift pace. She followed at a safe distance.
Klaus seethed. Not only had he read the news and seen the television report about Atcho’s arrival in Berlin and suffered through all the bad memories and feelings that they conjured up, but he had also been stood up for a meeting that he had agreed to as a courtesy. I even cleaned up for it. Most infuriating about the broken appointment was that he had gone to Burakgazi’s office out of respect for a Muslim fighter. In Klaus’ mind, the wounded man was on the wrong side of the fight, but he was a Muslim who had placed himself in harm’s way for what he believed was right.
He reached the street, paused to check his surroundings, and started walking in the direction of his apartment complex at his normal fast pace. He passed a tearoom close to the office building and on a quick look inside, he noticed a woman whom he had seen a few minutes ago in the doctor’s reception room.
The apartment was a good mile away. At the moment, all Klaus wanted was to get to a quiet place where he could lie down and think.
As was his habit, he stopped to look into shop windows or admire elements of the city as he continued toward his destination. When he did, he routinely looked back in the direction he had come. This time, he saw a woman stopped in front of a store viewing items in the window. Her headdress was similar to the lady’s in the doctor’s office and the tearoom, but he could not be certain she was the same person. The woman he had seen had been sitting both times. He abruptly retraced his steps.
Sofia watched Klaus pass in front of the tearoom. She waited a few moments and then followed from a healthy distance. She noticed he was alert and practiced at watching for surveillance, glancing into shops and stores, and sweeping his vision into the street, along the opposite sidewalk, and back again. He stopped in front of a shop.
Sofia halted too, in front of a women’s apparel boutique. She stepped close to the display window and stared at the array of shoes, handbags, and accessories. From the corner of her eye, she saw Klaus walking again—toward her. Keeping a nonchalant demeanor, she entered the store. It was small and longer than it was wide. Sofia headed to the rear.
A door blocked passage into the storage area. She tried the handle. It was locked. She looked back to the front. A tall, round freestanding rack of scarves and other accessories set near the front counter to the right of the entry, about ten feet inside the door.
Sofia moved next to the display so that it blocked the view of her from the door. Just as she did, she heard a bell announcing someone’s entry. Her heart raced. She moved farther around the rack. A woman emerged from the other side examining merchandise. Sofia breathed a sigh of relief.
The door at the rear opened. An officious-looking woman entered. She walked directly up to Sofia. “Did you need something? I saw you on our surveillance monitor. You tried the door into our storage area.”
“Ah yes,” Sofia said, a cold tone in her voice. She spoke in deliberately broken English with an Arabic accent. She reached into her purse and pulled out an official-looking ID with Arabic writing. “I’m here from the mosque to do a quick check to see that the clothing you sell meets the standards required for Muslim women. I won’t bother your customers in the front but take me into the back and let me check the inventory.”
The manager looked at her in alarm. “Of course, we always try to accommodate our Muslim customers. What would you like to see?” She headed toward the back of the store. Sofia followed her.
When they entered the storage area, Sofia closed the door behind them and headed to an outside exit at the back of the building. Without saying a word, she slipped through, leaving the store manager looking bewildered. Finding herself in an alley, Sofia paralleled the street in the same direction she had been going when Klaus saw her.
The passage was long and dark, casting gloom along its length. Sofia stopped in the deepest shadows long enough to rip off her full-length skirt and loose upper body covering. Underneath, she wore fashionably torn denims and a heavy sweater. She exchanged her high heels for a pair of flats pulled from her purse. Then, she removed her head covering, tied her hair into a quick bun with another scarf, and put a pair of sunglasses over her eyes. She pulled a light bag from her purse, jammed the items in, and threw it over her shoulder. The transformation took all of two minutes. Then she hurried to the end of the alley.
Making her way back onto the street, she crossed to the opposite side and headed back toward the store, watching the area to its front. She spotted Klaus under a tree, ostensibly reading a newspaper. She sat on a bench in the shade well back from the edge of the street, where she could observe without being easily seen.
Ten minutes passed. Klaus entered the store. He remained only a few minutes before re-emerging. He looked about and proceeded in his previous direction.
Sofia followed, ensuring that something was always between them that would inhibit his view of her. Whenever his head turned too far toward the street, she paused. Fortunately, a large number of people walked in the same direction.
Klaus took a side street. Sofia maintained her direction of travel, but as she crossed the intersection crowded with other pedestrians, she took a quick glance the way Klaus had gone. It led into Little Istanbul. Klaus stood against the wall a few yards down the street, lighting a cigarette while facing her direction.
Sofia kept walking. Whether or not Klaus spotted her again, she could only guess. She went to the next intersection, turned right, and doubled back to where she had last seen Klaus. He was no longer there.
Klaus was angry with himself. Was that woman really following me? He had no idea. Her departure from the doctor’s office and being in the tearoom close by seemed questionable. Maybe she just went to get a drink while she waited. He was not even sure she was the same woman he had seen in front of the dress shop. And where did she go? He had gone inside and queried the girl behind the counter. The clerk had seen the woman he described, but simply remarked, “She left,” without offering further comment. When Klaus pressed, the girl merely shrugged her shoulders.
Admittedly, Klaus had become engrossed in an article while conducting surveillance. Did I miss her? On turning off the main street, he lit a cigarette. His real reason for pausing was to observe pedestrians crossing the street. Several unaccompanied women went by. None resembled the woman he had seen.
As he trudged back to the apartment, he thought through the events of the day, acknowledging that he might be allowing unmerited anxiety to take hold. Can’t do that.
He had been thinking overtime about what to do with his bombs and had considered several alternatives. One in particular had developed. The more he tho
ught about it, the better he liked it. Since his entry into West Berlin with the great crowds, he had worked alone. He lived in an apartment with others, but he had never divulged his secrets, and insofar as he could tell, none had been discovered.
The truth was, although his cohabitants respected him, they feared him. They knew his capabilities. They saw him in action the night his brother was killed.
The men had been generous in providing shelter. They had arranged for the nurse to care for him during his convalescence. But Klaus recalled that Etzel had once admonished, “They won’t do us much good in a real fight.” Klaus had to agree. They had demonstrated that in the firefight with Atcho.
The thought of Atcho set off another round of anger. And that Ranim Kuti woman wasted my time.
After Klaus’ initial frustration wore off, he sat back in his apartment to think. He was not a believer in coincidence. One that seemed to have occurred was the almost simultaneous acquisition of his nuclear material and Atcho’s appearance in Berlin.
He tried to think through how the two events could be linked. He knew about electronic surveillance, and he had made phone calls—many phone calls—but his calls had been mundane conversations about his shoulder, and inquiries about the type of medical treatments available. He had steered clear of keywords that surveillance would zero in on, like “bomb” or “nuclear.”
The trips to France and Moscow had required telephonic discussions to make reservations and move money. The last sum he had moved had been very large, totaling over a million dollars. That could have tripped something.
A thought flashed through his mind. The plutonium. For a month, the arms dealer in Moscow, Rostislav, had worked to supply Klaus with the nuclear material he would need. Could Western electronic surveillance have picked up Rostislav’s conversations?
