The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Atcho continued to recite the history of Gonzalo and the Shining Path, finally ending with, “He’s a ruthless man running an equally cruel organization whose followers will kill anyone without blinking.”

  “In your undercover role, he’s a hero you admire,” Danilo cut in. “Got that straight?”

  Atcho nodded unhappily.

  “You could meet Gonzalo tonight,” Jaime said. “He asked for an introduction. Be ready. Why are you here?”

  “Fidel Castro sent me to offer technical assistance as an expression of solidarity with Senderos.”

  “Have you ever met Castro?”

  “Twice. Once in Havana when I helped capture and kill a traitor of the revolution, and once at the training facility where my two companions, Jaime and Danilo, trained. He observed my class and asked to meet them. When I introduced them—”

  “What is Jaime’s Islamic name?”

  “Abdul Kareem, but he prefers to use ‘Jaime’ in Latin American operations in order not to draw unwanted attention to himself.”

  “What name do you answer to?”

  “Domingo Suarez.”

  “Who is Atcho?”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  Danilo questioned him on Domingo’s place and date of birth, parents’ names, number of siblings…

  “Why is Jaime here?” Danilo asked. “He’s Hezbollah, not a communist.”

  “But Hezbollah wants to bring down the US. Besides, in economic philosophy, Islamic tribal practices are not far removed from communism, and we share similar strategies and tactics.”

  “That’s good,” Jaime broke in. “You said ‘we.’ That means you’ve internalized your role. Be sure to lean into your Cuban accent. It adds authenticity.” He stood back and looked Atcho over. “Your hair and beard grew out. You look like a Cuban revolutionary.” He handed Atcho a well-worn Cuban Army cap and a pair of shaded wire-rimmed glasses. “Wear these. Keep the glasses on. They hide your eyes. If you run into Klaus, they could be the difference between life and death.”

  At dusk, Danilo parked a battered Volkswagen along a street on Lima’s eastern edge, then the three men walked two blocks to a house. Atcho noted dark places along the way where gunmen could hide.

  Danilo knocked on the door. They heard movement inside, and then someone uncovered a peephole and peered through.

  “Get your weapon out and be ready to hand it over when we go in,” Danilo instructed. “Better you give it to them than they find it.”

  Atcho complied. The door opened, and the three men entered. Inside, three armed guards stood, feet spread apart, rifles held loosely pointed at them, fingers on the triggers.

  Atcho watched Jaime and Danilo surrender their weapons to one of the guards, and he followed suit.

  Wordlessly, the guard turned, indicated for them to follow, and led them down a dark hall. The remaining two guards trailed them. The lead man opened a door into a medium-sized, poorly lit room and gestured them inside. Furnishings were sparse, but a few chairs were set around the periphery.

  “Wait here,” he told them in Spanish, then left, closing the door behind him.

  Atcho, Jaime, and Danilo sat down. No one spoke. Five minutes passed, and then ten.

  Winter air had permeated the room and now seeped through Atcho’s clothing. He shivered. The room reminded him of the dank prison cell he had occupied in El Moro in Havana.

  The door opened, and three men entered—two of the guards and a third man who bore an air of authority. He stopped inside the entrance to study Atcho, the guards flanking him on either side.

  “Capitan Domingo?”

  When Atcho nodded, the man approached, hand extended.

  “I am Carlos Marka, chief of operations for Senderos. Presidente Gonzalo sends his regrets that he could not stop in tonight. He’s busy with the gunfights in the city.”

  Atcho grasped Marka’s hand and shook it. “I’m not here to get in the way.”

  Marka grunted and glanced at Jaime and Danilo without comment. “We have a technical issue we hope you can help us with. We have an operation coming up, but we have not run one like this before. Are you an explosives expert?”

  Atcho steeled himself against a reaction. “I’ve worked with them, but that’s not my area of expertise. I train soldiers in hand-to-hand combat and small arms targeting. Fidel thought that might be most helpful with your city-fighting.”

