The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Later, when they were alone, Atcho and Sofia exchanged details of their activities since Atcho’s departure. Sofia related her conversation with Horton that morning.

  “Your analysis was dead-on,” Atcho told her. He took her in his arms. “No wonder they paid you the big bucks.”

  “Right,” Sofia replied, snuggling against him, “and now we have to figure out what we’re going to do. Klaus has something big planned inside the US, and he will never stop coming after us. We’re going to have to end it.”

  30

  Klaus called Yousef from Tripoli, Libya. “I’m in a safe place now.”

  They spoke in cryptic terms.

  “Have you moved your cargo?” Yousef asked.

  “It’s on the way. I broke the individual objects into their component parts and sent them the way I did before. I’ll find machine shops to do the parts of the frame I couldn’t send.”

  “How will you travel?”

  “I’ll take exactly the same route.” Well, not exactly, but I won’t tell you that.

  “When you get there, I’ll put you in touch with our contact.”

  Klaus hung up and crossed to a window, deep in thought. He watched the blue waves of the Mediterranean crash against boulders far below. This was a moment of introspection, as if observing himself from outside his body.

  Deciding not to reveal his real travel plans to Yousef had been an impulsive decision, based, he suddenly realized, on mistrust. Not that he believed Yousef would do anything to harm him or any other member of Al-Qaeda—the hawaladar’s entire existence was based on trust. If he violated that, his fortune would collapse, and that would be the least of his problems. But somehow, Atcho found me in Sudan.

  Klaus realized an emerging sense of independence greater than any he had known before. He had money, he had weapons, he knew tactics, and, just as importantly, he knew how to move around in the Western world unseen.

  For a moment, his mind’s eye glimpsed the man he had been, crawling through the smelly tunnels under Berlin—a fearsome warrior, no doubt, but one taking direction from a higher authority and relying on brute force to take down enemies in his immediate vicinity. Now, he knew how to disappear into the fabric of societies as far-flung as Afghanistan, Peru, and even the United States, whether the occasion called for a jalabiya, tourist clothes, or a business suit. He smirked. I’ve grown.

  Later that day, he met with Hassan, a local hawaladar who had introduced him to Yousef on Klaus’ first trip to Saudi Arabia. So much had happened since then. Klaus had flown over the burning oil fields of Kuwait, he had smuggled himself with a lethal packet of plutonium into the United States, and he had traveled into several countries in South America to watch three separate bombing attacks.

  “I need to move money and have it ready in three cities,” he told Hassan, getting down to business after courtesies. “Make it one hundred thousand dollars in Caracas, the same in Montreal, and half a million in New York City.”

  Hassan made a note. “Anything else?”

  “Get me a Libyan passport, an Argentinian passport, and a US passport. I need highest quality, and they should be well used with proper stamps. The Libyan one needs a visa to enter Argentina, and that one needs to get me into Canada too. The American one needs to show that I’ve passed through a legal port of entry—I don’t care where.”

  “These could take several days.”

  “That’s fine. One other thing.” Klaus pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket. “This is information that Kadir pulled together for me when I was in Berlin. There’s a photograph of a man known as Atcho. You’ll see his real name in these documents. They include newspaper articles about him and his wife, Sofia. I want to know everything about him, what family he has, where they live—”

  “Should I go through Kadir?”

  Klaus shook his head. “You’ll see the name of a detective agency in Austin that Kadir used. Get a different one. I’ll make my own travel arrangements. No one can know my movements.”

  Still taking notes, Hassan nodded as if doing routine business. “Anything else?”

  “Just one. I need a contact in Montreal with a mosque that is sympathetic to jihad. Is that something you can arrange?”

  Hassan nodded without looking up.

  Klaus headed for the door. As he opened it, he turned back to Hassan. “I’ll pick them up in three days.” He glanced at Hassan’s notepad. “Burn those notes.”

  31

  Jersey City, New Jersey

  Ten days later

  Klaus looked about the small coffee shop on the Jersey City waterfront. The early morning crowds were finishing their last mugs before heading off to work. The buzz of chatter quieted amid the aroma of fresh brews mixing with cinnamon and nutmeg. This is not an unpleasant place.

  Klaus had never heard of the man Yousef had directed him to meet, nor would Yousef tell him anything about the contact except to say that Klaus would be approached at this time on this date in this place. Despite the coffee shop’s pleasant atmosphere, Klaus felt persistent unease, surrounded as he was by tall skyscrapers and roaring traffic on a scale beyond his experience, even in Berlin. Nevertheless, he was impressed with the opportunity that presented itself: My bomb in this place would kill huge numbers of infidels.

  He reveled in the thought, but his mind turned to Atcho. How do I get Atcho into the area where I’ll place the bomb? He dismissed the notion with a shrug. He could take out Atcho at any time. The hit did not have to occur in conjunction with the bombing, and Atcho might suffer even more knowing who had planted it and that he had been powerless to stop it. Klaus smiled.

  He felt someone nudging his shoulder. A stoop-shouldered man stood there, young despite his posture. He had reddish hair that curled around his ears and an unkempt beard.

  “Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if I read your paper—the part you’ve finished?”

