“And the Rothmans,” Alix countered. “My aunt and uncle understood the problem of genocide in their hearts. In our house, not a day went by that someone didn’t bring up the Holocaust.
“The extermination was more subtle in the late fifties and sixties, but it was still going on, David. Not only in the Middle East, where attention was focused. In South America, Brazil, and Argentina especially. In the United States. Here in Russia, of course. That’s what held the watchdog group together for thirty-five years. Concerned Jews, mostly survivors, they understood how it could start all over again.
“Eventually there were thousands of loosely connected members all over the world. In nineteen different countries. There was a main steering group and subgroups based on differing religious and political beliefs. That’s how things ultimately got out of control—one of the subgroups. The important thing was that Jews were protecting Jews.”
David suddenly cut in on Alix.
“I am a concerned Jew, Alix. No one ever tried to exterminate me until your people came along and decided to play God. Until Benjamin Rabinowitz ordered my grandmother and my brother killed. And my wife, who was innocent of all this, was killed, too. Why don’t you try explaining that to me?”
Alix’s mouth went completely slack. Her head began to shake from side to side. Alix’s eyes rolled involuntarily, then closed.
Her look was part incredulous shock, part pure amazement. “David, what are you saying? Please. That isn’t possible! No!” Confronted with Alix’s shocked reaction, David suddenly knew. He understood everything he needed to understand. They had never told her about the killings. Perhaps they’d thought Alix wouldn’t have gone through with the rest if she’d known.
Alix was crying now, sobbing.
“Harry Callaghan told me, Alix. The FBI and the CIA finally solved most of the Storm Troop puzzle. I was able to fill in a few of the details. …”
Alix was holding her face in both hands. “Oh, David, believe me, I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
Alix had no idea how to communicate to David what she was feeling now. Her guilt was doubled, tripled. She felt as if all her insides had suddenly been ripped out. The murders of Elena, Nick, David’s wife, Heather. It was impossible to comprehend.
Now it was David’s turn to try to explain.
“My grandmother, Rabinowitz, Ben-Iban—they had all worked together for years. Ever since they’d met in the confusion of the DP camps. Much, much later, my brother Nick became involved. Nick was the obvious choice because Elena always thought I was too Americanized to really understand. Especially the brutal Nazi-hunting. The revenge murders … besides, I was Elena’s doctor. That was a holdover from her experience with ‘Materials for Israel’ in the forties. My grandmother had always wanted me to go to practice medicine in Israel. For as long as I can remember. So I was kept out of the secret group. To protect me, I suppose.”
“Was Nick that heavily involved?” Alix asked. “Did they have to? Oh my God, David!”
“My brother Nick believed that his films could win important support for the Jewish people. Change some misconceptions, maybe a few of the terrible biases. Nick didn’t really believe in Nazis. Not the Fourth Reich kind anyway.
“In the beginning, Nick got my grandmother to give him money for his film projects. My grandmother diverted money away from the group and its work. Then Nick wanted our family to go to the FBI. Ben-Iban and especially Benjamin Rabinowitz were apparently beginning to frighten him. What he heard about the Dachau plan frightened him. There was the pledge of death to anyone who revealed the group’s secrets, of course. Jewish omertà, which I suppose was necessary for the group’s survival. Nick and Elena knew that when they tried to contact the government last spring.”
“Everything was so professional. So very clever in an espionage sense,” Alix said. “Except—who watches the watchdog group? That old problem.
“Oh, David, everything we wrote in the demands is true. That’s the horrible part. The economic sanctions against Israel. The nuclear threat always hanging overhead. The Russian POWs. The Russian slave camps that exist right now. Nazis in high government positions all over the world. Nazi mass murderers still walking free.”
Suddenly Alix’s mind flashed a terrible step ahead. To another part of the Dachau Two plan. To the deadly device that had put necessary strength and muscle behind the Dachau group’s threats.