  “We’re trying to build bigger bombs,” Marka growled. “Transporting them safely on these rough roads and ensuring they detonate at the target is a challenge. Would you take a look? I’ll have these guards take you to the building site.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Marka turned to Jaime. “One of your fellow Muslims is on his way to observe the operation. He’s overdue, but should arrive within the next few days. If Capitan Domingo can’t resolve the issue, maybe he can. You might know him. His name is Sahab Kadyrov. He was here to watch the bomb attack last month. He says American intelligence calls him ‘Klaus.’”

  “Your progress seems slow,” Yousef told Klaus over the phone.

  “You picked this route and mode of travel,” Klaus groused. “I had a weather delay in Algiers, I’m sitting on a long layover in Caracas, and I still have to go through the Tri-Border Region and then overland to Lima. That could take days.”

  “I know. I apologize. We would have sent you on a private jet, but that is expensive for an observation assignment. The issue we have now is that our friends in Lima have a problem with their latest project. The objective is much larger than the last, and they are hoping you might have expertise to finish it out.”

  Klaus grimaced, hoping he had correctly deciphered Yousef’s words. They conversed with caution in case intelligence monitors were listening to telephone conversations. “I might be able to help, if you can get me there sooner.”

  “We have a large community in Caracas. Let me see what I can put together. Maybe you can go straight into Lima and avoid the Tri-Border segment. Have you heard from Kadir?”

  Klaus’ ears perked up. “What’s up?”

  “Call him, but whatever he says, keep the communication directly between you two and don’t mention me. I can’t say more.”

  Annoyed, Klaus hung up and called Kadir. He related Yousef’s comments. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Kadir breathed heavily into the phone. “Our man in Austin disappeared.”

  “What do you mean he disappeared? How could he disappear?”

  “He had the highest recommendation, as you know. On the day he went to complete the job, he called to inform that he was on the way. That is the last we heard from him.”

  “Did he do what he was supposed to do?”

  “We don’t know. We sent a local contractor to observe the place. No one was home. It has been empty for days. If he completed his task, he was in and out and did not report back.”

  Klaus, burning with anger, called Yousef again. “When this project is over,” he snapped, “I’ll take care of that matter personally.”

  “I understand,” Yousef said in a soothing voice. “You are owed that. Do us a favor, though, and come back here before you take action. We’re prepared to brief you on the next project, and it might give you a different perspective—one you’ll like.”

  “Fine,” Klaus snapped. “Get me to Lima, and get word to that chief of operations, Carlos Marka, about when I’m supposed to arrive.”

  14

  Berlin, Germany

  One day later

  Kadir controlled his annoyance as he sat alone in an interrogation room at BND headquarters. He was a large man, swarthy, with fleshy facial features and big hands, and he was dressed in a crumpled business suit without a tie. He wiped a hand over his thinning curly dark hair.

  Sofia watched him over the closed-circuit television monitor, one arm across her waist, her opposite hand at her mouth. She turned to Horton, standing next to her. “He’s upset.”

  “Let him st
ay that way a while longer,” Gerhardt interjected. “He has no idea why we brought him in. His business associates will wonder where he is. That will be a good thing.”

  An hour later, Detective Berger arrived. Together with Sofia and Horton, he watched the monitor as Gerhardt entered the room carrying a Styrofoam cup.

  “I thought you might like some tea,” Gerhardt said.

  Kadir scoffed but took the drink and sipped it. “It’s barely warm,” he said in disgust, setting it back down. “Why am I here?” They both spoke in German.

  Gerhardt smiled. “You were a big help last year in tracking down Sahab Kadyrov, otherwise known as Klaus. We want your help again.”

  Kadir half rose from his seat, obviously angry but also nervous. He glanced around. “You threatened my business,” he snapped. “I only told you about a pilot who had recently flown to Greece. You did the rest. I’m done.”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Gerhardt growled. He walked around the table and shoved Kadir into his seat. “You participated in a terrorist act. Don’t tell me what you will or won’t do.”

