The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Burly peered at the photograph. It showed a close-up of hooded trainees, their arms stretched between the overhead bars of a combat obstacle course. At the base was a man’s uncovered face, observing the trainees. Burly looked closer. “Makes sense,” he muttered, “and that looks like him.” He lowered the photo. “If Osama bin Laden is looking to Hezbollah for technical know-how, he’d want to approach someone who’s already in his own camp. How recent is this photo?”

  “Within the past few days. I sent out inquiries right after you contacted me.”

  Atcho examined the grainy photo. “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “We’ll do a final confirmation, but I’m quite certain.”

  “Get me that verification,” Burly said. “With that, I can get a contract with the CIA and bring in more assets. It’s been less than two years since I left the last contract, so renewing my clearance should not be an issue.”

  5

  Lima, Peru

  June 5, 1992

  A light blue 1964 Chevrolet Impala navigated through the tight streets and heavy traffic. When it reached the three-lane, one-way Jirón Luis Sánchez Cerro in the Jesús María District, it turned right and headed toward the upscale thoroughfare, San Felipe Avenue.

  The driver wiped sweat from his brow. It ran in rivulets, stinging his eyes, but not from summer heat—the windows were closed, and the air-conditioner blasted cold air in his face. His breathing came faster, even spasmodically, as the intersection came into view. He hoped no one noticed that the car hung low over its tires, weighted down as it was with one thousand pounds of dynamite.

  He had scouted this area thoroughly but had been unable to find a suitable parking space near his target to accomplish the job, meaning he had to take extreme action. His heart pounded as he turned right onto the high-end thoroughfare. As soon as he rounded the corner, he saw the brand-new headquarters of Frecuencia 2.

  The television broadcast company, founded in 1957, was one of the oldest in Lima and had gone through several changes in management, name, and program format. Most recently, it had moved from its original headquarters; and, most dangerously, it had begun transmitting a ninety-second news report that was repeated and updated throughout the day with a longer, more in-depth version in the evening.

  Unfortunately, the ownership and management were independently minded people who called the news as they saw it and proffered opinions counter to the cause that the driver served. Further, they had ambitions of becoming the first station to broadcast all across Peru. With their philosophies and supporting actions, that could not be allowed to happen.

  The Impala drew nearer to the station. To his right, the driver saw full-color images of the television personalities side-by-side on huge placards lining the front of the building for at least half a block. He passed the side cargo entrance, a place he had discarded as a detonation point because it was far from the organization’s heartbeat.

  He maneuvered into the right lane. A fountain on his left marked the T-intersection with Olavegoya Avenue. He continued on San Felipe, past the fountain, intersection, and the Frecuencia 2 stars’ smiling faces.

  When he reached the end of the placards, the curb gave way to a driveway leading into the headquarters’ inner confines. This was as close as he would get to the offices where the station management mingled with its talent.

  The driver pressed a button to turn on his hazard blinkers and pulled across the driveway. He exited the car, raised the hood, and pretended to make adjustments to wires and hoses on the engine. Moments later, he left the car, crossed San Felipe, backtracked toward the fountain at Olavegoya, turned right, and walked briskly along a row of multi-colored high-rise apartment buildings. Thirty seconds later, he ducked into one of them. Just before the door closed behind him, he reached into his jeans pocket and pushed the button on a small remote control.

  The explosion tore off Frecuencia 2’s face, shredding the placards, ripping into the depths of the edifice, and sending shockwaves and dust clouds along the streets, stripping leaves off the tall trees in the medians along the avenues. When the noise receded, the dust cleared, and people dared to emerge from their shelters, Frecuencia 2’s new headquarters lay in ruin, its news editor and two security guards lying in bloody heaps.

  6

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  One week later

  “What did you think about the operation?” Yousef scrutinized Klaus’ face, observing a subdued expression of disgust. They were once more sipping tea on the couches in Yousef’s courtyard.

