The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Detective Berger stood. “I’ll make the phone call. Our detectives will be combing the shops today.”

  “Tell them to put a burn on,” Atcho said. “If Klaus left Berlin, he’s on his way to his targets.” Berger nodded and left the room. “If Klaus acquired more plutonium,” Atcho went on, “he only had a few sources that could provide it. India, France, and Pakistan wouldn’t sell it to him, and neither would the US or the Brits. He might try China or North Korea, but then he has the problem of delivery. That leaves the Soviet Union, which is where we believe Yermolov got the original nuclear material. They’ve been lax on securing their stockpiles.” He edged closer to the speakerphone. “Burly, do we have assets in Moscow or elsewhere in the Soviet Union to run that down? Maybe it’s time to go to the president and get him to have a conversation with Gorbachev. Once we have that answer, we might be able to stop speculating about whether or not he has more bombs.”

  “We can do that,” Burly responded, “but even if we find that out, we still don’t know where he is or where he’s going. Somewhere, he left a trail.”

  As he spoke, Berger returned and took his seat.

  “How about this?” Horton cut in. “We’ve been looking at this guy like he’s a foot soldier. We’ve checked commercial flights, train stations, car rentals, blah, blah, blah. But he’s operating in a new class. He’s got millions to throw around and no one to answer to. If you were a rich man and needed to get out of town fast, how would you go?” He switched his attention to Berger. “Are there any private jet charter services that operate on the fringe of the law?”

  “Good thought,” Berger said. “To borrow an American expression, I’m on it.” He rose to leave again. “We’ll take his photo to every charter service, big or small, and find out where every flight went in the last month.”

  “You work that end,” Gerhardt told Berger. “I’ll contact the LBA and get their records for the same time period.” He also rose to leave. “That’s the Luftfahrt-Bundesamt,” he explained to the others, “the German equivalent of the FAA.”

  “Bring the hammer down,” Horton called after him. “The fox is sniffin’ out the coop, if you get my drift.” He did not smile.

  “All right,” Burly said. “What are Klaus’ possible targets? He’ll want the most bang for his buck, and it’ll be a target that in his mind, forwards Islam.”

  “The most obvious one right now is Kuwait,” Sofia replied, “but getting into any of the war zone countries is difficult. Air surveillance is tight, there are checkpoints along all roads, and travel documents to get in and out of there are checked and double-checked.”

  “We’ve got a BOLO with his photo at all major commands in Saudi Arabia and the countries in the war zone, down to troop level,” Burly interjected. “Getting in there would be particularly tough for him.”

  “So where else could he go?” Sofia asked.

  “Pretty much anywhere,” Atcho muttered.

  The room descended again into silence. Gerhardt returned. “I spoke with the managing director of the LBA. He promised a list of all chartered flights originating in Germany for the last thirty days. I’ll have it within an hour.” Atcho filled him in on the current discussion about potential targets.

  “If Kuwait is his target, he’s likely to be frustrated when the war ends faster than he expected,” Gerhardt observed. “The US and coalition air campaign is the greatest in history. It’s obliterating Saddam’s war-fighting capability. He’s threatening to set the oilfields on fire. What other targets should we be considering?”

  Burly sighed audibly over the phone. “You all tussle with that. I’m going to see the national security adviser. I’ll recommend that the president call Gorbachev immediately about where that plutonium could have originated.”

  17

  Heraklion, Crete, January 22, 1991

  Klaus viewed the news channels in astounded silence. They reported that Saddam Hussein had just set fire to the Al-Wafra oil wells in southern Kuwait and the oil storage facilities at the Shuaiba and Mina Abdullah refineries. The Iraqi dictator threatened to set ablaze wells along the coast to frustrate amphibious landings.

  Klaus watched, enthralled, and flipped through channels until he found one that reported in a language he understood, English. It reported the US reaction to the fires. He had not heard of the expert being interviewed, but the lettering at the bottom identified him as “Dr. Carl Sagan, Professor at Cornell University.”

  The professor said that if carried far enough, the smoke from the burning oilfields could disrupt agriculture across South Asia and darken skies around the world. "You need only a very small lowering of average temperatures in the Northern Hemisphere to have serious consequences for agriculture.”

  The report went on to state that other experts thought hundreds of wells would have to be set on fire to cause such a cataclysmic global event. Sagan agreed. However, UCLA scientist Richard Turco compared the potential for disaster to the 1815 explosion of the Tambora volcano in Indonesia. It spewed sufficient ash and debris into the skies to make 1816 the "year without summer" in the United States. It caused crop failures in other parts of the world.

  The segment of the report ended with Turco stating that even with hundreds of oil wells burning, the climatic disruptions would not reach to the level of a "nuclear winter" as Sagan described to Congress. “So far,” the journalist said, “only a few wells are burning in Kuwait, and even if Saddam set them all on fire, a much greater force would be required to bring about that nightmarish scenario.”

  Klaus listened, mesmerized. He felt simultaneously elated and humbled, as though the report had been placed to speak directly to him—as if it manifestly directed him to his mission. Saddam Hussein had created the opportunity to effect devastation across the globe to further Islam, and I have the means. His eyes burned with purpose. I can rain death and destruction on infidels the world over a thousand times worse than what they brought on the people of Islam.