  Watching from the next room, Sofia raised an eyebrow in surprise. Gerhardt always spoke so politely and properly. She had not considered his ability to get rough with detainees. Berger entered the interrogation room and stood over Kadir.

  “What is this?” Kadir demanded, his eyes baleful. “I’m a businessman. I don’t have time for terrorism.” He smirked. “But I wish I did.”

  “You solicited murder,” Berger said.

  Kadir’s head jerked up. “Are you crazy? My business runs on trust. I can’t afford to kill people.” He smirked again. “Lucky for you.”

  Berger leaned down and put his face close to Kadir’s. “You’re going to help us,” he said, “and you’ll do it happily. That’s my prediction.” He straightened up and looked at his watch. “It’s lunchtime,” he said to Gerhard. “Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  Anger rising, Kadir stood up. “I’m a German citizen,” he stormed. “Charge me or let me go.”

  Gerhardt pushed him back into his seat. “I’ll tell you when you can get up.”

  “Spend the time thinking about your recent activities,” Berger added. “The criminal case will come later. Right now, the BND is concerned with an intelligence matter. Sit there and enjoy your tea. We’ll get back to you.”

  Four hours later, Sofia, Berger, and Gerhardt watched Kadir on the monitor once again. He paced back and forth, periodically glancing at his watch.

  Gerhardt re-entered the interrogation room while the others observed.

  “You’re costing me money,” Kadir bellowed. “My customers will wonder where I am and why I’m not responding to them. Tell me what you want.”

  Bemused, Gerhardt gazed at him. “That’s simple. We want you to work for us.”

  Kadir stared at him. Then his face broke into a grin, and he guffawed. “You want me to spy? Should I get a business card marked 007?” His expression turned sullen. “Let me out of here, now, or the lawsuit against the German government will be epic.”

  Gerhardt shook his head, exhaled, and gestured toward the overhead surveillance camera. “I think you’ll change your mind.”

  The door opened, and Berger walked in with a set of handcuffs. “Kadir Dogan, you are under arrest for soliciting the murder of Sofia Stahl-Xiquez.” He circled around and grabbed Kadir’s wrist from behind.

  “Forget that,” Kadir said, jerking his hand away.

  “If you want to add resisting arrest to the charges,” Berger said, “go ahead. You might want to consider more carefully, though.” He waved at the camera. Moments later, Sofia entered. Astonished, Kadir stared at her.

  She stood across the table from him, arms crossed. “We’ve never met,” she said in fluent German, “but I know a lot about you. Rawley gave you up.”

  The blood drained from Kadir’s face. He leaned over the table, eyes fixed on Sofia’s face, and offered no further resistance when Berger pulled his wrists behind him and cuffed him. Then he slid into his seat.

  “We know you arranged the hit on me,” Sofia said. “We know about your connection to Yousef in Saudi Arabia, and his links to Osama bin Laden.” Her stern voice gained ferocity. She moved around the table and brought her face close to Kadir’s. “Rawley came to kill me at my house. My baby was there.” Her eyes burned with rage. “Was Rawley going to kill him too?” She grabbed Kadir’s lapels and jerked him forward. “Did you order my baby to be murdered?”

  Gerhardt moved behind Sofia and held her by the shoulders. “We have it now,” he said gently in English. “Let us do our jobs.”

  Sofia shoved Kadir away. Berger sat down opposite him.

  “If we take you to trial,” Berger told Kadir, “we’ll win, and you’ll be in prison for years. Even if we lose, your associates will wonder how we learned about Rawley and where you’ve been all day today. Either way, your business is finished, and you could die a slow, painful death.

  “Have you ever seen a pig gutted? They start just under the sternum, stick a knife in and pull it down through the stomach. All that stuff comes rolling out, making a squishy mess—and it’s worse when you’re alive. All the blood.” He paused for effect. “Then again, your friends could just slit your throat or behead you.”

