by Rick Jones
“Do not make a sound,” Zamir stated calmly. “If you do, then I will pull the trigger. Do you understand?”
When Hartwig nodded, his teeth clicked against the suppressor.
“I’m going to remove the weapon from your mouth. Remember, if you scream, you die. Yes?”
Another nod.
Slowly, Zamir removed the point of the silencer from Hartwig’s mouth.
Then from Hartwig, whose tone lacked any measure of bravado, even though he tried in earnest to sound bold, said, “Who are you? What do you want?” When he turned and saw the second man standing in the shadows, he noticed that the other side of the bed was empty. “My wife? What have you done with her?”
“Let’s get one thing straight between us right now,” Zamir stated evenly. “You are not in any position to question anything I say. I provide the orders and you follow them. It’s that simple.”
“Where’s my Marta?”
“Get up, Mr. Klein. And remember what I said about refusing to follow my commands. Don’t be stupid.” Zamir, with his weapon trained, backed away from the bedside. “Up.”
Hartwig tossed back the sheets. He was wearing striped pajamas. Then he got to his feet. He was a small and diminutive man with a receding hairline and a pointed chin, which clearly trembled as though gelatinous. “Please, at least tell me why you’re doing this . . . Where my Marta is.”
“Your questions will be answered and made clear in time.” Zamir placed the mouth of the suppressor against Hartwig’s forehead. “Ask me one more thing, Mr. Klein, it will be the last thing that comes out of your mouth. Clear?”
Hartwig nodded as his eyes began to well.
“Now move.”
Hartwig Klein of Germany’s Bundestag was about to become an unwitting pawn in the scheme of all things.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Kristallpalast
Two leading members from the Austrian Federal Police, or the Bundespolizei, and dressed accordingly with their rank, that of suit and tie, had entered the lobby with a host of uniformed officers, who quickly spread out across the area with their 9mm Glocks panning from side to side, searching.
The lead officers went immediately to the registration desk, which was manned by two women who appeared perplexed and awed, even when the officers flashed them their credentials.
The taller one was cadaverous in appearance and had the pasty-face look of an undertaker. And with skin as pale as the underbelly of a fish, the gray circles around his eyes gave him somewhat of a haunted look. His partner, in contrast, had an olive-green complexion and eyes the color of emeralds.
The bone-thin looking officer looked at the first woman’s nametag that read LARISSA.
Tipping his hat to her, though the woman appeared more interested in looking past his shoulder to see the endless swirls of lights in the streets, he smiled casually and asked, “Ms. Larissa, if I may have a moment of your time, please.”
She looked at the suited officer. “Is something wrong?”
“Twenty minutes ago, a man walked into this lobby, do you happen to know what room he went to?”
She shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing since there’s a few hundred people here. People come and go all the time.”
The tall officer maintained his kind and gentle smile. “But you would help me, yes?”
“Of course.”
With a bony hand whose finger appeared to have the length and thinness equal to the tine of a pitchfork, he then pointed to the cameras that were positioned throughout the lobby. “Those cameras,” he said, “record in live time, I presume?”
“They do.”
“Then I would appreciate, along with my partner, the opportunity to review the current tapes.”
“I would need permission from my supervisor.”
“Please,” he said, “get it.” When he said the final two words— ‘get it’ —there was a definite hint of authority behind them, a touch of insistence.
“Yes. Of course.”
After a call was placed, a man wearing a vest and shirt entered the registration area from an office that was for management personnel only. He, too, appeared nonplussed by the heavy police activity and presence as he scanned the lobby.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.
The two girls behind the counter stepped aside as the manager, whose nametag read HANS, took lead at the desk.
“Twenty minutes ago,” said the tall man, “a person of interest walked inside this lobby and, I assume, to his room, along with other people who entered this building from different points. I’m also going to assume that you have cameras situated throughout the property, yes?”
“That’s correct.”
“I would like to view the images.”
“May I ask what this is all about?”
“You can. But only while we’re watching the tapes. I’ll talk you through everything that’s happening as we go along.”
“Yes. Certainly. Please, follow me.”
The pair of suited officers followed Hans to a virtually soundproof room that had no windows. TV screens and monitors filled one wall. There were multiple images, interior and exterior, with more than ten dozen viewpoints of the property.
On one of the screens was the front of the building. Police vehicles were stacked close together like a traffic jam, and lights swung inside their bars.
“I saw your approach,” Hans told the tall officer. “The question is: why?”
“There was a theft from the Austrian Imperial Palace,” the officer answered. “Many have been reported killed. The men responsible, we believe, are taking up residency inside this hotel.”
Hans didn’t know what to say, his mouth moving in mute protest. It was obvious to the officer that the manager was thinking about the hotel’s reputation, or what this episode would do to tarnish its stellar image.
“If I may examine the tape, Hans, I would appreciate it. The faster we can settle the matter, the faster life can get back to normal life, yes?”