“There is another factor operating here in Moscow,” she said to David. “A mechanism was designed to ensure that the demands were treated seriously. Rabinowitz and Ben Essmann are planning to turn it into an instrument for revenge. I’m certain of it now. What’s happening is exactly what your brother and grandmother were afraid of! Do you remember that Der Spiegel researcher saying that the Nazis were old and this was their last chance to establish the Reich? Well, the Jewish survivors are old, too. This is their last chance for revenge. They want to avenge the six million, David. I’m just beginning to understand the whole thing myself.”
“There has to be something that can be done,” David said. “I keep thinking of Operation Thunderbolt. All those spectacular rescues. That train in the Netherlands. …”
Alix put her hand on David’s arm. “You have to leave the dormitory. You have to tell the Russians what you know about the situation here. Maybe if they know …”
“And what are you going to do if I refuse to leave?” David finally asked. “Because first of all, the Russians have already been warned about a disaster here. Second, they’re not going to listen to me. The Russians don’t listen to anybody.”
CHAPTER 80
A staggered procession of hand-tooled Zil limousines—side-blinds drawn, trailing small gray rags of diesel exhaust, deposited their important passengers at an oval side entrance to the redbrick-walled Kremlin.
From one of the slick black limos stepped the American agent Harry Callaghan.
Inside a czarist-looking dining area, Harry sashayed among diplomats and other VIPs, all outfitted in dark, expensive clothes, greeting one another in somber, whispery tones.
By ten minutes after eleven, exquisite rumors about the purpose of the secret meeting had proliferated far beyond the scope of anyone not privy to the whisperings of the hyper-imaginative diplomatic community.
Just a minute or so later, a Russian man, gray-bearded and wearing a neat, gray business suit, crossed the checked marble floor of the large, formal room.
The man assumed a central position behind the makeshift speaker’s dais.
“As a courtesy,” General Yuri Iranov began over the trail-off of diplomatic voices, “as a courtesy to all of the countries visiting Moscow during these Olympics, these particularly distressing times, I would like to make a few important remarks.
“As far as this situation in Olympic Village is concerned, we are going to ask you to please content yourselves to sit back and be spectators on this truly unfortunate evening.
“At a quarter to twelve tonight,” the Russian KGB chairman continued over a rising din, “approximately fifteen minutes before the first terrorist ultimatum runs out, there will be separate diversions in the streets outside each of the three hostage sections of the Olympics.”
A few Russian stooges standing around the chandeliered room now began to nod enthusiastically, to clap.
“These diversions have been carefully designed to get as many terrorists as possible to go to the windows of their buildings. … Something, as you shall see, the terrorists have been doing as a matter of habit.”
“You’re going to attack the dormitories?” An American voice sounded in the gallery.
“Second,” General Iranov continued, “a group of the finest Russian Army marksmen—three marksmen for each of the terrorists—are already in position surrounding the four dormitories. Sixty seconds after the diversions begin, these marksmen will shoot dead any terrorist careless enough to be at a front window.”
The KGB general now held up a recent, blown-u
p photograph of a section of Olympic Village.
The diplomats could see a man—a negotiator—a diversion—approaching the front of the dormitory.
All over the photograph there were white grease-pencil circles where terrorists had been spotted looking out of upstairs windows. The photograph offered evidence that six of the eight terrorists holding that section of building would have been shot dead at that moment.
“Third and last,” General Iranov continued, “as soon as the sniper fire begins, teams of soldiers and policemen will strike at the rear and tunnel entrances.
“In most cases, plastic explosives have already been planted to blow off doors and other possible obstructions.
“Since most of the athletes are being kept in separate rooms, the resulting bloodshed and any deaths should be minimal.”
“What about their threat to kill all 682 athletes?” Harry Callaghan was suddenly shouting at the Russian. The professional agent was suddenly making a scene. The quiet American was finally aroused. “What about their threat to create another Dachau here?”
General Iranov, meanwhile, was already leaving the speaker’s dais. He appeared very dignified and calm, as if no diplomats or ambassadors were screaming at him from less than thirty feet away.
