Foreign Soil

by Alex Ander

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  Chapter 22: Your Op

  5:49 p.m. (Local Time)

  Stratford (a district of east London, England)

  Four blocks away from Kimmler’s house, gathered at the back of a National Crime Agency tactical van, Hardy, Cruz, Hamilton and four members of an NCA elite unit—similar to an American SWAT team—stared at each other.

  One foot on the bumper, Hardy rested his crossed forearms on the butt of the HK L85A2 rifle slung around his neck. “You know my preference. I say we go in hot. We don’t know what kind of resistance Kimmler is going to mount.”

  Hamilton countered. “And, there are too many ways where going in hot could result in an innocent civilian being shot. I’m not willing to risk that happening.”

  Hardy stood straight. “This is your op, Hamilton.” He motioned toward Cruz. “We’re the visiting team here, but,” he paused, “how about we compromise…muzzles up, fingers off the trigger.” He eyed the elite unit commander. The man nodded.

  Hamilton squinted at Hardy and Cruz for several seconds before nodding. “I can live with that.” She pointed, “Commander, you and I will breach the front door,” before turning toward Hardy, “you and Cruz go in the back door. The rest of you will hang back and move in on my command only. Is that clear?”

  The three men standing around their team leader nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gripped her L85. “The four of us will be able to handle this…unless he’s got his own army in there.”

  … … … … …

  Down on one knee behind a row of shrubs at the back door, weapon up, Hardy scanned the back of the house. Flickering light poured out from a corner window to the right. A faint glow came from windows toward the center of the structure. He checked his watch—6:09 and fifty-four seconds. He looked across the back stairs. Cruz mirrored his stance at the end of another row of shrubs. Holding up five fingers, Hardy counted down. At two, he pointed at her and both of them rushed up the steps.

  Hardy dropped to his knees and stuck two small picks into the lock.

  “What are you doing? We’re supposed to wait for Hamilton to give the order.”

  Hardy stowed the lock picks, turned the doorknob, but did not open the door. “We are waiting.”

  From the front of the house: “Doctor Kimmler, this is the NCA. Open the door.”

  “That sounded like an order to me.” He stormed the house—muzzle up and finger off the trigger as promised—swinging the rifle in all directions.

  Cruz rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Why can’t you just follow instructions?” before entering the structure.

  Hardy motioned left. Cruz went to the kitchen, while he cleared the living room.

  Hamilton: “Knock it down, Commander.”

  Hardy opened the front door. “Don’t shoot, Ellen. It’s me.”

  Cruz: “Kitchen is clear…coming to you.”

  Hamilton’s face darkened. “I told you to wait for my command.”

  Hardy pivoted away from her. “Cruz and I have everything right. You two take the left.” He darted around a corner and headed down a hallway, Cruz a step behind. “First door’s yours, Cruz. I’ve got the last one.”

  Cruz: “Copy that.”

  Hamilton cleared the only room on the left, a bathroom. “Bathroom’s clear. Commander, you’re with Cruz. Hardy, I’m on your six.”

  Hardy stood outside a closed door. The same flickering light escaped from the gap above the carpet. Noise came from a television—gunshots, screaming, yelling, squealing tires. Someone’s watching an action flick. He felt Hamilton’s presence behind and to his right.

  Cruz: “First bedroom is clear. We’re approaching your position.”

  Hardy reached for the doorknob. More gunshots interspersed the unmistakable rack of a shotgun. His pulse skyrocketed. That’s not the TV. “Gun!” He spun, “Cruz, stay back!” and tackled Hamilton. Before they hit the floor, the bedroom door splintered into a thousand pieces. Twelve-gauge double-aught buckshot penetrated the wall above Hardy and Hamilton’s heads.

  The Commander leapt over the two on the floor and charged into the bedroom. “NCA, NCA—drop the weapon! Drop it now!”

  Cruz knelt. “Hardy, are you okay? Hamilton?” She reached for him, but he jumped up.

  “I’m good, Cruz. Hamilton, are you hit?”

