The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

  Luciano hesitated, his face showing the weight of decision. He sighed. “All right.”

  An officer nudged his elbow and pointed to a screen. Luciano peered at it and turned to Atcho.

  “We’ve got a clear shot of him. Is that your guy?”

  Atcho moved closer to the screen and scrutinized the image in front of him. “That hat is hiding his full face, but the lower half of the face looks like him, and that’s the right build. Where was that taken?”

  “On the Paths Concourse. He appears to be headed to the North Tower.”

  A phone rang. The security officer at the control panel answered it. “Sir,” he called to Luciano, “we’ve got him. He’s on the seventy-eighth level Sky Lobby mopping the floor.”

  “Patch us in.”

  Atcho’s heart thumped when the live image appeared on the screen. His face flushed red and sweat beaded on his forehead. His hands became clammy.

  “That’s him,” he said, “and there’s his bomb.” He pointed to a toolbox sitting to one side of the screen, apparently against a wall. “Get me over there. Fast.” He glanced at his watch. The digital readout blinked 11:50.

  Luciano’s face flushed with frustration. “I’m sending over a quick reaction force,” he said. “We don’t know when he’ll blow that thing. I can get my men there faster than I can get you there.”

  “Fine.” Atcho matched Luciano’s tone. “But they have to keep control of Klaus’ hands. I’m sure he has a remote, and he’s willing to blow himself up. We’ve already seen that. Tell them to hold him until I get there. No one opens that container. And shut down those elevators.”

  “Agreed. I have some undercover men in suits I’ll send up. They know what to do.” He made the call.

  Each of the passing minutes seemed like centuries to Atcho. He watched in fascination as Klaus mopped methodically back and forth. The flow of people entering and exiting the elevators slowed visibly. If Klaus noticed, he showed no indication.

  Soon, only four men other than Klaus remained on the floor. Three had meandered into Klaus’ vicinity and one had moved toward the container, which now could be clearly identified as a toolbox.

  In a sudden flurry of action, the three men near Klaus lunged. One tackled his feet and the other two grabbed his arms. In an instant, they had him on his back. The fourth man walked over to the toolbox and took up a position next to it.

  Atcho turned toward Luciano, who had just hung up a phone. “The subject is subdued, and our guys have the remote,” the security chief told him.

  “Get me over there,” Atcho growled.

  On West Street, Tariq maneuvered the van to the parking garage entrance they had already scouted. He coaxed the vehicle over the hump that led into the dim interior and then eased it down the long ramp. Continuing past the rows of parked cars, they made their way to parking level B-2.

  Tariq slowed to a halt.

  Ramzi stared in consternation.

  Ahead of them, a concrete beam suspended from the ceiling. A sign posted on it warned of the maximum height that a vehicle could pass beneath it without scraping the beam. The van was two inches too tall.

  Ramzi whirled toward Salameh and fixed furious eyes on him. “Didn’t you check the height when you rented this van?”

  Salameh shrugged. “It looked like the right height.”

  Ramzi closed his eyes and faced the front, containing his anger.

  “What do we do?” Tariq asked.

  Ramzi’s mind flipped rapidly through alternatives. If they tried to ram or scrape under the beam, they ran the risk of detonating the bomb while they were still in the van. If they let air out of the tires, they risked being spotted, and the uneven wobble of the van driving on flattened tires could set off the nitroglycerine.

  “Park over there,” he told Tariq, pointing to an area reserved for delivery vehicles. Anger sparked in his eyes. “We won’t be able to get to the outer wall. Pray for as much destruction as possible.”

  Tariq did as instructed.

  “Hand me the fuses and get out,” Ramzi ordered Salameh.

  Gingerly, Salameh crouched and picked up the four fuses tied together and resting on one of the four buckets of nitroglycerine. The opposite end of each fuse led into a corresponding tube in the cylinders.

  Ramzi took the ends of the fuses. “Go,” he told Salameh. “You too,” he said to Tariq. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Salameh clambered over Sofia, taking one last opportunity to kick her as he opened the rear door and hopped out. He closed it and ran. Tariq followed, their footsteps barely echoing in the cavernous parking garage.