  Early the next morning in Berlin, Atcho et al met again in the secure offices at Berlin Brigade headquarters. The air bristled with electricity as information was shared.

  Burly led off over the speaker from his office in DC. “The president is furious that Saddam lit those oil-well fires. If the lunatic dictator does more of that, he could spark a widespread ecological disaster.

  “Regarding the plutonium, the president spoke with Gorbachev—reluctantly because the information we provided is scant, not confirmed, and the Soviet Union is a big place. But he asked the general secretary if it were possible that a small amount of plutonium could have escaped to the black market and been delivered in France during this past summer. Gorbachev agreed to investigate. He’s not anxious for loose bombs to go off around the world either.”

  “I have news,” Gerhardt broke in. He controlled his excitement with difficulty. “Our analysts went over the list of flights originating out of Germany provided by the LBA. We concentrated on those departing one of the airports around Berlin. We found one which we handed off to Detective Berger.” He turned to Berger. “Tell them.”

  “A flight originated in Berlin and flew to the Greek island of Crete and returned. We spoke with the pilot. He was evasive at first, but as Major Horton so colorfully put it, we brought the hammer down. There was one passenger on the flight and the pilot positively identified him as Klaus. He had five identical suitcases and a small overnight bag. The passport was issued to an alias. Most important is that when Klaus arrived to get on the aircraft, he wanted to go to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Crete was supposed to be a refueling stop, but on the way down, Klaus decided to terminate the flight there.”

  Gerhardt continued where Berger left off. “Greece is part of NATO. We cut through those established communication lines and found the hotel Klaus stayed in. He’s there now. We already sent a team to question the lady who checked him in. She said that he kept to himself, was not unpleasant, and seemed to have in mind to stay a few weeks.”

  �
��Can we take him?” Atcho interrupted.

  Gerhardt shook his head. “The European Union isn’t formed yet,” he said with an air of frustration. “We have a few protocols to get through. Our foreign office is working with the Greeks. Your state department was notified through formal channels, and it’s helping to expedite.”

  Horton shook his head. “Bureaucrats,” he scoffed. “By the time they get through we’ll have celebrated the next New Year and the one after that—and this Klaus clown will have skied out to who knows where.” He shook his head in disgust. “Send me down. I’ll bring him back tonight.”

  “You know you can’t do that,” Burly intoned.

  “I know,” Horton sighed. “We know where he is, and we can’t get him.” He stood and paced across the room. “If he finds out we’re on to him, he’ll disappear, go deep, and we’ll never catch him.”

  The room descended into silence. Then Atcho broke it. “I’ll go,” he announced. “Get me on a plane and I’ll have him by breakfast.”

  “No!” Sofia’s eyes blazed. “You can’t go. Our baby needs his father.”

  “You can’t go anyway,” Burly’s disembodied voice said. “You’re currently on the CIA payroll and I’m your boss. Get another idea.”

  Atcho stood. He stared across at Sofia. “Our baby needs a safe world to grow up in,” he said softly but firmly, “and I can get this done.” Then he shifted his view to the speakerphone. “Burly, if all that’s in my way is that lousy CIA contract, I quit. I’ll pay my own way.” He turned to Gerhardt. “Give me the details.”

  Driven by his newfound purpose, Klaus barely slept. He ate little, and he altered his routine. Instead of working out, taking a long lunch, and lounging on the beach, he sat glued to the television screen, watching reports as they came in.

  His fury at infidels grew. He had allowed his beard to grow and when he went out that night for dinner, he viewed the local populace and tourists with disdain—women in scanty dresses and deliberately provocative outfits, their faces laden with makeup, their cleavage on exhibit beneath skin-tight mini-skirts.

  Men leered. Raucous music filled the air.

  Klaus seethed. When Islam is victorious, women will dress properly, and men will be educated to keep them in their places.

  He suddenly felt a burn to get to Riyadh. The next morning, he checked with local charter services but found none that could or would take him all the way there. The best he could find was one that could get him as far as Cyprus. That flight would not depart until the next morning, and upon arrival, he would still be nine hundred miles short of his destination.

  He could almost feel the war rolling past him. He decided to go to the airport to find a better flight.

  18

  On arrival at the Heraklion airport in Crete the next day, Atcho instructed the pilot of his chartered jet to wait for him. Then he hopped a cab to Klaus’ hotel. The afternoon sun had sunk low in the sky. He hurried up the few steps at the entrance and approached the desk clerk.

  “I’m supposed to meet a friend staying in this hotel.” He produced a photo of Klaus. “Have you seen him today?”

  “A friend?” The woman eyed him suspiciously. “And you present a photo instead of asking for him by name?” She sniffed. “Yesterday, two government agents were here asking about him. What’s he done?”

  Atcho shrugged dismissively. “I don’t know that he’s done anything. I’m supposed to meet him here, but for security reasons he’s traveling incognito.”

  The clerk looked amused. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You missed him. He checked out early this morning.”

