The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  For the next hour, they pored over the details of the three operations, looking for mistakes Klaus might have made, errant signals he could have broadcast—anything that might have led Atcho and his team to the conclusions that had resulted in Klaus’ failures. Finally, Yousef held up a hand.

  “Three conclusions stand out to me. In all three places, he knew your objectives and how you intended to achieve them—not down to the fine detail, but enough to guess how you could accomplish them. In Berlin, he knew you wanted to stop the Wall from coming down. In Kuwait, since you were not active during US combat operations, he knew you had moved the bombs to the Middle East and figured out your plan to blow up the oilfields. And in Austin”—he arched his eyebrows—“well, guessing you would come after him at home was not difficult. He knew the nuclear threat you carried in your briefcase, and with that he could get intelligence and logistical support all the way to the president, which he probably did.

  “And finally, Atcho knows you—your strengths and weaknesses, your capabilities and habits. Fortunately, you’ve been out of sight for the last fourteen months, so he must have lost track of you. But if you become visible again…” Yousef leaned forward to emphasize his point. “It is better that you learn new habits and stay invisible.”

  Klaus, listening quietly while Yousef spoke, now reacted angrily. “He killed my brother. I will have my revenge.”

  Yousef raised his hands in a placating gesture. “And you will have it. No one will take that away from you. Al-Qaeda promised assistance. But would it not be better to exact your vengeance while killing millions of infidels?”

  Stunned, Klaus caught his breath. “Millions? How?”

  Yousef leaned in closer. “Listen to me carefully, brother. We have a mission coming up early next year that suits you to perfection. However, it must succeed. Since your underground nuclear test in Afghanistan last year, the price of black-market plutonium has skyrocketed. We cannot afford to waste your bombs.”

  Klaus nodded.

  “We want you to observe two more planned bombings.” Seeing Klaus react with irritation, Yousef continued, “The emphasis is working in a team, learning new ways to communicate, and keeping operational security. We want you to observe how it’s working in other operations.” He nudged Klaus. “We are hitting bigger and bigger targets.”

  Klaus let out a long breath. “If I agree, what then?”

  “As I recall, you have three plutonium devices remaining?”

  Klaus nodded again.

  “We will provide the intelligence, logistics, personnel support, and funds. We have the target. You will place your bombs.”

  2

  Austin, Texas

  One week later

  “Terrorists have attacked seven times so far this year—and it’s only March,” Atcho said. “That number doesn’t include the attacks Klaus tried to pull off in Kuwait and here in Austin. We know he wasn’t involved in the others because he was busy with his own targets. We have to track his location. His bombs make him the most dangerous terrorist on the planet.”

  “So far he hasn’t had a successful attack,” Ivan Chekov interjected, “and he’s made three attempts.”

  “That’s because Atcho beat him each time,” Burly said. “But we can only close him down permanently by getting in front of him—anticipate where he’s going next.”

  The three men sat around a conference room table inside headquarters at Atcho’s company, Advance Power-Source Technologies. The company manufactured a battery substitute that was stronger, lighter, and more durable. The product had proven itself in the recent Gulf War in Kuwait to expel Saddam Hussein. As a result, the defense department had doubled its orders and foreign armies were clamoring to purchase it.

  A little-known by-product the company produced, the NUKEX, was designed to neutralize briefcase-sized nuclear bombs. The device had low demand but was employed twice.

  Atcho’s company had developed the NUKEX prior to him purchasing the firm. It worked by generating and projecting intense heat through proprietary alloys to a point several inches below the device itself. The object was to melt the trigger mechanism on small bombs before the radioactive fuel had reached critical mass.

  The device’s effectiveness was proven, but its operational limitations required it to be applied by hand. Atcho’s wife, Sofia, had been the first to use the NUKEX in an operational setting, melting the trigger on a plutonium bomb planted on a cargo plane flying from Novosibirsk, Siberia, to Moscow. Atcho had used a NUKEX to douse a nuclear device planted outside his home, resulting in his badly burned hand.

