The Danger Within

by E. L. Pini

  Froyke turned his back to me and fell asleep.

  52.

  Imad was dead. We’d destroyed the ticking tanker. Victor was buried in some black site in Arkansas for the rest of his life. The only link still active in this shit-chain was the Chernobyl factory. The road there passed through the eternally festive Santa Claus Village in Lapland, located just three miles from the North Pole, and about the same distance from Rovaniemi Airport, where I was supposed to meet Boris—our man in Saint Petersburg.

  The prime minister had yet to approve an active operation. However, Putin’s utter refusal to stop the deliveries of antiaircraft “tie-breaker” missiles to Iran—and from there, to Syria and Hezbollah—had at least nudged the prime minister into granting approval for preliminary reconnaissance and planning. A good start. Much better than the complete ban I’d had to face before.

  The plane landed roughly and bumpily on the frozen runway. The fingers of my right hand were aching with paresthesia. I was desperate for either a long swim or a chiropractor, maybe both. My legs, which the economy seating had crumpled into origami, were also due a long vacation, or flat-out retirement.

  I checked into the hotel as quickly as possible and threw myself into the steaming indoor pool. The heat, and fifty minutes of aggressive breaststroke, did the trick. After I showered, I went down to the lobby and waited for Boris, holding a stack of brochures presenting a selection of photovoltaic panels from GES Energy—which really should have been erased from existence after the Shabwah camp had been destroyed but, probably due to some clerk’s typical negligence, hadn’t been.

  While Boris “read” the brochures, I asked him whether we should sic our excellent cyberwarfare department on the Chernobyl gang. The same cyber department had grown the Stuxnet worms that had collapsed the centrifuge computers at the Iranian reactor in Natanz.

  Boris literally howled with laughter. When he calmed down, he said that he doubted the bookkeepers up there even had digital calculators and went on to confirm the rest of the intel provided by Victor. The Chernobyl factory, as it turned out, was not so much a factory as it was an array of bunkers stocked with Red Army weapons, ammunitions and explosives. The facility had been abandoned after the Chernobyl disaster and captured by a gang of ex-KGB operatives, which had proceeded to sell its contents to the highest bidder. According to Victor’s intel, there were three PETN tankers parked at the “factory,” which Zhdaniev had already agreed to purchase.

  Although Victor’s interrogation had been conducted with the help of a polygraph, it was reassuring to have the intel confirmed. I was certain that Spetsnaz and GRU had been trained to fool polygraphs, just like we had. Sixteen hundred dollars in cash had bought Boris the factory’s schematics and inventory list, which included over thirty thousand Stingers, ten thousand RPG launchers, small-arms ammunitions, and of course the liquid PETN, which was stored comfortably in the three rusted tankers.

  “Truth is”—Boris smiled—“I already have everything I need to create a work accident.”

  The problem, as he quickly acknowledged, was the collateral damage—the workers who might be hurt, and the possible effects on dormant radioactive remnants from the reactor explosion.

  “Not good enough,” I said. “We’ll never get approved for something like that.”

  “Either way, here’s what I’d recommend,” he said and raised his glass of cognac. “Na zdarovje.”

  “Na zdarovje,” I said but decided to forgo the drink. “What would you recommend?”

  “Fuck the assholes up. Fuck ’em up as hard as possible. If we don’t get on top of this, some new Imad will.”

  I’d mentored Boris back when he was a cadet. He was a quiet kid who mostly spent his free time listening to Stravinsky and trying to solve the Clay Mathematics Institute’s Millennium Problems. Had working with us turned him into an uncouth muzhik?

  His constantly drumming fingers suddenly froze. “Got it!” he said.

  “Got what?” I wondered.

  And he leaned in and whispered, “The liquidators, they’re even more motivated than we are.”

  “Who?”

  The liquidators, Boris explained, were the thousands of political prisoners who had been put to work cleaning the remains of the radioactive explosion at the Chernobyl No. 4 reactor and had come out dripping with cancer. Many of them had been Chechen captives.

  “Chechens never forget. Find them, or their children, and we’ll find our volunteers,” said Boris and downed the last of his cognac.

  “Good. See what you can do,” I concluded, hoping for the best.