  Klaus studied him. The man had just given the recognition signal, but he was nervous in a way that bothered Klaus, as if that was his habitual demeanor rather than one generated by this clandestine meeting taking place in public view.

  “I’m finished with the sports page. Is that the part you wanted?” Klaus replied, completing the sequence.

  The man nodded and looked around, again in a manner that was too furtive for Klaus’ liking. He’ll attract attention just because of his silly manner. Who sent him?

  “I’m sitting with a friend over there. Would you like to join us?”

  Klaus stared at the man angrily. “No, I would not,” he retorted, registering the man’s startled expression. “I have a meeting to go to.”

  He shoved the newspaper into the man’s hands, stood, and made a quick exit. He made his way to his hotel a short distance away and called Yousef in Saudi Arabia. It would be mid-afternoon there.

  “They sent me a fool,” he blurted when Yousef came on the line. “If I’m going to work with these people, I need to see someone with competence. Anyone would have noticed and remembered that idiot. If that’s who’s carrying out your mission over here, it’s already a failure.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” was all Yousef said. He entreated Klaus to return to the same coffee shop at the same time the next day.

  Klaus spent the rest of the morning walking the city streets. Around noon, he crossed to the other side of the Hudson River through the Holland Tunnel in a taxi. There, he asked the driver to point him to the ferry that would take him out to the Statue of Liberty.

  He meandered along the waterfront opposite the coffee shop, taking in the sights and sounds of the bustling city. As he skirted by the World Trade Center, he stared up at the towers, taking in their full height and might. Then he scoffed. Your days are numbered.

  His reaction was similar as the ferry broke the wavelets while approaching Liberty Island with its grand statue, the most famous in the world. Without emotion, he watched the people gazing up in awe at the crown, torch, and visage. He viewed them in the same light as a home
owner observing an anthill spoiling a back yard—a nuisance to be removed. And I have the pesticide.

  The next morning, Klaus returned to the coffee shop. He arrived a little earlier this time so that he might have a better chance of getting a seat in a corner with his back to the wall, where he could better observe the morning crowd. Several minutes later, he noticed a man enter alone.

  The newcomer was nondescript, wore tinted glasses, and dressed neatly in clothes typical of the area. He moved easily among the other customers, excusing himself politely when bumping into someone or having to reach across for items like sugar or cream. He did not look around, yet he seemed aware of where everything was in the room, circling tables, chairs, and other people with unobtrusive ease.

  When he had paid for his coffee and a pastry, he made his way to a table not far from Klaus and sat with his back toward him. He lingered there as the crowd grew, satisfied its morning caffeine craving, and then thinned out—the rhythm of the city.

  After a while, the man stood and walked into the restroom. When he came out, he stopped by Klaus’ table.

  “Excuse me, sir, if you are finished with parts of your newspaper, would you mind if I read them?”

  Klaus looked up into a set of calm eyes. The man had removed his glasses, and he smiled mildly. “I don’t mean to bother you,” he continued. “I’ll return them if you like.”

  Klaus studied him quickly. “Please sit. You can read them here.”

  “Thank you. My name is Ramzi Yousef.”

  The two men stayed in the coffee shop only long enough to ensure they had not been observed. Then they departed and walked along the street edging the waterfront, speaking in Arabic.

  “I apologize for Salameh yesterday. He’s my useful idiot.”

  “He needs a leash. He has no subtlety and he’s all emotion. People will notice him, his strange behavior, and the people with him. I could not stay.”

  Ramzi nodded. “You are right. He’s exploded things in my workshop and he even put me in the hospital.”

  “He what?”

  “It’s true. He drives like a maniac. One night a couple of weeks ago, he drove through an intersection on a yellow light. He was going too fast and was rammed by another vehicle. I was a passenger and had to be taken away in an ambulance.” He grasped Klaus’ arms. “These Americans are so stupid. I had all the bomb-making materials in the trunk of the car. Would you believe it? The police never checked. A few days later, two of our men went to the impound lot and told the attendant they needed to get some personal items from the car. The guard let them. They got everything out. No problem.

  “I was in the hospital for a few days, but I had a telephone right by my bed and just kept working. I ordered some powdered metals I need to make the bomb more powerful. They will multiply the explosive effect by many magnitudes.”

  Klaus stopped Ramzi with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the bomb-maker?”

  “I thought you knew that.”

  Klaus shook his head. “They wouldn’t tell me much. Only how to make contact and that I would be briefed when I arrived.”

  They walked to the water’s edge. “And there,” Ramzi said, “is the target.”

  Across the river, the twin towers of the World Trade Center rose into the sky, gleaming in the sunlight.

  “Can you believe it?” Klaus exulted. “Allah be praised.”

  “That’s it,” Ramzi affirmed. “In a little more than a week, we’ll topple both of them.”

  “How?” Klaus asked, barely able to contain his excitement.

  “Simple. We’ll park the van next to one of the outer walls on an upper floor in the parking garage. We’ve already scouted and have the location selected. When the bomb blows, it will be of such power that it will damage the foundational structure of the first tower, causing it to fall into the second tower.” He rubbed his hands together in exultation. “We’ll get them both.”