  As he listened to the discussion, Atcho massaged his injured hand. It was healing nicely but still hurt.

  He had bought majority ownership of the company two years earlier when its founders had sought second-round financing, selling many of his real estate holdings in Washington, DC, to secure funding. By then, his background was legendary: West Point graduate, native of Cuba, airborne ranger, resistance fighter against Fidel Castro, freed political prisoner, successful entrepreneur, honored by Ronald Reagan… The passage of years had creased the corners of his eyes and mouth and added lines to the strong features of his face. Silver strands streaked his hair. He leaned his muscular frame across the table.

  “How do we track Klaus?”

  The door opened, and Atcho’s wife, Sofia, entered. She moved lithely across the room, her hair falling in dark, lustrous locks that framed sparkling green eyes over a delicate nose and full lips parted in a smile.

  “How’s the baby?” Atcho asked. I still catch my breath every time I see her.

  “He’s fine.” She grinned. “Isabel is watching him, along with your granddaughter.” She laughed as she spoke, and her eyes sparkled.

  Isabel was Atcho’s daughter from his late wife who had died in childbirth. Kidnapped at the age of four and returned while Fidel Castro had held Atcho in prison, she had not known her father again until ten years ago—by then a fully grown woman. She was now visiting Austin with her small daughter while her husband, a US Army officer, traveled to Europe and the Far East on military business.

  Atcho laughed. “My six-month-old son and three-year-old granddaughter playing together. That should be interesting.”

  “It’s fun to watch.” Sofia chuckled, then turned to greet the others in the room. “What have I missed?”

  “We started discussing how to track Klaus,” Burly said, arching his eyebrows as he addressed the group. “Let me point out that because both Sofia and I are officially retired and neither of us is currently contracted with either the CIA or the State Department, our access to classified information is limited to nonexistent. That won’t change unless we get one or more of the intelligence agencies on board, and that won’t happen unless we come up with something solid.”

  “I still have my clearances through the company,” Atcho said.

  “You don’t have the designation for sensitive compartmented information that would keep you current on this case,” Burly replied.

  “Got it.” Atcho had known Burly since they had fought together at the Bay of Pigs in Cuba thirty years ago. In the last two years, they had worked jointly on four black ops in concert with covert agencies. Burly was a big, balding man, proud of his Irish ancestry and his years at the CIA. He had been Atcho’s case officer.

  Atcho turned to Sofia. “What do you think?”

  She had been a covert CIA field officer, her cover being a senior intelligence supervisor at the State Department, and she had participated in all four of Atcho’s operations with Burly. During a recent cutback in CIA personnel, she had taken an early retirement package in order to raise her baby boy.

  She rubbed her forehead. “This one is going to be tough. We might get cooperation from the agencies on an informal basis, but without clearances or a need-to-know, any of their employees giving us classified information would be breaking the law. That could mean prison time for them. Let me think about how to do this.”


  “While you’re thinking, let me add something,” Ivan broke in. As a former KGB officer who had defected to the US two years ago, he had risked his life to save his family during a coup attempt in Moscow before the fall of the Soviet Union. Because Ivan was instrumental in averting the conspiracy, the Chairman of the Soviet Communist Party, Mikhail Gorbachev, had allowed him to emigrate with his wife and son to the US. He had worked with Atcho, Burly, and Sofia in their joint operations and won their friendship, loyalty, and respect. When Atcho had bought the company, he had helped Ivan form a security firm and contracted with him for those services.

  Watching him, Atcho smiled. Ivan reminded him of a tough, physically fit version of the comedian Bob Newhart. “Go ahead.”

  Ivan glanced up. He had always been intrigued with and loved American Western lore. To him, Atcho brought to mind Gary Cooper’s character in High Noon, a man with the cares of the world on his shoulders who could wreak untold destruction at any second. He pursed his lips.