  53.

  “Ich hab’ noch… einen Koffer in Berlin,” Anna hummed Hildegard Knef’s homesick words, and kissed Francesca, who blushed in response. I still have a suitcase in Berlin…

  It was Francesca’s birthday. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the red Mini Cooper; Anna was driving.

  “The café on Ku’Damm?” Anna half-asked, half-informed her, and Francesca nodded cheerfully.

  “Definitely Ku’Damm.”

  “Still have a suitcase back there…” sang Anna, a slight variation on the lyric. Seeing that Francesca remained oblivious, she nodded slightly toward the backseat. “You still have a suitcase back there.”

  Francesca turned around and let out a small yelp. Seven tightly monogrammed Louis Vuitton creations rested on the backseat, ranging in size from a tiny coin purse all the way up to a large suitcase.

  “You’re insane,” she said, leaning closer to Anna. Anna tilted her head toward the kiss, and there was a sudden crashing sound, a screech of metal—Francesca’s head bumped against the windshield and she shrieked in alarm. Anna quickly pulled over, calming down only when she saw that Francesca was safe, that she was only startled, not injured.

  Anna got out of the car and faced the large black Mercedes G-class jeep that pulled over behind her. The red-faced fat man who drove it apologized profusely, admitted his failure to maintain a safe distance, and asked for Anna’s details so his insurance company could cover the damages. He even suggested driving Francesca to the hospital, just in case. Anna calmly provided him with her details, accepted his business card, thanked him for his concern and assured him that she was a doctor and she’d handle it from here. The fat man apologized again. Anna examined the lightly dented rear bumper.

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” she said. The fat man apologized one last time and got back into his jeep.

  Once he’d gotten back on the road, he paused his dashcam and dialed a number. “Berlin carried out successfully. Sending the video now. The opera tickets were also delivered.”

  The fat man’s handler forwarded the video to abu Bachar, who immediately sent it to Imad. He’d wanted to rattle Anna, even slightly, before his arrival.

  The brunch at the Ku’Damm café was excellent as usual. Anna examined Francesca’s head, tilting it gently from side to side, kissing each side in turn. Francesca was loving every second of it. If it weren’t for the fat man, it would’ve been a perfect day—a perfect week, really, thought Anna. Yesterday they’d officially broken in the new equipment in the top-of-the-line operating room UNICEF had recently added to her clinic. The European UNICEF representative cut the ribbon and praised Dr. von Stroop’s hard work and dedication. Life in the absence of Imad and Avner was calmer, more peaceful. The thrills inherent to those two seemed like they belonged in a distant, negligible past—as they should. And in any case, the responsibilities of parenting—which they had both committed to upon adopting little Abdu—demanded a calmer life. Anna’s depleted mental reserves were slowly recharging. They were approaching better, happier times. She’d talk to the secretary tomorrow about the insurance thing.

  “Today’s for celebrating,” she said and hugged Francesca, who seemed surprised to find something in her new purse. She pulled her hand out and stared at the two tickets that had somehow been w
aiting inside.

  “Tickets to the Valkyries. Wagner and Barenboim,” she announced.

  “What? When?” whispered Anna, who considered the Valkyries, Wagner and Barenboim to be the holy trinity of music.

  “Tonight,” said Francesca, still puzzled, and the word was swallowed by Anna’s soft lips.

  They picked up Abdu from the kindergarten, and after their daily walk through the zoo, followed by a Ku’Damm falafel, a schlafstunde, a shared shower and an espresso, they were ready to head out. The doorbell rang and Francesca went to get it.

  “You’re not Olga.” She smiled.

  “Olga’s sick. She asked if I could fill in for her,” said the girl at the door, a tall, brawny teen with light brown skin.

  “What’s your name?” asked Anna.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Tilda. Olga’s friend. She told me Abdu is the sweetest kid. Can I see him?”

  “Cesca, could you show Tilda around?”

  Anna went in to the study and dialed their usual babysitter. “Olga? Everything okay? The flu, huh? Yeah, yeah, Tilda, she’s here. Yeah, she seems nice. Okay, good night. Thank you for finding a replacement. Tschüssi.”

