by Rick Jones
That was when the building rocked beneath him, a terrible spasm as though the Kristallpalast was about to topple. When the tremors stopped and the building steadied, then came the coils of rising black smoke, slow and steady, the smoke an indicator that not all was well within the Islamic State with his world and his place in it no longer perfect.
Ghazi carefully looked over the edge of the Kristallpalast and noted the billows of rising smoke, as well as the accompanying flames about twenty-five stories below. When he finally achieved contact with Mustafa, he was told to maintain his post and that all was moving according to plan. But Ghazi could not get a grip on the idea since the building was burning underneath him. How is everything fine? he wondered.
More smoke, darker and more menacing, rose high above the hotel’s spire from all sides.
Then he heard the unmistakable noise of rotor blades, that whop-whop-whop sound.
Through the thin wall of smoke, something emerged through the hazy veil with the slowness of a bad dream, something that caught Ghazi entirely off guard. He had not seen the vehicle coming until it started to materialize and push its way through the gauzy haze, a creature from the mist.
. . . whop-whop-whop . . .
It came closer to the helipad and hovered over it, the rotors now fanning and breaking apart the plumes and turning them into fast-moving commas of smoke. Ghazi’s eyes began to water as smoke swirled around him like mischievous phantoms, dark and foreboding.
. . . whop-whop-whop . . .
In the cockpit by the open door of the chopper, someone was riding shotgun with something that sparkled with a gemlike sparkle, either from glass or metal, with that star-point glitter giving reasonable cause for Ghazi to raise his weapon.
. . . whop-whop-whop . . .
As Ghazi directed his aim to the craft’s underbelly, and knowing that he was low on ammo, Ghazi set off a short burst. Metal pinged against metal, a unique sound, both hollow and tinny, as holes magically appeared along the chopper’s undercarriage. As the vehicle started to peel away, Ghazi redirected his aim and set off another burst of gunfire, this time catching the chopper’s rear rotor. Sparks flew, danced in the air, and quickly died off. Pieces of metal broke away and took a number of different trajectories, with some of the shrapnel embedding deep into the surface of the helipad, though none had struck the terrorist.
The chopper started to spin wildly with its twisting revolutions picking up speed and turning faster and faster. The top-like spinning became almost blinding as the chopper started to edge towards the building’s side and over the drop. Screaming could be heard, that of a man suddenly realizing his fate. And then the chopper dropped and disappeared entirely from Ghazi’s view.
* * *
The chopper had pushed its way through the thin gauze of smoke until the H of the helipad was visible. Adolphus Hoorn maintained control of the camera with both hands, the electronic equipment having a value that was more than €10,000. Everything appeared in focus, crisp and clear, a live view with the feed going back to the station in real time.
“This is Adolphus Hoorn reporting to you live from the Kristallpalast, a state-of-the-art tower that became the focal point of tension between administrators when the building was proposed for construction amidst Vienna’s historically Baroque architecture—”
Then the camera caught a figure on the rooftop, a man who was clad entirely in black and wearing a face covering, a balaclava. In his hand was an AK-47, whose point was being leveled at Hoorn’s direction.
“Back-back-back-back-back!” Hoorn yelled. But it was too late as a series of rounds stuck the chopper’s underbelly. There was the pinging of metal against metal as bullets pierced the chopper’s hull and breached the cockpit. The instrument panel smashed upon the bullets’ impacts, causing sparks to shower. But the most devastating affect was when a pair of rounds struck Wilhelm Heickert, who jerked violently in his seat as though receiving a high-voltage charge before slumping over the cyclic stick, which in turn caused the vehicle to spin uncontrollably.
Adolphus Hoorn dropped the camera, which caught live images of spinning chaos, as he grabbed onto a strap to hold him in place. The audio caught Hoorn’s screams that were both primal and filled with a sense of finality as the chopper continued its course of spinning revolutions.
And then the aircraft began to nosedive and descend, the chopper nothing but dead weight giving way to gravity. The aircraft spun and fell with its rear tail-spinning out of control to take out a series of windows, the crescendo of noise both loud and earsplitting. The vehicle then caromed off the side of the building, first rolling and then tumbling in space, before exploding into a fireball with the debris falling to the streets several hundred feet below.
For Adolphus Hoorn who didn’t believe that rules were created for him, or Wilhelm Heickert whose mercenary values led him to worship the almighty euro over the written law, neither would receive accolades nor payments ever again.
* * *
From his suite, Ali Mustafa and company had seen the chopper fall from a greater height. The vehicle was nothing but a falling blur as it clipped a piece of the balcony just before it exploded. Mustafa, along with Abd-al-Mumin, raced to the broken edges of what was left of their terrace, and watched as the chopper burned on the ground below.
Mustafa quickly tapped on his earbud. “Ghazi?”
