The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Isabel closed her eyes as if to shut out a fearsome world. “Are you going to stay with us this time?” she said, an edge to her voice. She opened her eyes and looked directly at Sofia. “Or do you plan on taking off again to places unknown? I know you didn’t go home last time around. You went to Berlin.”

  As soon as she spoke, Isabel looked as though she wished she could take the words back. Sofia regarded her without expression.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’d rather not say,” Isabel replied, her tone slightly defiant. Then she softened. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  Sofia’s mind furiously worked through a mental list of all her acquaintances who might have known about her trip to Berlin. She settled on one name.

  “Ivan must have told you. There’s no one else who could have.”

  “Don’t be mad at him,” Isabel cried. “I tried to reach you after you left here. Dad was wherever he was, and Bob was on travel. You were supposed to be at home, and when you weren’t, I pushed Ivan to tell me where you were.”

  “It’s all right.” Sofia rose and moved to the other side of the table to reassure her, wrapping her arms around Isabel’s shoulders. “Ivan is the one guy who can usually figure out where we are,” she mused aloud. “How would he have found out?” She thought a moment. “He must have called Horton. He and Ivan worked with us on a mission in Berlin two years ago. They know each other and are close to Atcho and me.”

  “Who’s Horton?”

  “Never mind.” Sofia’s mind whirled as she considered who else might have information leading to Atcho’s current location and activity. She released Isabel and downed her last bit of coffee. “I have to shower and get dressed. I’ll be gone most of the morning.”

  Startled, Isabel called after her, “Ivan’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “No, but you gave me an idea.”

  By nine o’clock, Sofia was waiting outside the office of the West Point history department director. When she was finally shown in, she got straight to the point.

  “Colonel Morgan, I believe my son-in-law, Bob Bernier, teaches in your department?”

  The colonel nodded. “How may I help you?” He was an amiable man, tall with dark hair tinged gray, and he was in remarkable physical shape. Despite his warmth, he carried an air that brooked no nonsense.

  “I need a secure line to call Berlin.”

  Morgan stared at her. “I’m sorry. I accepted this unscheduled meeting out of courtesy to Bob, but I—” His voice was firm, his speech refined.

  “I’ll tell you exactly why I need it,” Sofia interrupted. “Does the name Atcho mean anything to you?”

  Their conversation lasted fifteen minutes, after which Sofia sat alone in an office waiting for the secure phone to ring at the opposite end.

  “Horton here.”

  The major’s big, friendly voice brought welcome relief.

  “Joe, it’s Sofia. I’m glad you’re still in Berlin. I know you’re supposed to rotate out soon.”

  Horton grunted and Sofia smiled. She could almost see him leaning forward in his chair, his face mischievous as he calculated how best to respond.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m still here, holdin’ the line against the Mongol hordes. Great to hear you.” A moment passed. “You ain’t never called me from stateside before — just to chat. This cain’t be good. Are you aware that I’m gettin’ ready to retire? You ain’t gonna mess that up for me—”

  “No.” Sofia laughed. “I just need your help.”

  Horton huffed into the receiver. “Somethin’ tells me that your no-account husband got hisself in trouble again. Cain’t you put a leash on that guy?”

  Sofia brought Horton up to date. “I just need you to get someone, anyone, to keep an eye on Yousef in Riyadh. Twist that hawaladar Kadir’s arm there in Berlin. He can tell you how people come and go at Yousef’s house. If this Mossad mission in Sudan gets close to Klaus and fails, he’s going to be hopping mad, and he’ll go to Yousef pushing for vengeance. Unfortunately, his revenge is aimed at our family.”

  “I see what you mean, little lady, but I wouldn’t be bankin’ on the Mossad failin’. They got a pretty good record.”

  “I’m not banking on it,” Sofia said, stifling her impatience. “I’m playing ‘what if?’ If they do fail, they’ll go home, make a report, and look for the next chance. But my family is likely to pay the consequences. I can’t wait around to find out.”