  Klaus’ eyes glowed with excitement. He leaned back so he could see the full height of the towers and imagined them collapsing into the Hudson River.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.

  Ramzi pursed his lips. “Not really. I was told only to expect you, how to find you, and that you should be treated as a peer. You come with the blessing of Osama bin Laden.”

  Klaus nodded. “True.” As he explained his purpose, Ramzi’s eyes grew wide with amazement. Klaus explained to him about his bombs, how he had come into possession of them, and how he had transported one into the US on a previous occasion. “I’m building a new one here,” he said. “I’ll have some parts machined in local shops; the other parts were delivered to an address here in New York. I think that address is yours.”

  Ramzi’s cheeks contorted as he held back a smile. “I didn’t know what they were for.” He stood back and took a new measure of Klaus, then pointed across the river at the towers. “That,” he exclaimed, “is the financial heart of the US economy. When we bring those buildings down, this abominable country might never recover. And with your weapon added to mine, thousands of infidels will die, perhaps millions. The black hole a mile wide in New York City will be a warning to all mankind of the power of Islam.” He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. “Surely, Allah brought you and me together for his jihad.”

  Then a questioning look crossed his face. “What about the nuclear fuel? Do you have it already?”

  Klaus chortled. “Are you ready for some irony? I have it, and I stored it in a bank safety deposit box in that tower.” He pointed at the one with the television antenna protruding from its top. “I think they call that the North Tower.”

  Neither man spoke for a few minutes, both taking in the sight of the soaring edifices across the river. Then they turned and retraced their steps past the coffee shop toward Ramzi’s workplace.

  “How did you enter the country?” Ramzi asked.

  Klaus smirked. “It was so easy. I flew into Montreal on an Argentinean passport and took a boat from Kingston across Lake Ontario. I have a US passport that shows I traveled outside the country a while ago and re-entered a few weeks back.” He laughed. “I’m legal. What about you?”

  “I’ve been here since September. I came in on a fake Iraqi passport and was arrested coming through immigration at the airport. I claimed that my life was in danger in Iraq and requested political asylum.” He shrugged and laughed. “I went in front of some minor official who scheduled a court date for me and let me go on my own recognizance.” He guffawed. “I think I missed my court date.”

  They reached a long alley and turned to walk through its shadows. “You know what’s even funnier?” Ramzi continued. “I came here with one of our men. He’s more like Salameh, not the most intelligent person. The passport he presented at immigration had his own picture pasted over someone else’s, and he had three other passports. He was arrested and sentenced to six months in jail and fined fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars? That’s all? In Saudi Arabia, they would have tortured him.”

  “Here’s the funniest part,” Ramzi continued. “He was carrying bomb-making manuals with him, complete with his own drawings. At his trial, he claimed that he had them because he was researching how to spot them among terrorists. The judge not only ordered that the manuals be returned to him, but also that if any of them were damaged or missing, the arresting officer would have to pay to replace them.”

  He shook his head. “Only in America. Anything goes here. He has a week or two remaining on his sentence, but we can’t wait for him. If he’s not out in time, we’ll blow the buildings anyway. I don’t worry about him, though. He’s comfortable. He says the inmates just sit around watching TV or porno videos.” He chuckled. “He claims to turn his head so he doesn’t see and be corrupted, but I don’t believe him.”

  They continued on through the alley. Then Klaus stopped. “I need help with another project.”

  Ramzi gave him his full attention.

  “This project is sanctioned
by Osama on condition that I don’t let it interfere with our joint mission here.” He recounted his running battle with Atcho, the death of his brother, and Atcho’s interference in his other attempts at raining death on infidels.

  “Yes,” Ramzi agreed when Klaus had finished. “This Atcho must die, and all those close to him. What do you want to do?”

  “If I can’t get him into the bomb blast area, I’ll deal with him afterwards. Meanwhile, I want him to feel my reach, to fear the power of what I can do, to tremble at the knowledge that I am coming for him.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I want to send him a message. He’s at West Point. Have you heard of the place?”

  Ramzi nodded. “Of course. It’s about fifty miles upstream from the Twin Towers.”

  Klaus’ eyes burned with malevolence. “That close? I hadn’t realized that.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  Klaus hesitated only a moment while he gathered his thoughts. “Let me have your best man. Atcho has a son and a daughter. They are at West Point now. I want them kidnapped and brought to me.”

  Ramzi shrugged. “We can do that, but do you think it’s wise so close to executing our mission?”

  “It will be a distraction for Atcho. He expects me to come, but he won’t expect that. He’ll be so busy trying to find them that he won’t have time to get in our way.”

  “How old are the children?”

  “His daughter is fully grown, and she has a daughter as well. Your man can bring her too, if he can manage all three.”

  “What about the son? Will he be a problem?”

  “Only if you run out of diapers. He’s a toddler.”

  “What will you do with them?”

  “Sell them into the sex trade,” Klaus said without hesitation, “or you can take Atcho’s daughter back to Pakistan with you, if you like. Consider her a bonus. The son we can sell to a trader in Afghanistan. He can be a dancing boy there.”