  “I don’t understand why we’re working with these people,” Klaus retorted. “The Senderos.” He snorted his disgust. “They are not dedicated. They’re infidels. And they leave too much to chance. What was I supposed to learn there? Three people dead—that’s all—and the station was back on the air within twelve hours.”

  Yousef smiled, amused. “My brother, you can be so impatient. I’m glad you had a safe trip back.”

  “Please, explain. Why are we working with them? They’re communists. I escaped Soviet communism. They have no god. They are worse than most infidels.”

  Yousef chuckled. “We aren’t working with them. We are learning from them. We share common enemies and the objective of bringing down the last remaining superpower. Pressures in Washington are growing. What did you learn?”

  Klaus sighed. “As I said, the Senderos are not dedicated. I watched from the top of a building down the street. I saw the driver park the car across the driveway, open the hood, and fiddle with the engine. Anyone could see the car was weighted down beyond its capacity—it’s a wonder the axles or the suspension system didn’t break.

  “He parked too far for maximum damage, and then he walked away. He’s lucky a station guard didn’t come out to see why he blocked their driveway. As it was, someone might have seen him and given investigators a description. Has he been caught?”

  Yousef leaned back. “I don’t know.” He sipped his tea. “What would you have done differently?”

  Klaus sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them. He sighed. “I’ve thought a lot about that. It’s important to control all aspects of the attack right up to the moment of execution. In this case, the driver should have detonated as soon as he parked across that driveway.”

  “A suicide bombing? You don’t want to be a martyr. Why should he?”

  “I’ll gladly be a martyr for the right target,” Klaus retorted. “With my weapons, I won’t waste my life on a small-time hit—he only killed three people and didn’t even put the station out of business.” He shrugged. “There wasn’t closed-in parking that could assure the driver’s getaway without his being stopped or seen. And he should have used a truck, not a car. If he had broken down on the way to the target, he would have failed the mission.”

  “You failed. Three times.”

  Klaus grimaced. “You keep reminding me.”

  “What would you have done differently on your missions?”

  Klaus took a deep breath. “Day and night, I think about that.” He tilted his head to look at Yousef. “In Texas, I should have detonated as soon as I knew Sofia was in the house. If I had done that, Austin would be a wasteland, the entire Colorado River below Lake Austin would be contaminated, and Atcho would be a widower grieving not only his wife but also his unborn child. By waiting, I left him time to figure out what I was doing and take counter-action.”

  He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “In Kuwait, I should have sent in suicide bombers—I could have been one myself. I missed that opportunity.” He looked up again and made eye contact. “I let my desire for revenge get the best of me.”

  Yousef pursed his lips and nodded somberly. “And in Berlin?”

  Klaus smirked. “I was an underling then, but that’s where I learned the lesson of staying in control. I set the bomb, but the Russian general held the remote two miles away. We should have detonated as soon as I was a safe distance from the
blast area. If we had, the Wall would still be there, East Berlin would still rule East Germany—”

  “And that Russian general might have made the Soviet Union stronger and able to survive,” Yousef said. He gripped Klaus’ shoulder. “Don’t trouble yourself, habibi. Allah’s will was done. You learned from those experiences—and more importantly, you brought us the bombs.”

  The phone rang in the basement lounge of Atcho and Sofia’s house on the bluffs overlooking Lake Austin. Atcho looked up from playing on the floor with his ten-month-old son, Jameson, and his nearly four-year-old granddaughter, Kattrina.

  Sofia, sitting on a sofa with Atcho’s daughter, Isabel, answered. “It’s Burly,” she said after a moment, and handed him the receiver.

  Atcho arched his brow. “What’s up, Burly?”

  “Can you get to a secure line? We had a sighting. We need a teleconference.”

  “Give me two hours. Can I bring Sofia along?”

  “We’ll need her insights.”