“Yes, Mustafa.”
“What happened?”
“A chopper was attempting to land.”
Mustafa realized that it couldn’t have been the chopper he demanded. It was too soon. In fact, the wreckage below appeared too small, more like a media-sized aircraft. He then shut off his earbud, extended a hand, and snapped his fingers. “My phone.”
A moment later, someone handed him the cellphone. With anger and emphasis behind the stab of number 9 on the keypad, Mustafa placed the phone to his ear.
* * *
Müller, Zeller and the rest of the Einsatzkommando unit could only watch what happened high overhead with impotence. They had seen the chopper’s approach after being advised that a vehicle not only broke airspace regulations but ignored the follow-up commands to fall back as well. According to the call letters on the aircraft’s side, it was from a local news channel.
From below, they watched the roll and tumble of the helicopter as it spun wildly out of control. After it clipped the side of the building, it then erupted into a fireball. Fiery debris along with drips of fire fell to the streets almost with glacial speed as though to prolong the agony, until it struck the pavement and shook the ground upon impact. Through the flames, Müller could read two of the three call letters on the underside of the chopper.
That was when his cellphone rang.
* * *
Mustafa was in a fury. At first, he believed that Müller was acting against his demands with the Special Forces officer playing him for a fool. As soon as Müller answered, Mustafa didn’t even wait for Müller to speak. He had simply gone into a tirade.
“Do you want me to kill the hostages, Müller? Is that what you want?” Mustafa was in such a rage that his eyes distended somewhat from their orbital sockets as laces of red stitching crisscrossed over the whites as though to better establish his anger. And when he spoke, spittle shot from his lips.
“Calm down, Mustafa—”
“You don’t tell me what to do! I tell you! I thought I made that point quite clear!”
“Mustafa, hear me out. What happened was that a news chopper broke the perimeter of restricted air space. We tried to stop it, but it managed to break free.”
“Then your ability to maintain control, Müller, is obviously lacking. Perhaps an additional show of my power to assure that nothing like this will happen again.”
“Look, Mustafa, your chopper is on the way. Everything you’ve asked for will be met. I promise. What happened was not my doing or the doing of any law enforcement agency.”
Mustafa, though still angered, at least was collecting hims
elf. He did not like it when a plan didn’t operate smoothly. He then glanced at his watch, then said, “You now have seventy-eight minutes.”
“I know that.”
“And for your inability to maintain control . . . there will be a consequence.”
“This doesn’t have to happen, Mustafa. I told you. This was not our fault.”
It is your fault. You could have shot the chopper down. That’s what I would have done.”
“It’s not what we do here. We don’t just shoot down—”
But Mustafa interjected sharply by stating, “Look up.”
The connection between them was immediately cut. Mustafa hung up.
* * *
After tapping the phone dead with a vehement stab of his thumb, Mustafa fought for calm as the Y-shaped vein that stuck out like cords on his forehead began to fade. Taking a few deep breaths after closing his eyes, calm was eventually restored within the minute. Opening his eyes and feigning a dry smile, he stated evenly, “Talib, Zamir, choose one to be made an example of, as long it’s not the judge or the Cardinal Secretary of State.”
Talib bowed his head. “Yes, Mustafa.”
As the two terrorists hastened to acquire a hostage, Mustafa reached down to his sheathed knife and removed it from its leather scabbard. Bringing the weapon close for examination, he noted the curve of the blade and its recently whetted edge. What he was holding was a jambiya dagger.
Mustafa crossed the room and stood on the edge where the balcony used to be moments before the chopper had clipped it and turned it into ruins. Smoke wafted lazily from below with its thickness soon to be strong enough to blot out the sun. And a mild wind buffeted him. Through the haze, he could still see the downed helicopter, which was still smoldering as smoke rose from the wreckage in black mushroom clouds.
The blade in his hand.
The moment about to be.
Ali Mustafa stood at the apex of a building that overlooked the city of Vienna, the pinnacle high spot of the land. This was just the beginning, he thought, a king standing at the highest peak. Though his foundation was burning out from beneath his feet, the flames were also gutting the supports of his throne of his makeshift kingdom. Black smoke and a raging fire appeared to be his groundwork; a true Hell that was inching its way closer to stake its claim of Ali Mustafa’s soul.
Staring out over the city of Vienna, Mustafa calmly slapped the flat side of the jambiya dagger against the flat of his palm, as if keeping with a tune playing inside his head . . . and waited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Inside the Hostage Chamber
The Kristallpalast
Vienna, Austria
There were four hostages left: two CEOs, the Vatican’s Cardinal Secretary of State and the associate judge from the United States Supreme Court. Cardinal Favino and Judge Rosenberg, however, were the only ones who sported suicide vests that were unremovable. Though the two wanted to toy with and find a way to disconnect the wiring to the C-4 bricks, they were advised that doing so would only detonate the plastique.
