The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  As he gained deeper understanding and watched the strategy play out, Collins’ view changed. He grasped the fundamental elegance of it. At its core, the plan’s success relied on the skill and endurance of the soldiers on the ground, the quality and reliability of their equipment, the judgement and tenacity of their leadership, and the ability to resupply. But it was the application of better intelligence, technological superiority, and the ability to put soldiers where they needed to be at critical moments that made the strategy viable. In effect, Schwarzkopf pinned Saddam’s main force in place and pounded it from the left and rear.

  Collins first observed from the air, and then rode with troops in their tanks and armored personnel carriers as units pushed toward their objectives. Their war machines stirred up the desert into billowing, gritty clouds. The sand, driven by wind that bit through clothing, lodged tiny grains in the seams of sweat-drenched uniforms, rubbing the skin of soldiers and Marines raw.

  The wind and the sporadic crackle of small-arms fire jarred him. The incessant cacophony of far-off artillery booms, the thwump thwump thwump of Apache attack helicopters and roar of Warthog strafing runs, and overhead bombers dropping thunderous munitions seared his nerves, allowing not a single moment of quiet.

  Amid controlled chaos, a new omnipresent element spread over the battlefield: the stench of burning oil wells. It permeated the air and everything it touched, like a wet cloud of burning rubber with a pinch of human flatulence. It filled nostrils, adding to the misery the fighting force endured for a chance at victory. And still the soldiers slogged on in the cold February wind.

  Collins watched them, unabashed in his respect for their courage and tenacity. He saw the army of Iraq collapse before their onslaught, Saddam’s wretched fighters walking, even running to be captured and removed from the devastation wreaked on them by superior forces. They came in with anxious faces, arms held high, and when ordered to sit cross-legged, they complied as docile as lambs.

  The few hours Collins slept were in a dug-out trench in the sand. He ate rations seeded with sand. When he managed to grab scarce water, it came with a complement of grit. Everywhere sand, sand, sand, and the stench of oilfield fires in cold, wet gusts.

  He took pains to get close to soldiers, recording their heroics when bullets flew, when vehicles broke down, when communications failed. He visited medics’ tents where those bloodied and maimed received emergency care. He attended field ceremonies of the fallen. He grieved with their comrades.

  Then suddenly, the war was over. After one hundred hours of fighting, the US president called a halt to combat operations. The Allies had chased the remains of Saddam’s vaunted Republican Guard over the Kuwaiti border and into the southern Iraqi province of Basra. Kuwait had been liberated.

  Collins could scarcely comprehend that an event so momentous, so violent, had ended so abruptly. His communication with his home office had been sporadic and scant. The sense of euphoria at sharing victory felt tainted by the inability to adequately show what had been achieved by the sacrifices of the few going into harm’s way for the benefit of so many.

  When fighting stopped, Collins caught a flight with General Alsip back to division headquarters. On the way, he eyed the immense black plumes emanating from the oil-well fires, so that the aircraft diverted around them. He was too tired to do anything other than take notice.

  They arrived back at the airfield near the headquarters. A Humvee met them and drove them to the building. “That was one hell of a war, General,” Collins observed. That was all his worn-out mind could manage.

  Alsip nodded, obviously weary. “It’s not really over.”

  Startled, Collins wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been out on the battlefield, away from the news.” Alsip chuckled at the irony. His face shifted to serious. “The big discussion now is whether to stop in Basra or continue on to take Baghdad. The thought is to make sure that Saddam never has the chance to cause havoc like this again. The president is against the idea because we might outrun our supply lines. Baghdad is eight hundred miles north. Some allies are balking, saying they signed on only to expel Iraq from Kuwait. Pursuing that beaten army would be a slaughter, not a war. Hard to justify killing thousands to punish for the sins of one man. If we keep going, we’ll break the alliance. Our intelligence is telling us that he’s likely to be dealt with by his own internal forces anyway.”

  Alsip took a breath, his face grim. “That’s not the worst of it though. You know Saddam set fire to Kuwait’s oilfield.”