  “No extra holes that I’m aware of.” She stuck out a hand. “Help me up.”

  Commander: “Down on your knees, hands on your head…do it now.”

  When Hardy and the women were on their feet, he ran into the bedroom. On the opposite side of the bed, the Commander was clasping the second handcuff onto the wrist of a man, lying face down on the floor. The man was wearing light blue boxers and a white t-shirt.

  Rushing forward, Hardy clamped hands around the man’s left arm and neck. In one swift and powerful motion, he threw Boxers onto the bed. The man’s head bounced off the mattress. “What the hell do you think you’re doing taking a shot at us?” Hardy made a fist, cocked his arm and took a step forward. The next thing he knew, he was flat against the wall.

  The Commander had hands on Hardy’s chest and left arm. Hamilton restrained the other half of his body. Both were struggling to keep him pinned.

  Hardy glimpsed his friend before turning and glaring at the man inches away from his face. Hardy’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “Let go of me.”

  “I take orders,” he flicked his eyes, “from her…not you.”

  “You’ll be taking your meals through a straw if you don’t let—”

  “Hardy!”

  He jerked his head toward the sound of his name. Cruz stood between Hamilton and the Commander, her face muscles taut. There was not a hint of levity about her. He stared at her. Stay out of this, Cruz.

  “Calm down,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

  This is between—

  Cruz winked at him.

  Him…and…me… Hardy regarded her. Did she just… A moment later, he relaxed and stopped resisting. “I’m good now. Let me go.”

  The tension drained from Cruz’s face, and she gave him a quick Mona Lisa smile.

  Hardy straightened his clothing, “Everything’s fine,” and regarded Cruz. I didn’t think she’d use our sign so quickly. He nodded at her. “Thanks.”

  Hamilton and her subordinate took a step backward. “Commander,” she said, “take the suspect to the living room. I need a word with Mr. Hardy.”

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  Chapter 23: Cranky

  Hamilton jammed a finger into Hardy’s chest. “How dare you enter this house ahead of me, and take over this operation. I’m the one in charge. This is my country, and my op. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “You’re right. I’m—”

  “Shut up. I’m speaking.”

  Hardy closed his mouth and rubbed the spot on his chest where she had poked him.

  “Don’t ever threaten one of my men, either. He’s just doing his job, the job,” she put a thumb to her own chest, “I ordered him to do. And, as for laying hands on a suspect—one of the civilians I’m sworn to protect—” she shot out a breath of air, “well, I just don’t know to begin with that one. What if I threw an American to the ground and pummeled him? How would you take that?”

  Hardy was unsure if he should answer or do as he had been instructed—shut up.

  “I think I have a pretty good idea how that would turn out.” Hamilton turned around and rubbed her temples.

  Hardy glanced at Cruz, who gave him a ‘what did you expect’ kind of look.

  “I’ve given you,” Hamilton continued, “a lot of rope, leeway during our missions together. You’ve put my career on the line more than once. I’ve trusted you, because you’re a good man. In the end, you do the right thing. You may take unorthodox measures, but I know your heart is in the right place, namely with those who need your, our help.” She inhaled and let out th
e air. “I don’t want to see you hanged with the rope I’ve given you.” She whirled around and made a show of folding her arms over her torso. “Do we understand each other?”

  Hardy waited to make sure she wanted an answer. “I’m sorry, Ellen. I was out of line. Sometimes, I have problems with authority.”

  Cruz raised an eyebrow. Sometimes?

  He saw the look, but continued the apology. “I’m used to being the one calling the shots.” He held up a hand. “Trust me. I won’t step on your toes again.”

  Hamilton uncrossed her arms. The lines on her forehead thinned.

  “And, when it comes to manhandling those who try to kill the people I care about,” Hardy included Cruz, “I’ll admit I get a little,” his chest heaved, “cranky at said times. But, I make no apologies for my actions.”

  Lips pursed, Hamilton nodded. Her ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast that nearly ended her life. She took a few steps, closing the distance between them, and held his face in her hands. After glimpsing Cruz and saying to her, “Don’t take offense,” Hamilton kissed Hardy on the cheek. “No apologies necessary for that last one. Thank you.”