  “When the Berlin Wall fell and East Germany opened up, thousands of Stasi officers headed west.” He spoke with a perfect Midwestern American accent, courtesy of extensive training. “The Soviet Union is winding down, and the same thing could happen with KGB officers.” He shook his head. “Much as I hate to admit it, many of my former colleagues are known for low ethical standards. Between ex-Stasi and ex-KGB, that could mean selling off state secrets and assets to criminals—including nuclear technology and fuel.”

  “He’s right,” Sofia added. “With the Soviet breakup, we have high concern about safeguarding nuclear stockpiles. If black-market guys want to buy some, now’s the time to put out feelers and bids.”

  Atcho grimaced. “And Klaus already knows how to get it.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Let’s start with what we know,” Sofia broke in. “Klaus’ real name is Sahab Kadyrov. He became known as Klaus after he deserted the KGB and went to East Berlin before the Wall fell. He’s a Chechen Muslim who hates the Russians and the Americans as much as he hates Israel.” Her gaze bored into Atcho. “He hates you most of all.”

  Atcho nodded grimly. “That’s what I get for killing his brother.”

  “He managed to get to the Middle East and hook up with Al-Qaeda,” Sofia went on. “He brought along five nuclear suitcase bombs and several million dollars he stole from the East German government just before the Wall fell. We think he ran an underground test with one bomb, and we believe he can replicate them. Our best guess is that he still has three of them.”

  “He escaped both the local police and the FBI here in Austin,” Burly chimed in. “We assume either he slipped out of the US or is lying low.”

  “I think he left the country,” Ivan said. “He only brought one bomb into the US. He wants to secure the others and re-set for another target.”

  The other three nodded.

  “How do we find him?” Atcho asked.

  “We know he got his bombs into Saudi Arabia,” Sofia replied. “That’s probably where he hid them. That’s a starting point.”

  “Agreed, but I had another thought,” Atcho said. “I’m sure you all heard the report about a car-bomb attack on the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires last week. The driver wasn’t found, and authorities don’t know if he escaped or blew up in the vehicle. The street was empty except for one priest who was killed by flying debris, so there were no eyewitnesses. Israel is the main target of jihadists. Maybe we should take a look there.”

  Burly listened attentively. “I have a few contacts in the Mossad. I’ll call. If they don’t know about Klaus yet, we should clue them in.”

  “That’s a long shot,” Sofia cut in. “Hezbollah claimed credit for the Buenos Aires attack. It’s a Shia organization. We think Klaus is Sunni; Al-Qaeda is too. They would compete with Hezbollah.”

  Burly arched his eyebrows. “Hold on. We can hope things stay that way, but Al-Qaeda is a new organization, while Hezbollah has been around awhile. That guy, Osama bin Laden, brings a lot of cash, and Hezbollah has built up experience and technical skill in their strikes against Israel in Lebanon. If those two groups can agree on who the enemy is, they might help each other. Klaus proved that he can penetrate the US and bring a nuclear bomb with him.”

  The others eyed Burly grimly.

  “Make the call,” Atcho said.

  3

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  April 1992

  Eitan Chasin hurried down the hall into his boss’ office at Mossad headquarters. Tall, slender, and in his early thirties, he was younger than his fresh face and dark hair suggested. He carried a dust-covered open cardboard box with electronic devices and dangling wires protruding from the top, and he scrunched a thin file between the side of his chest and arm.

  “Sir, you should look at these.”

  The head of operations, Jaron Bryk, glanced up from documents he had already been reading, clearly annoyed. “You’re new here. I get that. And you came over from the Kidon department. We’re impressed. That doesn’t mean you can barge into my office at will. I spent time there too.”

  Eitan fought down an urge to retort. Kidon was the most secret of Mossad’s numerous departments. Often characterized in the media as a band of assassins, its operators were posted worldwide to combat terrorism and anyone posing a threat to Israel. Only the best operatives from Israeli special forces were recruited into Kidon.