  Ramzi moved rapidly, holding the fuses together in one hand while pulling a cigarette lighter from his pocket with the other. The flame leaped when he flipped the lid on the lighter, and he watched it with fascination as he held it to the fuses.

  The smell of flame and acrid smoke reached his nostrils. He coughed, and his eyes watered. He stayed only long enough to see the flame traveling along the surgical tube-coated fuses. Then he jumped from the van, locked it, and ran after his comrades’ receding footsteps.

  As Atcho rode the elevator up to the seventy-eighth floor of the North Tower with Luciano, he fought down overwhelming emotion. Worry about Sofia overrode all others, and his mind replayed the sequence of his interactions with Klaus: waking up in the Berlin Mövenpick Hotel to find the terrorist pointing a gun at Sofia’s head and then forcing Atcho to crawl through the dark, smelly tunnels under that city; the firefight during which Atcho had killed Klaus’ brother on the east side of the Wall; their confrontation inside the Stasi headquarters as the Wall crumbled; Klaus’ orchestrated assault on Sofia there; his terrorist attack in Kuwait; and then his foray against Atcho’s home in Austin.

  The elevator halted and the doors slid open. There, sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall with his hands interlocked behind his head, was Klaus. He grinned when he saw Atcho.

  Atcho strode across the foyer, and before anyone grasped his impulse, he seized Klaus by the throat and landed a fist square in his face.

  Klaus sprawled across the floor onto his back and lay there, stunned.

  “Where’s my wife?” Atcho snarled. He took two steps toward Klaus and was about to grab him again when Luciano intervened.

  “The bomb first,” Luciano said.

  His lungs heaving, Atcho caught himself. Blood slid from Klaus’ nose and he wiped it with a thumb. “You can’t save her anyway. She’ll watch you die on TV with thousands of infidels—maybe millions. The news channels will replay the scene over and over for years.”

  Atcho looked across to the toolbox sitting against the wall. Klaus followed his glance and chortled. “The timer. Do you remember that it has a timer?” He laughed. “You can’t stop what will happen now, and this afternoon your wife will die, but not before she entertains many men.”

  Atcho glared at Klaus, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a small cloth bag. He extracted a silvery device that was rounded on one side and flat on the other. The NUKEX.

  He approached the toolbox cautiously, examining it from each side. As he did, a high-pitched tone sounded from inside.

  Klaus, now sitting back against the wall under the watchful eyes of the undercover security men, laughed. “It’s over, Atcho,” he called. “You have one minute to do whatever you think you can do. I set a short delay on the timer. I had no need of a long one.”

  The men looked at each other. Atcho froze momentarily and then squatted over the toolbox. Gingerly, he picked it up and turned it over.

  Luciano ran to his side. “What are you doing?”

  “The bomb has to be in a false bottom. Your people at the employee entrance would have done a physical inspection of the contents, right?”

  Luciano nodded. “They didn’t know to be on the lookout for a bomb when he entered, and they wouldn’t be looking for a false bottom.”

  Atcho laid the NUKEX flat on one end of the bottom and pressed a button to
activate it. “This thing takes thirty seconds to warm up,” he yelled to Luciano, “and I don’t know which end the bomb’s trigger mechanism is on.” Sweat already dripped from his brow and his heart beat rapidly. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the NUKEX to one end of the box and moved it along the center lengthwise. “If we have time, this should melt any electronic wires and components directly below it.”

  As seconds ticked away, Atcho knew he would fail. He should be feeling increasing heat from around the edge of the NUKEX. It was there, but not enough to accomplish its task. He needed at least another minute.

  “Is anyone timing this?” he yelled.

  “I am,” Klaus called, indicating his watch with a mocking smile. “You have fifteen seconds.”