Hans nodded, though he seemed lost at the moment. Then: “Yes. Of course.”
There were six men monitoring the screens, with each having the responsibility to watch certain areas of the hotel. The first requested image was that of the lobby, which clearly showed a man entering the area with the same capture-time of the TrafficCom telematics system, a GPS confirmation, and hotel surveillance, with the moment becoming a triangulation of time.
The man was carrying a rucksack that was slung over his shoulder. Though he kept his head down for the most part, he did spy a look into one of the CCTV cameras, a brief glimpse. As though to realize his error, he immediately snapped his head downward and away, which was always a kneejerk reaction of guilt.
“Backup,” said the tall officer, “and zoom in on his face.”
The operator manning the console toyed with the dials. Though the man’s features were not as clear as the officer had wanted and voiced his disappointment over the lack of clarity, the operator cleaned up the blurred pixels and sharpened the picture. Then closing in with his zoom dial, he was able to propose a clear headshot of the man in question.
The tall officer nodded with satisfaction. “I’ll need a digital image immediately,” he stated, “something I can send to the principal lab for identification?”
“Yeah. Sure. Right away,” Hans told him.
“How long exactly?”
“As soon as your techs are ready to receive the information.”
“They’re ready.”
Within less than a minute, Austrian’s primary lab for facial recognition received the image. Two minutes later, they received a hit. And a minute after receiving the confirmation and the biographical history of the man in the lobby, the tall man knew that this was something above his paygrade.
The man—Abd-al-Mumin—was someone who was in league with the Islamic State and considered a forerunner in reestablishing a caliphate in Syria. Scores had been killed by his hand the m
oment the United States retreated from the territory. And it would later come to light that he and his team of extremists had entered Austria under bogus Pakistani passports to sacrifice many in the name of Allah.
The tall officer immediately established contact with his principals and called for the Einsatzkommando Cobra, an elite unit of the Austrian police. He also believed that the force would engage and easily neutralize Abd-al-Mumin’s team.
But he would be wrong.
The Kristallpalast was about to become a battlefield.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Kristallpalast
The Vatican’s Secretary of State was fast asleep when he heard what he believed to be the creaking of a door.
And then silence.
Dismissing the sound as nothing more than the building settling, he turned over in his bed and came face to face with an outline of something that was black and tarry by nature. Centered within this silhouette and staring back at him were a pair of eyes that spoke volumes of toxicity that was so overwhelming, it forced the cardinal to push aside his covers as he tried to sit up, only for a hand to shove him back onto the mattress with a gun pressed against his cheek.
“Silence priest. Say nothing.”
In a room that was off the master chamber where the cardinal’s valets slept, Cardinal Secretary of State Antonio Favino could hear the pleas of his valets falling upon deaf ears, which were summarily followed up by the dampened sounds of a suppressed weapon.
Three shots in quick succession—
. . . Phfft . . .
. . . Phfft . . .
. . . Phfft . . .
—was quickly followed by a disturbing silence. The pleas, the begging for one’s life, all had ended.
From the adjoining room a figure emerged. In the figure’s hand was a firearm.
In Arabic, the two spoke together, something the cardinal took to be a confirmation of some kind. Though the cardinal did not speak the language, he knew that the exchange was in regard to the bishops of the Holy See, who were now dead.
“Listen to me, priest, and question nothing,” Talib stated evenly. “You will come with us. If you insist on making protests or refuse whatever I tell you, your fate will be as equal as the other priests. Do you understand?”
Cardinal Favino nodded.
Talib stood back and pointed his Glock towards the door. “Quietly,” he said.
Favino got to his feet wearing the night garments of a cardinal, a one-piece robe, and started towards the entryway. Passing the doorway of the adjoining room, he took note of his valets lying face down on the floor, each having been executed after taking a bullet to the back of the head.
When the cardinal slowed, Talib gave him a shove. “Keep moving.”
Cardinal Favino, who was still confused and unsure of his future, followed commands.
* * *
Ali Mustafa’s team worked like clockwork during the early morning hours by collecting high-profile assets, knowing that time was limited and that the troops below were gathering to make a run at his unit. He also knew that it was always best to take the high ground.
In a mesmerized state, he continued to stare at the Holy Lance.
“Ali.” It was Abd-al-Mumin who spoke with caution.
“Yes.” Mustafa’s beaded stare never broke away.
“Time is running short.”
“Abd-al-Mumin, we both know that time is never a luxury. But the advantage belongs to us on so many levels. We have the high ground, always an advantage. And assets are being gathered, human shields. But this,” Ali Mustaf held the Spear of Destiny high, “is the greatest advantage of all, yes? Allah will see us through.” He lowered the relic, then looked at Abd-al-Mumin with a gleam in his eyes and with the challenge of what was about to happen exciting him. “It’ll be all right,” he told him. “There’s still time. And yes, they know we’re here. And yes, they most likely know who we are.” Ali Mustafa leaned forward in his chair. “And because of who we are,” he continued, “the Federal Police are most likely waiting on the Einsatzkommando Cobra. By the time they storm the Kristallpalast, we will be in position to undermine their intentions, believe me.”