  Francesca showed Tilda the house, made sure she knew where the coffee machine and the bathroom were, and explained that Abdu was an amputee and needed assistance standing up.

  “Your bag,” Anna said, staring at it. “Beautiful! Turkish?”

  “Yeah,” replied Tilda, handing it over. “Handmade—my dad works with leather.”

  Anna inspected the bag appreciatively. “Is it okay if I look at the lining?”

  “Sure,” said Tilda. She opened the bag, and it slipped out of Anna’s fingers, spilling its contents on the floor. Anna apologized and carefully collected the innocent items back into the bag, with Tilda’s help.

  “We’ll be back by midnight. Is that okay?”

  Tilda smiled. “Nice house, adorable kid—I’ll stay here as long as you want. If you want one, by the way, I could ask my dad…”

  “Yes, please do. I’ll buy two, I think—it’s a gorgeous bag. Here’s my number—the other one’s Francesca’s, in case mine is busy. See you later, have a good night.”

  54.

  Darkness descended on the hall. The orchestra musicians took their places. Applause. The last to take his place was Daniel Barenboim. The applause grew louder, then reached a crescendo when Barenboim bowed to the audience. The strings whined a tense whisper, dark storm clouds covered the slowly descending screen behind the orchestra, thunder rolled. The contrabass swelled louder and louder. Sigmund was running helplessly under dark, stormy skies. He found a door, set inside the stone, and knocked on it loudly and desperately. Anna opened the door. The brass progressed in a military attack formation. Sigmund looked just like Imad.

  “I’m cursed,” he told Anna. “I’m cursed, and now I must go from here.”

  “Not now, don’t go yet…” pleaded Anna Sieglinde. “We’re all cursed… I have a mission.”

  The timpani drums thrummed and rumbled, and Anna didn’t understand how a squadron of helicopter gunship came to be on the screen of the Berlin opera. Colonel Kilgore was standing on the edge of a helicopter that was raining hellfire. The string section battled the brass section. This can’t be the Ride of the Valkyries, she thinks; we’re still in the first act. Anna wiped her sweaty brow. On the stage, on the mountaintop, Sieglinde and Brünnhilde were on horseback, leading the dead to Valhalla. Act Three—the Ride of the Valkyries boomed at a volume that threatens to bring down the walls. Kilgore’s helicopters rained death and destruction, creating a horrible, fiery ring. Anna was alone on the summit, surrounded by flames, unable to move. Robert Duvall was laughing his ass off. He sounded just like Eli Wallach when he said, “You’re my friend. I’d kill you for nothing.”

  Francesca, who was holding Anna’s hand, suddenly noticed that it was sweating.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No,” said Anna. “Something is very much not okay. I feel, I… sorry, I need to go home, I’m scared.” Anna got up and, without waiting, jogged outside.

  “Taxi!” she ordered the terrified doorman.

  “Corner of Blumen Strasse, now!” She shoved a hundred-euro note into the driver’s palm. “Hurry! Go! Now!”

  The taxi sped away with a screech of rubber.

  Anna sped into the building and summoned the elevator, only to realize that the elevator was open in front of her. “Oh God… just let the kid be okay… please, Abdu, please be okay…”

  There were no lights on in the apartment. She ran to Abdu’s room in the dark, found him sleeping soundly, his breathing calm. Anna gently stroked his cheek and kissed the top of his head.

  Francesca arrived, breathless. “He’s fine. No need to wake him, he’s fine,” Anna said, calming her.

  “Abdu’s fine, but where’s Tilda? The lights are off. There’s no one here.”

  The cabinet doors in the study were open, and the large gym bag that held one of her go-bags was on the floor, empty. Anna signaled Francesca to stay where she was, took off her shoes and carefully crept into the kitchen. She pulled out a large chef’s knife and stalked into the bedroom. There was no one there. On the floor, she found the ornamented, empty jewel box.

  “It’s okay, babe. No one’s here. Keep an eye on the kid? I’ll be right back.”

  55.