  “You’re right. I apologize,” he retorted. “You can see these later.” He started toward the door. “Don’t wait too long.”

  Bryk caught Eitan’s irritation. “Wait.” He leaned forward in his seat and waved Eitan to a chair in front of his desk. “I haven’t been out of the field long myself. Sorry. This must be urgent.”

  Eitan crossed the room but remained standing. “It’s about last week’s bombing in Buenos Aires. I’ve gone through some of the rubble brought here for analysis. I might have found something.” He set the box down on the desk.

  Bryk peered at the jumble of electronics and then looked up at Eitan. “That’s a little below your pay grade, isn’t it? We’ve already had people take a look at this material.”

  Eitan sat down. “Have you heard of a terrorist the Americans refer to as Klaus?”

  Bryk leaned back, searching his memory. He was approaching middle age as if the concept did not apply to him—full of energy and always ready for the next turn of the screw. His trim build and toned muscles were at odds with the headquarters’ collegial air. Despite his current billet, he dressed for the field, ready to hit the streets at any moment. He understood the concept of having experienced operators in leadership positions and the existential need to gather intelligence accurately and analyze effectively. Knowing that, however, did not make coming into the sedate atmosphere any easier.

  “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Eitan set the box on the desk and took the file from under his arm. “These are the remnants of the embassy’s video surveillance machines.” He gestured at the wreckage of electronics. “As you can see, they were pretty much destroyed, including the storage cards and backup units. I sent them to our technical geniuses for analysis anyway, and they managed to extract these.” He opened the file and spread three blurry photos across the desk. “You can’t make out any detail on these, but you can see down the intersecting streets, and we captured the timestamps. Look at this dark blotch. It’s located catty-corner from the embassy and down a little way. From there, a person could easily observe the side entrance without being threatened by the bomb, and that blotch looks like it could be a man.”

  Bryk peered at it. “So?”

  “I sent a message to the embassy security personnel—obviously, they’re working from a different location. I asked them to check with authorities to see if any other surveillance picked up an image at that time and place. They sent back this.”

  He moved the spread-out photos aside and showed Bryk an image of a man in profile.

  “That’s a close-up of the blotch. Loo
k at how he stands backed against the wall and the direction of his view. He’s watching the embassy.”

  Bryk picked up the photo and brought it closer to his eyes. “Light complexion. Curly hair. Heavy mustache. It’s not very clear, though. What time was it captured?”

  “Two minutes before the blast. He stays there the entire time, and that is not a sightseeing area.”

  “Maybe he was waiting to be picked up.”

  Eitan nodded. “Maybe, but look at this.” He slid another photo forward. “Here he is among onlookers. He’s an able-bodied man, on site at the moment of impact, and he does nothing to help. On the contrary”—he showed Bryk another image—“he walks away.”

  Bryk studied the photographs a while longer. “Who is Klaus, and what makes you think that’s him in the pictures?”

  Eitan exposed one more image, this time showing a man whose facial features undeniably resembled those of the subject in the other photos. “This is Klaus. He is a terrorist known to German intelligence and the CIA—a deserter from the old Soviet KGB who trained with the Spetsnaz. He escaped from the East when the Berlin Wall fell. He is confirmed to have participated in three failed bomb attacks.”

  Bryk shrugged and tossed the photos he was holding back on the desk. “Do you think he triggered the bomb in Buenos Aires?”

  Eitan shook his head. “He doesn’t come up in any of our monitoring before that event. I think he was there to observe the attack and its effects.”

  “Trying to improve his craft,” Bryk mused. “Pray that he doesn’t. If he keeps failing, he can’t present much of a threat to us. What’s our interest?”

  Eitan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s a Chechen and an avowed Muslim. He hates the US and Russia equally, and of course he hates Israel too. His bombs failed because the Americans stopped him before he could detonate—but they were never able to catch him. They put concerted effort on him because”—he took another deep breath—“his bombs are nuclear.”