  Collins nodded.

  “That’s over seven hundred wells burning out of control. The environmental impact and economic cost are already staggering, and we don’t know how long it’ll take to put them out.” He regarded Collins, the sockets of the reporter’s eyes sunk deep between his weathered cheeks and craggy brow. “Where are you headed now?”

  “I need to get to a hotel where I can file my reports. I’ll catch a ride.”

  “Come on inside my office. My adjutant knows where most of the reporters are holed up. It’s in Dhahran. We’ll get you there.”

  23

  A white Mercedes sedan swept at high speed over the desert highway east of Riyadh. Klaus sat alone in the back seat. Fatigue had worn off some of the good feeling he had enjoyed on his flight out of Tripoli. Still, he relished a snug sensation, something rare to him. For most of his life, he had been vulnerable. Even when active with the KGB, he had the sense of having to watch what he said and be alert for hostility toward anyone coming out of Chechnya. The Soviet system being what it was, the ordinary habit of its citizens was to be wary of everyone and to speak openly to no one.

  The driver was good-natured, even exuberant. He had obviously been chosen for his competence. “You impressed some powerful people,” he called back to Klaus. “You and my employer share the same hawaladar. My instructions are to deliver you safely to his house outside of Riyadh. He only accepts clients that come with high recommendations.”

  “Who’s your employer?”

  “I cannot say, but my instructions were to get you and your luggage into the country with no record. That is my specialty. Sit back and relax. We’ll be there soon.”

  Klaus’ new hawaladar, Yousef, met him at the front door. He was a rotund man who nevertheless moved about with energy. He wore a farwah, a traditional Saudi dark robe worn in winter weather. On his head was a shemagh, the traditional red-and-white headdress held in place by a sturdy black cord. His house was palatial.

  “I’m taking an extraordinary risk,” he, said. “My clients usually do not stay at my house. I don’t typically extend the kind of help you are receiving.”

  “Why are you doing it? Saudi Arabia is on the side of the Americans.”

  A flash of anger crossed Yousef’s face. “Not everyone in the Kingdom is happy about that. The fact that infidels defile our land is an abomination against Islam. That will not stand, I promise you.”

  They sat on sumptuous sofas in a courtyard surrounded by reflecting pools and palms under an open sky. The soft burble of fountains soothed Klaus’ travel fatigue. He had never witnessed such opulence, astounded that everything he saw belonged to a single man. Coming from a communist society, the concept challenged his comprehension.

  While they spoke, a boy carrying a brass tray with fragrant servings of tea and fruit approached. He set them on a low table at Yousef’s side, poured two cups, and withdrew silently.

  “Back to your question,” Yousef resumed, “I understand you are an amazing fighter with impressive resources who paid his own way to join the jihad.” He picked up some papers from the table. “You’re a former KGB officer, trained by the Spetsnaz. When there was an East Germany, you dealt directly with the director of the Stasi. You organized our brethren in West Berlin to carry out jihad. You opened up old tunnels built by the Nazis under the city, and you and your brother killed eight Stasi officers in one night. An infidel murdered your brother and
you seek revenge. You were wounded in that firefight, and the Turkish doctor Burakgazi repaired your shoulder. You set aside personal emotion until after a greater task is accomplished, and you carry five suitcases with you that can alter the balance of power worldwide.” He set the papers down and gazed at Klaus. “Is that enough?”

  Astonished, Klaus nodded involuntarily. “How could you know all of that?”

  Yousef smiled ambiguously. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know those things. How did you contact the Turks in West Berlin before the Wall fell?”

  “I found an unsealed entrance to the tunnels. It was covered over in a bombed-out ruin from the last Great War. No one had paid attention to it. I worked my way through.”

  “But you didn’t get lost.”

  Klaus shrugged. “I took several balls of string with me. I tied off the end of one of them at the entrance. When I came to the end of it, I tied it to the end of the next string and kept repeating. I followed the flow of air. There wasn’t much, but it was enough.”