  … … … … …

  Kimmler sat in a chair in the living room, an afghan draped across his lower body. His hair was tousled, strands rising and forming a peak down the middle of his head. He panned from left to right at the people—Cruz, Hardy, Hamilton, the Commander—making a semi-circle around him. “I want my lawyer. You can’t do this to me.”

  Hardy stepped closer. “What makes you think you have rights? You fired a shotgun at us.”

  “I thought you were a burglar.”

  He motioned toward Hamilton. “She ID’d us as NCA.”

  The man screamed back at Hardy. “I didn’t hear her. I heard footsteps in the hall and thought someone was in my house.”

  Cruz put a hand on Hardy’s forearm.

  Hamilton wedged her body between Hardy and Kimmler. “Mr. Kimmler, we need to ask you some questions, and we don’t have time to do it through an attorney. Lives are at risk.”

  “I don’t have to talk to you.” He glared at Hardy. “And, I’m definitely not talking to him.” He looked away.

  Hardy pressed against Hamilton. “Listen up, you piece of—”

  Hamilton turned on him. “Wait outside.”

  He scowled at her. Cruz squeezed his arm. He faced her, and she tipped her head toward the door. He glowered at Kimmler and departed.

  “First of all,” said Hamilton, “is your first name Robert or Richard?”

  “You don’t even know who I am, and you’re breaking down my door? This is outrageous.”

  “Please, here my out, Dr. Kimmler.” Hamilton revealed what she could about the Anthrax going missing and the lab in London, tying in the testimony of the man from the warehouse. Kimmler’s face gradually showed he understood the gravity of the situation.

  “Richard Kimmler is my brother. I’m Robert. Yes, we’re both doctors, and we’re identical twins. I haven’t seen or spoken with Rick—Richard—since we had an argument many years ago. Oddly enough, it was over this very same topic. His experiments were taking him down a dangerous, unethical path.” Kimmler shook his head. “I wanted nothing to do it. I’m a respected man in my profession, and I want to keep it that way.”

  “So, you have no idea,” said Cruz, “what your brother has been up to for the last six months, the Anthrax testing…experimenting on animals?”

  “The only thing I knew about his work was that it involved viruses.” Kimmler twisted his face and shifted in the chair, while rolling his shoulders.

  Cruz came around behind him and held out her hand toward the Commander. The man got a visual verification from his boss before giving Cruz the keys to the handcuffs; she undid them and gave everything back to the NCA man. “Do you believe your brother is capable of something like this, infecting people with the Anthrax virus?”

  Rubbing his wrists, Kimmler shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess anyone is capable of anything.”

  “Is there anything in his past—or your childhoods—that would explain why he might do such a thing?”

  Kimmler pointed at the couch. “May I have my robe?” Standing, he twirled the garment around his shoulders, “Thank you,” and sat. “Richard has always been a rebel. ‘A brilliant man without a cause’ I used to tell him.” Kimmler stared at nothing in particular.

  Cruz waited. He was obviously reminiscing about something personal. She gave him a few more moments. “Doctor Kimmler?”

  Startled, he glanced up at her. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about JoAnna.”

  Cruz exchanged a glance with Hamilton. “Who’s JoAnna?”

  “JoAnna was Richard’s fiancée. She died seven years ago.” He shot out a puff of air. “She was the best thing that ever happened to Rick…kept him grounded. When she was in his life, he had a purpose, a mission. He was right with the world. Afterwards, Rick just seemed to lose his way. He poured himself into—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Dr. Kimmler,” Cruz grabbed a chair and sat across from the man, “but what happened to JoAnna? You said she died.”