  “All right, ma’am, I’ll see what I can do.” He sounded deliberately world-weary.

  “Get the Germans to help,” Sofia urged. “They’re bound to have assets in Riyadh.”

  “I got it.”

  “Get them to interrogate Kadir again.”

  “I said I got this,” Horton said brusquely. Then he laughed. “You know, if you mess up my retirement, there’s gonna be hell to pay with Ziggy.” He paused a moment. “Where are you?”

  Sofia told him.

  “Well, I suggest you stay right there and get to know your son a little bit. Your stepdaughter and her daughter too. Cain’t hurt. And don’t worry. I got your backside from here.”

  After hanging up, Horton stared at the phone. “What are you gettin’ yourself into this time, Major?” he grumbled to himself. He rose, walked across his office to a cabinet, and extracted some blank forms. Returning to his desk, he grabbed a pen and filled them out.

  Twenty minutes later, he was sitting in front of his boss, engaging in a heated exchange. Ten minutes after entering the office, Horton emerged with a satisfied grin, his request for a special intelligence mission to Riyadh approved.

  “I’ll push it upstairs,” his boss said, “but it’ll take a few days.”

  Horton’s conversation with Ziggy that evening went as he expected. At first dismayed, then angry, then mollified as he cajoled her, she finally acquiesced with tears and hugs to an outcome she had known at the start was inevitable. Three days later, Horton boarded a plane for Riyadh.

  Two hours after landing, he entered the headquarters of the General Intelligence Presidency just off Said As Salmi, a major Riyadh thoroughfare. He presented his US Army credentials and asked to see a particular officer. Then he sat and waited in a reception area.

  An hour passed, then two. By that time, Horton had tired of studying the intricate design on the ceiling, discerning repeated patterns and counting their number while twiddling his thumbs. Another hour passed, and Horton took note of various people crossing the reception area and throwing glances his direction.

  At last, he heard his name called in a heavy Arabic accent and looked up. A short, barrel-chested man walked toward him, hand extended. His smile wrapped from ear to ear over a jutting, clean-shaven jaw, and he had a straight nose with flaring nostrils and eyes a peculiar shade halfway between green and brown. His hair was cropped short.

  “My brother,” the man said, and laughed. “You should have told me you were coming. I would have told my wife to prepare a room for you at my house.”

  “Which wife, Iqbal?” Horton chuckled and shook Iqbal’s hand. “The last time we met, you only had two.”

  Iqbal’s face turned deadpan. “Yes, that’s a serious issue, and now I have three.” He looked skyward. “They all give me trouble. I should have stuck with just one—or maybe none.” He broke into laughter again. “What are you doing here?”

  “You already checked me out, so you know I’m here in official capacity.”

  “But you came straight to the Kingdom’s intelligence headquarters without checking in at your own. How can I help my best brother?”

  “Don’t flatter me,” Horton joshed. “You tell everyone they’re your favorite brother. I’m tired. You could offer me some refreshment in a quiet place where we can relax.”

  Iqbal’s eyes narrowed and he looked about. “Of course. You had a long flight. I’ll take you to my favorite tea room.”

  They left the building and Iqbal drove Horton to a nearby plaza with a smatte
ring of shops and eating establishments. Entering one, he greeted the owner like a long-lost relative and introduced Horton as his very best brother. Then he asked for a room where they could relax quietly without being bothered.

  When they were seated in front of a pitcher of steaming tea on a low table, Iqbal glanced around the room. “These walls have no ears,” he said. “My good friend, the owner, would not dare to compromise me.” He fixed his gaze on Horton. “What brings my best cousin to Riyadh?”

  “I thought I was your best brother.” Horton grinned.

  Iqbal poured the tea. “Brother, cousin, friend—it’s all the same. I would give my right arm for you. I would take a bullet in the chest and—”

  “Got it,” Horton interrupted. “I’ve never had so much fun workin’ with anyone than when I was assigned here—what was that, ten years ago?” He sipped his tea. “I need to call in a favor.”