  “And when you got to the other side in West Berlin, you found your way to a mosque?”

  Klaus nodded. “That’s where I recruited people who helped me.”

  “And there’s your answer. The imam would not have helped you without talking with those men first. You had to tell them your background and intentions for them to follow you. The imam would not have introduced you to Kadir without exceptional reason. I know Kadir. We do business together. We’re both in import/export, gold and jewelry exchanges, car rentals in several major cities, and other cash businesses around the world. He introduced you to Hassan, the hawaladar in Tripoli?”

  Klaus nodded. Yousef shrugged. “There you have it. When you asked for the introduction, you gave permission to pass along all that was known about you. Hassan and I also carry out routine commercial dealings. We both do business with Kadir, most of it through Dubai. There is hardly any banking scrutiny there. You brought Kadir five million dollars in cash?”

  Klaus nodded again, scarcely believing that so much about him had been pieced together.

  “Turning that much money into legitimate assets is no easy task,” Yousef went on. “Kadir did it like an artist. Your funds are safe and already transferred among transactions in our businesses where we take cash and make regular large deposits in banks. You can have any amount or all of your cash whenever you wish. If you like, I’ll invest it for you. You have roughly three and a half million dollars remaining?”

  Travel fatigue fogged Klaus’ mind. He only nodded while finishing his tea. Yousef studied his face. “You’re tired. I wanted to give you assurance that your money is in good hands, and you are among friends.”

  He stood, and when he did, a servant appeared. Yousef instructed him to show Klaus to the guest quarters. “We’ll talk more when you are rested. Meanwhile, if you need or want anything, please ask.”

  Minutes later, Klaus fell asleep on a luxurious bed in an enormous bedroom. Set neatly side by side at the foot of the bed were his five identical suitcases.

  When Klaus awoke the next morning, he felt fresh and enlivened. He found his clothes washed and folded on a chair near his bed. After showering and dressing, he walked out of his room onto a wide walkway bordered by a grand balustrade overlooking the courtyard. A male servant approached him.

  “Please come. I will take you to breakfast. Yousef will meet your there.”

  Yousef arrived five minutes after Klaus sat down. “Ah, it’s good to see you rested. You slept for fifteen hours. You must have needed it.”

  They ate while they talked. “You said yesterday that you could invest my money?” Klaus inquired.

  “I can arrange that, but it can be complex. We’ll talk more about that. I’d like to know what your plans are. You went through one and a half million dollars quickly, and I’m curious about those five suitcases.”

  Klaus remained quiet. He munched on a variety of dates and pastries while he contemplated.

  Yousef read his thoughts. “Let me show you something.” He looked back over his shoulder and gestured. Two servants pushed a cloth-covered cart up next to him. Yousef pulled back the cover to reveal stacks of cash, denominated in dollars. He turned to Klaus. “This is yours. It’s all there. Count it if you like. You may keep it or leave it with me. Take your time until you are comfortable with your decision.”

  Klaus sat back grasping the sides of the breakfast table. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve been good to me. I’ve fought my whole life. Even when I left Berlin, German intelligence and the CIA were after me. They’re probably hunting me now.”

  Yousef scoffed. “The CIA. Any enemy of theirs is a friend of mine. You are a Muslim brother, a warrior. We need more like you.” He glanced at the cart, the bills packed in neat stacks. “If you’d like to take your money now, the driver will take you to Riyadh and help you settle in anywhere you choose. If you prefer, I can have it deposited for you. It’s been laundered. It’s yours. Or, you can stay here, leave it with me as we discussed, and we can talk. The money is always available to you.”

  Klaus sipped his tea. “While I decide, tell me about the progress of the war.”