  The tires shrieked their discontent at the sudden force, and Anna eased her foot slightly off the gas, allowing the car to accelerate. Two thousand rpm, three thousand rpm—the turbo kicked in. Anna sped past the Platz der Republik, entered Moabit, drove down the boulevard, took a left, then a right—the townhouses, the foreign workers’ housing projects. She screeched to a halt in front of Olga’s house. A beat-up Fiat Panda was parked in front of her with the doors wide open and Turkish music blaring from the speakers. The backseat was covered in piles of clothes. Tilda folded her tall form out of the car and stood with her legs spread apart, fists on her hips.

  “Olga, get out here,” she yelled. “Your fucking doctor is here. What, you wanna fuck me? You wanna fuck this ass? No problem, but in the ass is extra. Fucking dyke.”

  Olga arrived, pressed against Tilda’s back and kissed her bare shoulder. Anna nodded toward the backseat, covered with what used to be her wardrobe. “Keep the clothes, keep the jewels. I need the gun and the papers.”

  “Or what?” sneered Tilda. “What the fuck are you gonna do? Send over your little nigger to hop at me?”

  Anna took a step and a half forward and planted her heel—backed by her entire body weight—on the tips of Tilda’s toes. Tilda folded forward, groaning in pain, upon which her center of mass met Anna’s rising knee. She collapsed to the ground. Olga fled.

  Anna rummaged through the backseat and pulled out the go-bag, containing her documents, her Beretta, and a thick stack of bills in a yellow envelope. She then started her car and for a while just sat there, trying to collect the pieces of her calm new life. After several minutes, she turned off the engine and walked back to Tilda, who was still lying on the ground, wheezing. She lifted her shirt and examined her ribs, then took her pulse, which was normal. Tilda raised her head slightly and spat in her face.

  “The Arabs are coming to tear your ass apart, you cunt.” She laughed wildly. Anna wiped the spittle from her face and pulled five hundred euros from her stack of bills, placing them wordlessly by Tilda’s head.

  In the shower, Anna submitted to the heat of the water. Francesca cut through the thick cloud of steam to hand her a glass of cool, dry Riesling. Anna didn’t move from the stream, drinking the wine along with the hot water pouring into it.

  I’m scared, she wrote in the steam on the glass door.

  56.

  Abu Bachar’s strategy was proving effective. After the bombing at the Molenbeek Mosque, the sheikhs had acceded to a tahdiya—a ceasefire. The sult
an had requested a reconciliation and received it; Imad and his stuffed shahids would officially leave Al-Qaeda and enter the service of the sultan. Finally, Imad was standing on the path that would lead him to his destiny.

  “Israel is a foothold,” he was saying. “The American fort within the Middle East, within our territory. It supports interests of the American oil companies, which in turn are bleeding us dry.”

  “True,” said abu Bachar. “But how is any of this relevant to us?”

  Imad crushed the butt of his cigarette. “Take down the fort and we’re free to charge forward. Nothing will stand in our way. All we need is a foothold.”

  Abu Bachar stared at him blankly, and Imad realized the time had come for practical demands. He stressed the importance of acquiring the PETN at all costs. Tupolev and Schwadron, the two remaining PETN distributors, had gone underground following Victor Zhdaniev’s arrest, vanishing not only from the darknet, but apparently from the face of the earth.

  “There are three tankers left at the Chernobyl facility, under guard twenty-four seven by the Russian mafia. There are a few more pounds of the stuff back in the old Kabul clinic,” Imad said, “but we have no way of bringing them here. We need the PETN and we need a clinic, in Sultanate territory, where no one’ll bother us.”

  “No clinic on Sultanate ground.” Abu Bachar’s refusal was final. “I won’t have the American dogs sniffing up my ass, not to mention the Jews.”

  And so, the remaining PETN made their way through the Pakistani diplomatic mailing service all the way to the Sultanate’s embassy in Berlin, where Anna had recently opened her new clinic.

  57.

  Anna’s new, untroubled life, Imad’s death, taking out the tanker in Lebanon and Zhdaniev’s business—it all left an emptiness inside of me, and in this emptiness, the sense of danger from the Chernobyl tankers rang clearer and louder than ever. Being my usual obsessive self, I continuously pestered Froyke on the matter, and he pestered the DM, who pestered the prime minister, who in turn refused vehemently given the level of risk that would be involved—until, eventually, he didn’t.