  Iqbal’s expression dropped. “You don’t need to call in any favors,” he said with an edge to his voice. “You are my brother, my friend. You have only to ask. If I can do it, consider it done.”

  Horton took a moment to order his thoughts. “There is a hawaladar here in Riyadh. His name is Yousef.”

  Iqbal nodded. “I know who he is. We track all the hawalas in Saudi Arabia. He is very well connected.”

  “Do you also know of a terrorist by the name of Sahab Kadyrov? Western intelligence calls him Klaus from a previous alias.”

  “We’re cognizant of him. Tell me what you know.”

  Horton related his first awareness of Klaus as a Soviet Spetsnaz deserter and rogue operator in Berlin. He went on to describe Klaus’ activities in Kuwait in the days after Saddam Hussein’s invasion during the time when the wells burned, including his suspected murder of Tony Collins, an investigative reporter covering the war. He finished with details of how Klaus had attacked Atcho’s home in Austin and later sent an assassin to kill his family.

  Iqbal listened attentively. When Horton finished, he asked simply, “What do you need from me?”

  “We believe the hawaladar Yousef is Klaus’ conduit to Osama bin Laden.”

  “Saudi intelligence believes the same thing. Osama is a thorn in the royal family’s side, but he has so far done nothing to cause us to take action against him.”

  “Do you know about his activities in South America?”

  Iqbal shook his head. “Only peripherally. Maybe someone else in our agency knows more.”

  “He’s been involved at a high level on each of three bombings.” Horton related the details of the Israeli Embassy bombing in Buenos Aires, along with the television station and huge bomb in Lima. “That one killed over eighty people and took out a whole neighborhood and dozens of businesses. Klaus was present each time. We have positive identification.”

  Iqbal sat in silence for a while, then said, “What do you want from me?”

  “Klaus is in Sudan now. We think he might have reason to come through here soon. If that happens, I need to know. He’ll go straight to Yousef.”

  “Why hasn’t US intelligence made a formal request for cooperation?”

  “We tried that when the newspaper reporter was murdered, but your police force protects Yousef.”

  “Ah, yes,” Iqbal agreed. “We do have that problem.”

  “I ain’t askin’ for nothin’ fancy,” Horton pressed. “I just want to know if Klaus comes through here in the next week or two. If that happens, I’ll know why and where he’s likely to go.”

  “And you won’t tell me how you’ll know his purpose?”

  “Are you goin’ to tell me everythin’ you know?”

  Iqbal chuckled. “That would take years. Why don’t we just arrest him here?”

  “If you can, please do. He’s become wily, enterin’ and leavin’ countries at will, undetected. I’m expectin’ that by the time you find out he’s been here, he’ll already be gone.” Besides, we’re hopin’ he leaves with the bombs. We don’t want those fallin’ into your hands.

  “All right. I will tell you only this: we have an informant in Yousef’s house. We turned one of his house servants after a US intel request a few months ago.”

  Horton’s eyes narrowed. Thank you, Sofia.

  Iqbal continued. “I’ll bring this matter under my personal attention. If we hear that Klaus has come to Riyadh, I’ll call you. But”—he raised a finger—“we will also attempt to arrest him.”

  “Fair enough.” Horton grinned. “You must have been promoted a few times since I last saw you.”

  “Once or twice,” Iqbal said noncommittally. “How’s your family?”

  22

  Khartoum, Sudan

  Atcho struggled to keep Jaime in sight, following from a distance as they wound through the crowded city streets. He had placed a small pebble in his shoe to induce a limp, and he wore a long, dirty, pastel robe—a jalabiya. Unkempt hair protruded from below his soiled turban. He stooped heavily over a worn walking stick, and he kept his head bobbing oddly to one side while his eyes burned with apparent madness. His week of fasting had left him looking gaunt—he did not have to pretend. That morning, he had eaten enough to take the edge off his hunger and keep himself mentally alert, but he still felt lightheaded.