  Dismayed, Atcho tightened his fists involuntarily. “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No. He took a taxi. A good guess is that he went to the airport.”

  Atcho put in a call to Horton in Berlin. “Get someone to check all commercial flights out of here since this morning. I’m going back to the airport to check chartered flights.”

  Klaus barely contained his vexation. The sun had just slid behind the horizon, and he had been at the terminal all day trying to arrange a better flight out of Crete. Finding himself unable to reserve a seat on a commercial flight to anywhere near the war zone, he had returned to the general aviation terminal and sought out private flights. A major obstacle was moving his luggage past customs inspectors. Frustrated, he called Kadir, his hawaladar in Berlin.

  “I’ll get you a plane, but it will be expensive, and you’ll have to negotiate where the pilot will take you. Most pilots won’t go anywhere near Kuwait.”

  “I must get into this war. Please help me.”

  Kadir was silent a moment. “All right. This is what I suggest.”

  Klaus listened.

  When Kadir finished speaking, Klaus thought a moment, and then assented.

  “Good,” Kadir said. “I’ll call Hassan.”

  When Atcho arrived at the airport, he found a bank of phones and called Horton. “There’s no record of him on commercial flights,” the major said, “but he probably switched IDs again. We went ahead and checked on chartered flights too. No sign of him there either, but there’s an unscheduled aircraft prepping in one of the hangars. It’s a private jet with a long range. One of the air traffic controllers noticed it on the way in for his shift. The pilot hasn’t filed a flight plan yet though.”

  “That’s a shot in the dark, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Get to the general aviation terminal. We’ll have someone take you out to the hangar. We got a few bureaucrats off their butts. They moved things along a bit. By the time you get there, we should have backup for you, but the best we can do right now is detain him. If it’s him, he’ll fight like a cornered tomcat. Don’t do any gung-ho crap.”

  Atcho grunted and hung up. He hurried outside, hailed a cab, and instructed the driver to take him to the general aviation terminal. His muscles tensed. Klaus’ face appeared in his mind’s eye, angry, determined, seeking revenge.

  The taxi turned onto the concrete apron in front of a row of private hangars. Airplanes of all types and sizes sat in the parking area. Some hangars were open, their lights on against waning daylight. Atcho scrutinized them all, looking for a jet with an active crew preparing their aircraft for flight.

  They passed hangar after hangar, and then Atcho saw a Challenger 601-3AER parked in an open bay with ground-crew members moving about it, apparently preparing it for flight. The aircraft was a new business jet model by Bombardier, already known in aviation circles for its reliability, performance, and luxury. From Atcho’s perspective, it also offered other critical factors: a range which could be extended with spare tanks and a cruising speed at near Mach-1. Klaus could get anywhere he wanted to go within thirty-five hundred miles and get there fast.

  Atcho directed the taxi driver to slow down so he could better observe the plane. As he did, his heart leaped and then felt like it had stuck in his throat. A conveyor belt had been attached to the cargo hold. Five identical suitcases glided up the belt. They were also identical to the one Veniamin had dissected in Burly’s offices.

  At the bottom of the conveyor belt, a man stood observing the progress of the suitcases into the jet’s interior. Even at this distance, his features were unmistakable: Klaus.

  “Drive into those shadows,” Atcho ordered the driver, indicating a dark place behind a row of planes that blocked the view from the hangar. Heedless of Horton’s admonition to wait for backup, he tossed a one-hundred-dollar bill on the seat. “Keep the change. Slow down but don’t stop. I’m going to roll out while you’re still moving. Then you’re done. Thanks.”

  Startled, the driver glanced over his shoulder. Then a devilish expression crossed his face. He chuckled and nodded.

  Klaus breathed a sigh of relief as he watched his precious cargo finally placed on the conveyor belt to carry it into the cargo hold. He suddenly grasped the previously unrecognized stress of transporting them from one place to another across international boundaries. The offic
ials who had accepted bribes to bring his suitcases into Crete were only too pleased to help move them out again—for a generous price.

  The pilot of this magnificent plane spoke little. He had flown in from an unknown origin, providing coded recognition signals establishing his connection to Kadir. A short phone conversation to the hawaladar confirmed that forty thousand dollars had transferred to the pilot’s account. Klaus would be his only passenger.

  As Klaus observed his bombs ascend, he absentmindedly watched traffic in front of the hangar while the engines of his chartered jet idled. He was mesmerized by the variety of aircraft and the array of equipment required to keep them serviceable. He had known no such bounty of resources inside the Soviet Union.

  His attention was drawn to a taxi driving along the apron toward the general aviation terminal. He directed his attention back to his suitcases, but then noticed in his peripheral vision that the taxi slowed down perceptibly. He shifted his attention to it and watched as it then speeded up and turned behind a row of airplanes into shadows. Once there, he lost track of it, but watched a point where he calculated that the taxi must re-emerge. It did, but its rear door had swung wide open.

  Klaus’ anxiety took a jump. “Finish it up,” he yelled to the conveyor operator. “We have to go.” He ran to the front landing gear where the co-pilot inspected the front tires. “Can we get out of here?” he demanded, masking the vicious emotion overcoming him.