“We’re talking minutes,” said Abd-al-Mumin. “Maybe ten.”
As if on cue, Hartwig Klein was led into the room by Zamir. Though he was still in his striped pajamas, his attire had a slight modification to it. He was now wearing a C-4 vest with a plastique brick attached to it.
Ali Mustafa gave off a one-sided smile. “All I’ll need, Abd-al-Mumin, is five,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ali Mustafa was working on two fronts. His team moved quickly to secure targeted assets, all high-profile dignitaries to be used as bargaining chips, while Zamir initiated the first step of command under the direct order of Mustafa.
Inside the elevator, Hartwig Klein was on the verge of tears. His Marta had been taken from him; the act born from brutality. Now he found himself absolutely impotent as Zamir held the point of his Glock to Hartwig’s temple. In Zamir’s other hand was a small device, a radio transmitter.
“Do as I say, and you won’t get hurt,” Zamir stated coldly.
But Hartwig Klein knew that this was a deceptive claim. The falsehood was simply stated to give him a fake sense of security to remain compliant. He was simply Zamir’s puppet, and in the eyes of his captors a moral sacrifice.
“Please don’t kill me,” Hartwig mustered while watching the numbers above the doors descend from floor to floor.
“In your pocket,” said Zamir, “is a cellphone. You will hit the number nine before you hand the phone over to the person in charge. Is that clear? You must hit the number nine.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Is that clear?”
Hartwig nodded.
“They will ask you questions. You will say nothing. If you say anything—anything at all—I will push the button on this remote and you will die.” Zamir pressed the point of his Glock against Hartwig’s temple hard enough for the flesh to dimple. “Now, tell me, what are your orders.”
Hartwig tried to swallow the sour lump that was cropping up in his throat but failed to wash it away. Then: “Before I hand over the phone to the one in charge, I’m to hit number nine.”
“That’s right.”
“And should they begin to question me, then I’m to remain quiet.”
“Simple enough, yes?”
Hartwig nodded.
When the bell inside the elevator chimed and the doors slid open, Zamir gently pushed Hartwig into the hallway. “You know what to do.” Then he held up the remote. “You are wearing a bodycam. Upstairs, they see and hear everything. Do as you’re told; you will be fine. Should you decide to do what you should not, then—” The terrorist held up the control with his thumb on the toggle switch, his point made.
As soon as the doors closed on Zamir, Hartwig caught himself staring at his own reflection that shined from doors that had a mirror polish to them. He appeared tired and jaded, the man somewhat forlorn in the appearance with his face suddenly hanging with the looseness of a rubber mask.
“Do not move!”
Hartwig turned to see police officers moving in his direction with their weapons drawn, all who were apparently drawn by the chime of the elevator door. Zamir’s forceful removal of him from the lift and the door closing behind took only five seconds, though it seemed like an infinity to Hartwig.
“Do . . . Not . . . MOVE!”
Hartwig raised his hands. When it was clear that he was wearing a vest loaded with a plastique brick, the officers held their position.
“Get on the ground!” someone shouted.
“You don’t understand,” Hartwig told them. “I’m wearing a bodycam. Everything I do is being recorded. If I don’t do as I’m ordered, there will be consequences. So please, I need to see the officer in charge.” Hartwig kept his hands raised.
“Get on the ground!”
Hartwig closed his eyes, swall
owed, then he took a few steps forward, all tentative. “Please, in my pocket,” he said, “there’s a cellphone. The man upstairs would like to communicate with the officer in charge.”
The officers held steady as they continued to draw a bead on Hartwig, who kept moving towards the main lobby. He fully expected to feel the punch of gunfire but was surprised when they allowed him passage.
As he stood between the juncture of the hallway and the lobby, only then did he open his eyes. The police officers had drawn distance. Their guns, however, remained focused on him, more than a dozen.
Two official looking members wearing suits maintained their distance, though the taller of the two approached by taking a few steps, then he stopped. The gap between them was approximately twenty feet.
And then the tall man pointed at Hartwig with a finger that was too long and bony looking. “That vest you’re wearing,” he began, “is that what I think it is?”
Hartwig ran a tongue over his dry lips, then nodded.
“Are you the one holding the detonator?”
Hartwig nodded. He wasn’t.
“Someone else, then?”
Another nod in confirmation.
The tall man was beginning to appear anxious. “Are you a liaison between Ali Mustafa and myself?”
“I’m not allowed to answer questions,” Hartwig finally said. “I’m to give you a cellphone.” Hartwig reached into the pocket of his pajama top and produced a cellphone. Then he held it up for all to see.
“Is that a detonator?”
“I believe the man you mentioned, Mustafa, wishes to communicate with you. I’m to dial nine.”