At 11:40 there was a wild dash for all the nearby telephones inside the Kremlin.
Telephone calls flashed out to Washington, D.C., to Tel Aviv, to Munich, to London, Cairo, Damascus.
Harry Callaghan, meanwhile, was in his limousine, already rushing back to Olympic Village.
CHAPTER 81
Obscured by a half-open door sporting a life-size Jimmy Connors poster, a single guard stood in the worst location. The guard was down at the far end of the claustrophobic fifth-floor hallway. Right about where Jimmy Connors would have smashed his imaginary power serve.
A larger part of the upcoming problem, David concluded as he eyed the guard, was that Marc Jacobson, the Medic, was holding a Stechkin machine gun pistol in one hand.
The gun was capable of discharging 105 rounds of 9mm ammunition in ten seconds’ firing time. It was a menace anywhere, but especially in a narrow hallway crowded with terrified young girls.
“I’m going to try to hold this pistol on you,” Alix said as she and David turned down the narrow, dramatic corridor. “When we get down to his end, I’ll say something and you hit him. Hit him hard! As hard as you can, David.”
David’s head twisted around. “What are you going to say to him?”
“I’ll think of something by the time we get there. Go ahead.”
“Just say hello,” David turned his head and whispered. “Something simple is enough.”
“Just walk, David. Try not to look like we’re doing what we’re doing, okay?”
His eyes riveted on the young terrorist with the gruesome firearm in the crook of his arm, David marched straight ahead. Some of the United States team girls were peeking out into the hallway. Very frightened women. David recognized the fifteen-year-old gymnast Candy Slattery. A black sprinter named Mercy Tallant, who had already won a gold medal. “Little Teri Byrd from Muncie, Indiana,” who, according to Curt Gowdy, had the best jump shot—man or woman—at the 1980 Olympics.
“If I blow this, you just have to shoot him,” David twisted his head and whispered again. His mouth felt wadded with cotton. “Don’t hesitate, Alix. Not for a second.”
David tried to take a deep breath, but no oxygen seemed to come up out of his lungs. He had no idea whether he could knock this man out, or at least down. More likely, he’d break his hand and get shot.
“David is going out now!” Alix suddenly blurted. Confused, David started to turn around again.
“Hit him!” Alix shouted.
Too late, though. David having blown the signal, the machine gun was thrust like a bayonet into the pit of his stomach.
Marc Jacobson had started to yell something to Alix when David’s hardest punch cracked into the Medic’s nose and cheekbone, breaking the former, turning whatever the young terrorist was going to yell into a sick bird sound like aarrkkk.
David quickly spun around and yanked a fire extinguisher off the wall. His ears ringing, he pressed the forty-pound canister straight over his head. He roared out like an Olympic weight lifter.
To his amazement, the scraggly-bearded terrorist was unconscious on the floor. David bent and set down the fire extinguisher. He picked up the Medic’s Stechkin.
“All right, let’s go down to the fourth floor now. Try to think of a little better signal phrase this time.”
CHAPTER 82
At 11:45, on the order of Benjamin Rabinowitz, Colonel Ben Essmann raced down the back stairs of their section of the hostage dormitory. The Soldier was to begin Dachau Two.
The commando was sweating fiercely. Acidic water was seeping from under his curly black hairline. Sweat trickled down and stung his dark eyes. This time, even the Soldier was a little frightened and unsure.
The Führer wanted him to kill a great number of the world’s finest athletes. As revenge for the death camps: for Munich, Lod, Ma’alot.
Once he reached the dormitory kitchen, the professional terrorist stalked among the buzzing refrigerators and ovens. He bent down low among the machines and kitchen worktables.
Holding a penlight in his mouth, the Soldier began to tinker with a wrench, then with a small Phillips screwdriver. For a scary moment the Soldier was beginning to experience his first feelings of genuine doubt and concern.
In the other hostage sections of the dormitory, the Engineer and the Russian Architect were presumably twisting away the same important nuts and bolts.