  Two hours later, Atcho and Sofia sat in a secure conference room inside the FBI’s Austin field office. He called Burly on a speakerphone over a classified line to an office in the Old Executive Building within the White House compound.

  “I’ve got Eitan on the line at Mossad headquarters,” Burly said as soon as contact was made. “This is a difficult connection, so we’ll skip niceties. Eitan, I have Atcho and Sofia on the speakerphone.” He gave a quick summary of Sofia’s background. “Based on what we learned on our trip to Argentina, I’ve accessed CIA resources. I’m under contract again. Both Atcho and Sofia are cleared. Since we’re chasing a nuclear threat, interest here goes all the way to the top. Tell us what you’ve got.”

  “Greetings from Israel,” Eitan enthused. “And Sofia, congratulations on the baby. Atcho told me about him in Argentina.” They heard rustling papers, and then Eitan continued in a serious tone. “I called about last week’s bombing in Lima. The Shining Path terrorist group claimed responsibility. The Spanish term for the group is Sendero Luminoso. They call it Senderos for short.

  “They hit a television station that was growing rapidly in influence, killing a news editor and two security guards. That’s tragic, but beyond the deaths, their success was marginal. The station was back up within twelve hours.”

  “Excuse me,” Sofia broke in. “The Senderos are a communist group. What do they have to do with Islamic terrorism?”

  “We asked the same question,” Eitan said. “It’s an interesting turn of events. We saw evidence of Al-Qaeda cooperating with Hezbollah in Buenos Aires, and now with the Senderos in Peru? It’s an open question, but when you see what I have to show you, you’ll know it’s a question we have to pursue. Did you look at the pictures I sent?”

  “I saw them. They looked like they could be Klaus,” Atcho said. “I’m not certain.”

  “No problem,” Eitan said. “I only sent two for ease of transmission, but all of them were time- and date-stamped just before the bombing took place. Klaus took a walk south along the sidewalk in front of the television station. He crossed the street just past the driveway where the car had parked, then headed east on Olavegoya and entered the closest apartment building. It was out of the blast area. Fortunately, the station’s surveillance cameras’ storage devices survived, and we were able to extract these and others. Klaus seems not to be much aware of the electronic surveillance capability. One of the pics captured a long shot down Olavegoya and caught him on the roof. We had to magnify it considerably and it came out grainy, but it’s him, and he’s watching the TV station.”

  “Do you have any other confirmation?” Burly asked.

  “From our undercover guys,” Eitan replied. “Based on these photos, we had them pinning down whether he was in the area and why.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Not much. He flew in, stayed a few days, and flew out shortly after the bombing. The Shining Path guys didn’t like him much. They described him as aloof—like he thought he was better than them.”

  Eitan smirked. “That’s the Muslim-among-infidels coming out in him. Where did he go?”

  “We don’t know. He didn’t fly on a commercial carrier. At least not from Lima. He didn’t arrive that way either. We’re checking private flights, but so far nothing. Keep in mind that crossing borders in Latin America is easy. He could have driven anywhere and then taken a commercial or private flight.”

  “What’s your take on his cooperation with Hezbollah and the Senderos?”

  “If I may,” Sofia cut in, “this is from a purely analytical point of view. We know he’s a hero within Al-Qaeda, meaning he’s firmly ensconced with them. He might like to be a lone wolf, but they provide financial and logistical support he can only dream of on his own. They’re moving him around. That’s why he enters and leaves countries at will.

  “He’s a fighter and wants to be in the thick of things. He wouldn’t choose to be an observer of his own accord. That’s against his instincts. Since that’s what he did, Al-Qaeda must be handling him, and he’s acquiescing. The question is: what are they up to? Is he the guy forging relations with these other entities? Is he advising these groups? Or, is he scouting out or learning techniques for a mission of his own, sponsored by Al-Qaeda in cooperation with another group? We need to figure that out.”

  “You zeroed in on those fast,” Eitan said in an admiring tone. “Those are the same questions our analysts came up with.”