  Kimmler eyed Cruz and nodded. “She was in the United States Air Force, and was shot and killed on a bus, while waiting to be taken to…some air base in southern Germany. A man just boarded the bus and starting shooting. She was the first one hit.” Kimmler pinched the bridge of his nose. “JoAnna and Rick were to be wed a month later.” He shook his head. “It crushed him. He shut himself off from the world for several months. I reached out to him, but he didn’t want anything to do with me.” Kimmler held out his palms. “I didn’t take offense. He didn’t want anything to do with anyone at the time. So, I gave him his space.”

  Cruz leaned forward, hands clasped, forearms resting on knees. “Doctor, when did you and your brother have the argument that caused your separation?”

  Kimmler bobbed his head. “I guess it would have been around the same time JoAnna died…shortly thereafter.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just searching for clues that would explain Richard’s potential involvement in all this.”

  Kimmler wagged a finger. “Now that you say that…that was right about the time he got involved with this group that proclaimed they wanted peace for all Muslims.”

  Cruz and Hamilton passed glances again.

  “A hate group, if you want my opinion. How can you claim to want peace when you conduct violent protests? I asked Rick about it during the argument. He dodged the question and blamed JoAnna’s death on the United States. He said…if Americans worked as hard at negotiating with Muslims as they do waging war against them…that she would still be alive today. I told him that wasn’t true. I told him that it’s the crazy radical ones that the U.S.,” Kimmler scoffed, “the whole world for that matter has a problem with. But, he wouldn’t listen to me. No, Rick had,” Kimmler snapped his fingers, “there’s a phrase…something about Kool-Aid.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, he had become an ardent supporter of this group. Nothing was going to change his mind.”

  Hamilton pulled up a notepad app on her cell. “Do you have a name for this group?”

  “Rijal al Salam,” replied Kimmler. “Supposedly, it means ‘men of peace.’”

  … … … … …

  Leaning against Hamilton’s Nissan, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, Hardy got the cliff notes from the interrogation. “Well, that makes Dr. Richard Kimmler our prime suspect.”

  “We still need to verify everything that,” Hamilton pointed at the house, “this Dr. Kimmler has told us.”

  “But, if it all checks out,” said Cruz, “then Richard Kimmler had,” she extended fingers for her points, “the means, motive and opportunity to pull this off.”

  Staring at the ground, Hardy nodded. “Which brings us back to finding him…any progress on that front, Hamilton?”

  “So far,” she shook her head, “nothing. My people are searching for him, but as of right no
w, it seems he’s gone off the grid. The folks at Hoffman Labs said he left for the day right around the time your people said they exited the building.”

  “Coincidence?” said Cruz.

  “No such thing in this business,” shot back Hardy. “Dahlia and Cherry show up asking questions…they leave, he leaves…and three men try to kill our friends.” He pushed himself away from the Rogue and twisted his upper body back and forth. His back cracked. “No, Kimmler knows we’re on to him.” He bent over and touched his toes. “We have to find him,” he stood straight and arched his back, “before he carries out whatever sick thing he has in mind.”

  Hamilton watched Hardy do a few more abbreviated exercises before glimpsing Cruz, who was holding back a yawn, while stretching her arms above her head. “Listen, while my people are scouring the planet for Kimmler, and any traces of the Anthrax virus, why don’t we get something to eat. I don’t know the last time you two ate, but I could go for a bite.”

  “That sounds…” Cruz let out the yawn, while nodding, “good to me.”

  Hardy checked his watch. “Can we make it a working dinner? I want to see if we can dig up anything on this,” he made finger quotes, “peace group, Regal El…Salami.”

  “Rijal Al Salam,” said Hamilton, reading from her phone.

  He waved a hand. “Whatever it’s called, if we find out more about them, then maybe we’ll be closer to locating the doctor and the Anthrax.”

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  Chapter 24: Headlights

  9:45 p.m. (Local Time)

  Northwest of Berg, Germany

  Close to the border between Germany and France

  Dahlia sat in the front passenger seat of a black four-door Volkswagen Passat. Franks was behind the wheel. Charity was stretched out in the back, arms crossed, eyes closed. She had been asleep for the last hour. The Passat had been outfitted with power bars and water bottles, so a straight-thru drive got them to their destination with thirty minutes to spare.