  Next to him, Luciano turned white and blew out his breath. He pulled up his wrist to see his own watch and inhaled sharply. “You’re at five, four, three, two, one…”

  49

  Eighty floors below in the parking garage, the stench of burning plastic and det cord mixed with acid seeped out of the van. A pregnant woman walking by on her way to work noticed, but the smell was still only light, so she merely held her breath until she was past the unpleasantness and entered her place of work.

  On the seventy-eighth floor, Atcho stared at the toolbox in disbelief. The timer had wound to zero, but he was still squatting over it. Nothing happened.

  He stared over his shoulder at Klaus. “They won’t be singing songs about you in Mecca.” He coughed, surprised at the tautness of his voice. “Now we know. Your bombs don’t work.”

  Klaus continued to grin, and Atcho stared at him in puzzlement.

  “History is already written,” the terrorist said. “You can’t escape it.”

  Just then, a tremor vibrated through the floor and the huge plate-glass windows creaked. A roar sounded through the ventilation system. Moments later, smoke spilled through the air ducts.

  Sitting against the wall, Klaus laughed uproariously. “You celebrated too soon.”

  Suddenly, he bounded to his feet. The security officers, distracted by the commotion, realized their immediate danger too late. Klaus connected a hard jab to the closest one’s face and then, spinning around, brought his foot hard against the side of the second one’s head. Both men went down.

  Across the foyer, the third security officer reached for his gun. He was too late. In a flash, Klaus had crouched over his second victim, grabbed the man’s pistol, and fired.

  The security officer across the foyer dropped.

  Klaus swung his weapon and fired again. Luciano fell to the floor.

  “How things change,” he called to Atcho. “I could have just let you die with me here, but I want to kill you myself. What a blessed day this is. Allah delivered you into my hands.” Then, puzzled, he looked around for Atcho. “There’s nowhere to hide,” he said, and laughed.

  Breathing heavily, Atcho crouched out of sight and considered his next move. When Klaus had turned to shoot Luciano, Atcho had scooped up the third security officer’s weapon and dived behind a row of planters between the elevators and the Sky Lobby windows. He checked the magazine and then turned as the elevator doors from higher floors began to open, watching panicked people stream out and run to a second bank of elevators that would take them to lower levels. Many already held kerchiefs over their faces against increasing smoke. Atcho heard bits and pieces of their cries.

  “An explosion in the basement…”

  “They think a power junction blew…”

  “Maybe a bomb?”

  Then a cluster of people spotted the prone security officers and shouted for help to rescue them, then dragged them out of the crowd’s path and tried to revive them. One of the rescuers screamed over the din upon discovering blood spilling from Luciano and the wounded security officer, adding to the pandemonium.

  To Atcho’s horror, there was a sharp pop-pop-pop as shots rang out. Klaus fired indiscriminately into the crowd in Atcho’s direction to clear the field.

  Atcho raised his head over the planters. Not able to spot Klaus, but seeing the wounded dropping, he understood Klaus’ tactic. He leaped to a low crouch, aimed his weapon in Klaus’ direction, and yelled at the crowd, “Get down. Get down. Get down.”

  Amid more screaming, the path in front of Atcho cleared, and he ran toward Klaus. The terrorist had stopped firing and was crouched against a wall, out of bullets.

  He scanned the scene, defiance still plastered on his face as a crowd of angry people formed around him and closed in. Before Atcho could reach him, they bore down on him, fists flying and legs kicking. Klaus’ pistol clattered across the floor.

  Atcho waded in. When he broke through the crowd, the terrorist was lying in a pool of blood, battered but still conscious.

  Atcho crouched beside him, grasped the front of his shirt, and leaned into the man’s mangled face. “Where’s my wife?”

  Klaus opened his eyes, then gave Atcho a mocking grin and chuckled through blood bubbling between his teeth. “As you Americans love to say, the fat lady didn’t sing yet.” He raised his head and clutched Atcho’s arm. “By now, your Sofia is on her way to hell. I hope she enjoys her farewell party.”

  Atcho cocked his fist back and plowed it into the center of Klaus’ face. The back of the terrorist’s head bounced off the marble floor and he lay still.