Each man worked on a sophisticated, less than thirty-pound generator—a black metal electric box that had been sitting harmlessly, without apparent purpose, under the stainless-steel kitchen sinks. An official-looking unit marked #A919-GRT.
These generators had been painstakingly designed by the Engineer, Gary Weinstein. They served only one purpose in the kitchens. The generators would compound, then switch the microwaves flowing through magnetron tubes in each of the kitchen ovens. The microwaves would be transferred into special casing that ran through the air-conditioning system of the dormitories.
Josef Servenko, the Architect, and four other Russian Jews, had meticulously built the tubing into nearly a third of all the dormitory space in Olympic Village. The buildings of Moscow’s Olympic Village, they had all decided, were definitely not terrorist-proof.
The dormitories were essentially large, high-pressure microwave ovens now.
In less than sixty seconds, the compounded “fat” microwaves would be shooting out of the air vents and ducts in every suite of rooms in the hostage dorms. The microwaves would bounce pell-mell, helter-skelter, off the impenetrable metal around the vents. Then, the microwaves would begin to penetrate and discharge their energy into glass, fiber, stone, plastic, wood, and human flesh.
According to the Engineer, in less than twelve minutes, everyone inside the dormitories would be dead or dying. The 682 hostage athletes. The terrorists themselves.
CHAPTER 83
As they raced down the stairway to the fourth floor, David and Alix nearly collided with Malachi Ben-Eden.
“They’re preparing to attack us!” the former Shin Beth agent screamed. “They’re coming at the building from all directions!”
David’s right foot flew out like a football punter’s. It caught the Weapons Expert right on the tip of the chin.
David thought he’d broken his foot. The surprised terrorist went tumbling down the steep flight of stairs, then lay in a crumpled heap.
“Not too bad for a broken-down gynecologist,” David said as they collected another Stechkin and more grenades. He was at least as surprised as the Weapons Expert had been.
“I wouldn’t get too cocky,” Alix whispered.
Just then a longhaired woman, Anna Lascher, stepped out of the fourth-floor hallway.
“You traitor!” she said, raising her rif
le and pointing it at Alix.
A single shot cracked in the tiny stairwell. Alix had fired her own Beretta. The smell of cordite wafted into her nose like ammonia.
The woman terrorist crashed back hard against the wall. She slipped down to the floor, grimacing in pain, clutching her wounded shoulder.
“We’re not traitors!” Alix bent and spoke to the stunned Jewish girl. “Think about what’s really beginning to happen here. Think, Anna. Don’t you see what’s happening? Don’t you see, brave girl? Don’t you see, Anna?”
CHAPTER 84
Skirmish lines of Red Army soldiers were choking off the tiny cul-de-sacs and side lanes around the hostage dormitory. A regiment of martial-brown uniforms marched down a wider street, like a Red Square parade on May Day. Everything but the towering missiles were on hand.
Red Army helicopters were settling down onto nearby rooftops.
Combat troops were streaming out of stout transport trucks and municipal buses.
Five, seven, nine, twelve, armored cars appeared. Their turret lights were blazing balls of fire in the night. The tanks came forward slowly, at ten to fifteen miles per hour, but they seemed to be moving faster because of the terrible roaring, rattling noise.
A smattering of cheers rose from the crowd as roving tank searchlights swung across the blank, staring faces. Some Russian women patted the armored-steel shells as if they were family watchdogs.
For a whole generation of Americans, it was the first actual sighting of the much-talked-about Russian war machine.
West Germany’s ZDF, the BBC, NBC, the French, and Japanese TV networks filmed the live battle scene from every conceivable angle and perspective.
The TV cameramen shot long lens, zoom lens, and fog lens for a dramatic smoking-inferno effect.
They shot close, extremely close, and closer still.
Nearly a hundred tense Russian Army and Moscow Police sharpshooters stood at the ready.
Outfitted in dark gray sweatsuits and peaked hats, the Russian marksmen lay flat on nearby rooftops.
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