  He watched as sweat beaded across Kadir’s brow and ran freely down his face. The man’s eyes looked dull, almost trancelike.

  Gerhardt sat on the table and grasped Kadir’s shoulder. “We’re here to help,” he said softly. “We don’t want to destroy your life or disrupt your business.”

  Kadir raised his eyes, despair mingling with hope. “What do you want me to do?” he croaked.

  “We’ve arranged for you to be released from the emergency room close to your house. You were brought there after collapsing on the street this morning. You fainted from dehydration after an attack of acute gastroenteritis. You’ll go home or to your office and carry on normally. You will willingly inform us of anything and everything that involves terrorist activity that comes your way—and we have a lot of catching up to do on what you already know. You’ll volunteer for bugs on your phone, in your house, in your car, and you’ll wear a wire whenever we tell you to. You will also wear a tracking device, so we know where you are. If you disappear, we will find you and start the criminal case. Is all of that understood?”

  Kadir nodded. “What happened to Rawley?”

  “We got him,” a new voice responded.

  Kadir’s head jerked up. He had not noticed the bull of a man enter the room.

  “I’m just another intelligence guy at your service,” Horton said in fluent Arabic, smiling, “and we own Rawley, just like my German friends own you. He’s in a safe place, but the official record will show that he was hit broadside by a drunk driver and didn’t survive the accident. It was in all the newspapers. You didn’t hear about it?”

  “He folded fast,” Sofia said.

  “He’s soft,” Horton replied. “He’s peripheral to terrorist activity, valuable for moving money and services but not ever getting his hands dirty. He never thought Rawley would get caught and point at him.”

  He nudged Sofia’s shoulder. “What now, little lady? We got this situation tucked in. If Kadir sends someone after you again, we’ll sock the guy away somewheres.” He squinted, and then laughed. “This could be good for business. If Kadir kept sendin’ bad guys, we’d keep catchin’ them and puttin’ them away.”

  Sofia smiled through her fatigue. “I haven’t thought far enough ahead about what to do next. My main concern was turning this guy into an early warning system. Now we need to get the information that Rawley had about the camps in Sudan. He trained with Klaus in one of them.”

  Horton’s eyes widened and he whistled. “Well ain’t you full of surprises. Why didn’t you tell Burly?”

  “I didn’t want him to know what I was up to over here. He’d try to stop me. Maybe you can get the information to him.”

  “I can do that—a
nd also into the intelligence channels far and wide.” Horton turned with a genuinely serious expression. “My advice to you is to go home. Your baby needs you.”

  Sofia nodded but said nothing.

  Horton studied her face. “You listen to me and you listen good. It’s like my mama used to say.” He chuckled. “Hell, I don’t remember anything my mama used to say, but it was good advice, and you should take it.”

  Sofia laughed in spite of herself. “You used that joke on me a year ago.”

  “Huh? Oh well, it was still good advice.” Horton chuckled again, then grew serious. “Listen to me. Go home. We got things in hand in Berlin, and Atcho knows what he’s doing.”

  He watched her face, which remained expressionless. “I don’t know what you got cookin’ in that noggin’,” he said, ‘but whatever it is, let it go.” He leaned back, hands on hips, as another thought struck. He peered at her more closely. “Don’t you even think about doin’ nothin’ without me. Tell me what you got goin’ on.”

  Sofia stared into his eyes. “Remember last year when the reporter, Tony Collins, was murdered in Saudi Arabia?”

  Horton nodded. “Yep. I was in Collins’ room when Atcho found the note leading to the identity of Klaus’ contact in Riyadh, Yousef the hawaladar.”

  “We think Yousef is Klaus’ main contact,” Sofia corrected him.

  “So now you’re gonna get all snippety and accurate with me.” Horton grinned. “You win. We haven’t proved a connection between Yousef and Klaus.” He widened his eyes. “But it’s damn close.”