  50

  The long line of tenants, their employees, and clients plodded down the emergency stairs, descending into smoke-filled darkness. Two of the security officers manhandled a handcuffed Klaus between them. Behind them, gun in hand, Atcho followed, keeping close watch on Klaus as they descended.

  Luciano had regained consciousness. Despite a wound to his chest just below the shoulder, he had insisted on staying in the Sky Lobby to assist and instruct people heading to the emergency exits. One of his men had applied first aid and stopped his bleeding.

  The other wounded security officer had been less lucky, having sustained a shot to the head that had knocked him unconscious. So far, he was still out. Luciano had called for an emergency medical team and ordered his recovered men to join Atcho in escorting Klaus down to waiting authorities.

  After reawakening, Klaus had at first been gleeful at the sight of throngs of infidels clambering down the poorly lit steps. Then, as minutes proceeded into hours and he realized that the North Tower would not topple, much less fall into its twin, he became morose. He mocked the rescue teams that passed them going up, laden with equipment, and brightened when, after two hours of descending stairs that sent pain shooting through even his very toned physique, he emerged with his captors to see the devastation wrought by Ramzi’s bomb.

  A squad of policemen closed around Atcho, the security officers, and Klaus as they followed the line of survivors through the dark and smoldering lobby at ground level and escorted them to a cordoned-off area.

  A sedan and a dark van, both with flashing strobes, waited there. The front doors of the sedan opened. Burly stepped out on one side, Jim Dude on the other, and they came forward with solemn faces to meet Atcho.

  “No news?” Atcho asked, anticipating the answer. Burly shook his head and put a hand on Atcho’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Klaus and his escorts continued past them. “What? No wife?” Klaus mocked.

  Atcho ignored him.

  Klaus suddenly and deliberately stopped. He turned and looked up at the Twin Towers looming above them. “Next time, we’ll take them both down.”

  Jim Dude regarded him in disgust. With a nod of his head, five armed men emerged from the van and surrounded Klaus and his entourage. They wore jackets marked with “FBI” in big yellow letters. The police escort fell away, and the FBI agents hustled Klaus toward the van.

  “I want a lawyer,” Klaus jeered as he entered the vehicle. “Atcho assaulted me, and I was unarmed.” He leaned back and guffawed as he was thrust into the interior. “I know my rights.”

  “Put him in a deep, dark hole,” Atcho
muttered to Dude.

  Suddenly, a gunshot pierced the air. All eyes shifted to the van. Three of the agents lifted their hands in the air and backed away as Klaus appeared, wielding a pistol. He glanced about wildly, and his eyes met Atcho’s.

  A grin started to form across his face but ended abruptly as three more shots rang out and he was blown backwards by the force of bullets.

  Atcho continued firing until his clip was empty. Then he walked over and looked down at Klaus while one of the FBI agents checked for a pulse. The agent looked up at Atcho and shook his head. “Lights out,” he said.

  Dude appeared at his shoulder. “Every agent and officer not involved here is out looking for your wife.” His face fell. “I am so sorry…”

  Atcho waved him away. “No time for that now.” He looked around at the lines of ambulances, police cars, and fire engines, and then at the blackened base of the tower. “How many casualties?”

  “Twenty-three dead so far, and scores wounded. We’ll be searching for people through the night, maybe for days.”

  Atcho stared around again and started walking back toward the building. Burly followed him.

  Atcho waved him away. “I need a few minutes alone.”

  Burly dropped back, and Atcho walked on, conscious of the thick coat of dust that covered everything; of the intermittent dark streaks of blood where people had lain, perhaps gasping out their last breaths; of the lethal glass shards strewn about; and of the flashing blue strobe lights all around him.

  A stench invaded his senses: smoke, mixed with a sharp acidic odor and the smell of death. He heard the screaming of sirens, some waxing, some waning, as ambulances arrived and carried victims away.

  Close to the building, rescue workers hurried in all directions, some bearing stretchers, others applying emergency care on the ground. Citizens helped citizens as more people emerged from the lobby, having labored down the staircases from the highest reaches.