  Sofia shrugged off the compliment. “Any guesses about where he is or where he’ll show up next?”

  “I wish. The best we can say right now is that the plot thickens.”

  Atcho had sat listening quietly to the discussion. The conversation receded to silence, and after a beat, he broke it.

  “Eitan, how much presence does your organization have in Lima?”

  “Not much. I can’t give you exact figures, but there’s no organization in Peru that threatens Israel, so we monitor through the embassy. We sent a couple of guys up from the Tri-Border Region to ferret out the confirmation on Klaus. They have dual capability to interact as Arabs or Latin Americans.”

  Atcho thought about that a moment. “So, you already have inroads to Senderos in Lima?”

  From his right, Atcho felt Sofia fix her stare on him.

  “We do,” Eitan replied, “but I wouldn’t call them extensive.”

  “What about CIA, Burly? What are its assets in Lima?”

  “We’ve kept active surveillance on Senderos’ activities. President Fujimori is fighting them hard. He suspended Peru’s constitution and its congress last month—he’s promised elections to restore constitutional government next year. Meanwhile, he’s going after them in force, but they’re fighting back.”

  “Do we have undercover assets there?” Atcho asked. He looked up and met Sofia’s eyes; they flashed horror and anger.

  “No!” she pronounced before Burly could answer. “You’re not going down there. Get that out of your head.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want to hear ‘buts.’ You have a baby son and a toddler granddaughter who need you, not to mention a wife and daughter who have already had you ripped out of their lives for too long. You can handle this from a distance.”

  “Honestly, Atcho, I don’t know what we have in Lima,” Burly interjected cautiously. “I’m sure we have sufficient people there to do anything we need done.”

  “You didn’t have enough to stop the bombing the other day or the one in Buenos Aires,” Atcho retorted. He held up a hand to stop Sofia from speaking. “Listen to me. We stopped Klaus three times because we know him—how he thinks, what he can do, and how he does it.”

  He stopped and returned Sofia’s dismayed expression. “We’re talking about a nuclear threat. Truck bombs are a poor man’s air strike, and they’re effective, but so far nothing compared to what they would be if they included a plutonium bomb. I promise that Klaus hasn’t given up on hitting the US or getting revenge on me. He was
in Lima for a reason, and we need someone on the ground to figure out what he’s up to. Who else is better qualified than me?” He chuckled. “I even speak the language.”

  The conversation descended once again to silence. This time, Burly spoke first.

  “Are you thinking of going undercover?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I’m not sure I can get support for that. You’re a private citizen.”

  “CIA didn’t mind using me for bait in Berlin,” Atcho countered. “What about Mossad, Eitan?”

  While he spoke, Sofia left her seat and circled behind him. She cradled his head with her arms and pressed against his back. “Please don’t,” she whispered.

  Atcho reached up and squeezed her arm.

  “We don’t even know where Klaus is,” Burly interjected.

  “That’s easy,” Atcho replied testily. “He’s either in Lima or back in Saudi Arabia, close to his bombs. I suggest you increase surveillance in Lima and get our own guys or Mossad’s to act independently of the Saudi government to put eyes on that hawaladar, Yousef. We need to know what contact he’s had with Klaus.”

  “Atcho, this is Eitan. I don’t know if Mossad would support your mission. It’s irregular, and we succeed by being deliberate, leaving nothing to chance. I’ll run it up and see what happens.”

  “You do that. Tell your guys that my neck’s in the noose, not theirs.” Atcho stood and turned to embrace Sofia. She buried her face in his chest.

  “Hear me well, CIA and Mossad,” he said into the speaker. “My mind’s made up. The only question is, will either of you support me—or not? I leave in two days. Get back to me with a cover story by then, or I’ll figure I’m on my own.” He reached for the phone and terminated the call.

  “Eitan, are you still on the line?” Burly asked.

  “I’m here. Atcho’s a willful guy.”