  As Atcho passed the teeming crowds, he noticed buildings that evoked the grandeur of a time long past, their walls cracking and crumbling and surrounded by lean-tos and shanties. Water pooled in low spots in the middle of the dusty streets, and the stench overcame that of his own unwashed body.

  The condition of Khartoum reminded him of Havana the last time he had seen it, just after his release from prison: a formerly proud city, brought to ruin by Castro. Atcho wondered which part of Khartoum’s history had brought it to this disorder.

  Dismissing his thoughts, he looked ahead to keep Jaime in sight. So far, no one had approached Atcho, but he had practiced how to indicate that he could neither speak nor hear, emphasizing his feigned plight by throwing in a few unintelligible grunts.

  A car had brought him to the edge of town at dawn. Atcho knew nothing of the driver, and they did not speak. He had already been in character, and on reaching their destination in an alley off of Omduram Souk, the largest marketplace in Khartoum, he had waited in the shadows for the car to disappear before emerging into the teeming masses poring over open displays of vegetables and other produce and haggling in a constant cacophony.

  As he struggled through the throngs, he held his hand in front of him like a beggar and took up a position near a mosque on the edge of the souk. He stood there for nearly half an hour, begging, and a few kind souls had dropped coins into his hand.

  At last, Jaime had come along. Atcho knew that his former teammate from Peru had been selected for the task because Atcho would recognize his face.

  Jaime was dressed to pass as a Sudanese farmer. He had stopped in front of Atcho, muttered a recognition phrase, dropped a few coins in his hand, and moved off. Atcho followed.

  As they trudged through the streets, Atcho relaxed into his role, recalling how he had similarly disguised himself to meet with a Soviet intelligence officer in Cuba a lifetime ago. We’re in a never-ending battle.

  He looked ahead. Jaime had just rounded a corner. Atcho hurried to catch up, reminding himself to do so in character.

  He turned the corner. Jaime was nowhere in sight.

  Atcho wheeled about slowly, searching. Then he heard a hiss.

  Jaime’s head protruded from a short stairway leading under a row of buildings. He made eye contact with Atcho and then disappeared down the stairs.

  Atcho waited a short while and then followed. He entered a dark, dank, smelly passage that led into deeper darkness and made his way carefully, shedding his pretense of physical disability as he went. At the end, he found a door leading to another tunnel-like passageway that crossed at a right angle. He took the branch to the right as he had been instructed and followed it until it curved again to the right. Then he saw light ahead. Moments later, he stum
bled into a wider space, where Jaime was waiting.

  “Great to see you,” Jaime exclaimed. “We’re safe here. If anyone comes in, we’ll get warning, but it’s doubtful anyone will.” He led Atcho through a door to the side. “These are access tunnels to the city’s sewer system, but it’s antiquated, so the tunnels are not used much. We’ve cleaned out a maintenance room for our use.”

  The chamber was sparse, nothing more than a table with light communications equipment and a few cots set against the walls. “We’ll rest here for the day and move to the staging site after dusk. You’ll meet the rest of the team there and run through a few brief-back rehearsals. Do you have any questions?”

  “I’m glad to see you. Is Danilo on this mission too?”

  Jaime shook his head. “We both volunteered, but as you Americans say, I got the short straw.” He grinned. “Besides, I do a better Sudanese than he does. Any other questions?”

  Atcho shook his head tiredly. “I’ve been thoroughly rehearsed.” He hesitated. “Well, just one question. What was the point of my disguise and walking all that way through the city?”

  “Simple. If we get separated tonight, and you don’t make it to the extraction point, you’ve got to take care of yourself until we can get you out, and you don’t speak the language. You needed to get the feel from the ground. Do you have that transmitter you were issued in Tel Aviv?”

  Atcho nodded.

  “Good. Tonight, we’ll cross the Nile west of here and meet up with the assault team a few miles east of the camp. Anything else?”

  Atcho shook his head.

  “Good. Then get some rest. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”