  Yousef grimaced. “Not good. President Bush ended combat operations a few hours ago. Saddam’s representative will sign a cease-fire tomorrow.” He shrugged. “You should have come a few weeks earlier, when all the coalition forces were concentrated a hundred miles south of Kuwait below what the Americans called Tapline Road. Targets then were thick. A warrior like you could have wreaked havoc, and maybe Saddam would still have Kuwait.” He looked beyond the veranda across the desert, disconsolate. “Now the war is over, and we are left with these oil-well fires.”

  Klaus’ mouth formed a crooked grin. “I couldn’t get here then. My shoulder was still healing from surgery, and I had to make sure I could move my money and—” he looked around, checking to see if he could be overheard, “—and my luggage.” He drew his face closer to Yousef’s. “Besides, the war is not over,” he hissed. “I could have taken out most of the coalition forces, that’s a fact. Allah put in my hands the ability to strike at the whole infidel world.”

  Kadir stared in disbelief.

  Klaus explained, and as he spoke, Yousef’s eyes grew wider and wider. He ordered the cart of money moved back to his vault and invited Klaus for a stroll through the compound. They talked for hours, sometimes sitting, sometimes walking through the stately halls of the palace or ambling through the gardens and palm groves.

  At one point, Yousef asked, “Can I see inside the suitcases?”

  Klaus hesitated, and then consented. They returned to his room. He opened the first bag.

  Seeing the etching on the metal plate, Yousef brought his hand to his face. Klaus lifted the plate, exposing the bomb’s components. Disbelieving wonder imprinted on Yousef’s countenance. He alternated glinting eyes between Klaus and the bomb.

  “They were designed by a retired nuclear engineer from the French weapons program,” Klaus informed him. He summarized how he had come by the bomb in Berlin and how Rayner had checked it out. He paused. “I’ve studied satellite photos of the smoke from Kuwait. The winds blow it away from Saudi Arabia. We get some along the eastern border, but compared to the rest of the region, we’re getting very little.” His expression became solemn. “The Kingdom is truly sacred ground.”

  Yousef pulled his corpulent frame to stand in front of Klaus and grasp his shoulder. “You are a blessing from Allah. The day of his vengeance is near.” A look of righteous determination crossed his face. “Tell me what you need, and we will provide it. You will pay nothing. We have friends who will gladly contribute to see this great victory.” He strolled out of Klaus’ room to the balustrade and looked across the courtyard to the desert beyond. Klaus joined him.

  “Saudi Arabia and Islam will soon take its rightful place in this world,” Yousef said. “What can we do for you right now?”

  Klaus took a moment to think. “First, I’ll leave the mo
ney with you. I know you’ll take good care of it.” Yousef nodded. “Next, I need the full story of the war in Kuwait. Newspapers only tell part of it. There must be a hotel where foreign reporters stay. Can your driver take me there? I want to listen in the lobby and bar—talk with reporters. With the fighting stopped, they should be making their way home. They’ll be trading war stories.”

  “There’s a hotel where war correspondents have come and gone for months, in Dhahran. Some reporters were stranded there while the fighting took place. You might get a sense of the battlefield there. The drive usually takes four hours, but the army has the highway locked down tight. With all the checkpoints along the way, six to seven hours is more realistic. We’ll take you.” He paused as a thought struck. “You’ll have to leave your luggage here. They won’t get through those checkpoints.”

  Klaus jerked his head up. “Will they be safe here?”

  Yousef drew back, startled at the inference. Then he smiled and wrapped a heavy arm across Klaus’ shoulder. “My brother, I am a hawaladar. My word guarantees their safety. They will be here when we return.”

  24

  Tony Collins surveyed the International Hotel in Dhahran. It was a spectacular glass building, reflecting the modern architecture that had overtaken much of the oil-rich Arab countries around the Persian Gulf. With evening falling fast, the neon signage in Arabic calligraphy flickered. Collins picked up his bags and headed through the main entrance.

  General Alsip’s adjutant had called ahead and made a reservation, so checking in took little time. Within a few minutes, Collins was in his room contacting Tom Jakes, his editor at the Washington Herald in DC.

  “Hi Tom. Sorry to have been out of touch.” He ran down his activities of the last four days.