“If we are to die,” said Rosenberg, who sat with his back against the wall and his legs folded in Indian-like fashion, “then we must do so with dignity. I, for one, will not allow a terrorist the pleasure of seeing me panic.”
“Yeah, well, I have no intentions of dying,” stated a CEO. Johnathan Manning was the Chief Executive Officer of an American oil company and a man who was high on the corporate totem pole. In fact, his word was gospel within the empire he had created after start-up fees and loans turned into billions over the last two decades. If money was to be doled out as ransom, then he would immediately greenlight the transfer of funds to an account of Mustafa’s choosing.
“And what?” asked the judge. “You’ll buy your way out too?”
Manning jabbed a thumb at his chest. “Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“I’m the CEO of BattleTech Oil.”
“And you think they care? They come from lands drenched in oil.”
“I don’t think you understand. All I have to do is make one call—just one—to secure my release to whatever amount this guy wants.”
The judge gave him a one-sided grin. “We’ll see.”
Manning flashed the judge a hard look. “What? You don’t think so?”
“What I think, Mr. Manning, is that we’ve all been vilified in their eyes regardless of how much money we may have. Sure, they ransom people for their cause. But if the measure of their cause is greater than the riches of the infidels they hold, that makes us all expendable. I have been vilified long ago simply because I’m a Jew, and one who did these people no harm. Yet here I sit with an incendiary vest wrapped around me.”
Manning waved him off dismissively.
There was the snigger of bolts being pulled back in the door’s locking mechanism. And then the door opened wide. Zamir entered the room with Talib close behind, giving everyone a cursory exam until his eyes finally locked onto Manning. Pointing his finger at the CEO, Zamir shouted something in Arabic that galvanized Talib to respond accordingly. Manning, who placed his hands together in an attitude of prayer and started to beg, was grabbed by the collar of his shirt and hoisted roughly to his feet by Talib.
“Oh God, please. I can pay you money. Lots of money. More than you can imagine.”
Talib simply shoved the man towards the doorway, the CEO first stumbling a moment before catching his stride.
“Pleeeaaase . . .”
Both Talib and Zamir shouted at Manning in Arabic, with their harsh tones universal. It was an order to Manning to ‘shut up and move along.’
Once the CEO of BattleTech Oil was removed from the room and the door locked, that left a woman who led a corporation in China, though she remained quiet throughout the ordeal, along with the judge and the cardinal of the Vatican.
Cardinal Favino looked ceilingward while his Adam’s apple bobbed as though trying to swallow enough saliva to wet his parched throat. The Asian woman continued to weep softly. The judge, however, sat as a witness to all of this that had unfolded around him, then wondered when they would finally come for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Vienna, Austria
“Johnathan Manning,” Mustafa said. He was still looking over the city of Vienna when Manning was forced to his knees along the edge of the broken balcony. “A self-made millionaire who is president and CEO of BattleTech Oil. You started from almost nothing to become the king of your own mountain.”
“Then you know me and what I can do for you.”
“Like the man before you, I had gleaned your history from the Internet. Unlike him, you appear to be full of yourself.” This was the first time Mustafa looked at Manning, their eyes connecting. “With all that money,” he added calmly, “I bet you live inside a nice house, probably a mansion, with every possible luxury and amenity, when people are starving all around you.”
“All right. Look, you can name whatever price you want. Any amount. I’ll see that it goes into an account of your choosing immediately, as long as you release me.”
“What about the others?” Mustafa directed the point of his jambiya towards the hostage area of the suite.
“To hell with them. They’re not my concern. They can make their own deals.”
“And there you have it,” said Mustafa. “The character of a man who only thinks of himself.” Mustafa started to slap the blunt side of the dagger against his palm. “You think you’re the only one to offer me such riches? The man before you, a CEO like yourself, also made the same offer. He offered me riches beyond my imagination, enough that I should never want for anything ever again.” The lead terrorist started to move in circles. “And my answer to him, Mr. Manning, is the same answer I’m giving you now. You have no value to me outside of serving as an example to others.”
Manning started to sweat, his brow now beading with drops of perspiration. He still held his hands together in prayer. “Please, to whatever accou
nt you want. Whatever amount you want. It’ll help with your causes, yes?”
“Mr. Manning, we both know that wherever you send that money, the account will be frozen. Your pleas are falling on deaf ears, believe me.”
“Please, I have a family. I have children.”
Mustafa stopped pacing and looked at Manning with a questioning tilt of his head. “Tell me,” he said, “why do people always say that they have a family as though it makes a difference? It doesn’t. Trust me, they’ll go on without you. In a few years, you’ll be little more than a fading memory and an afterthought.”
“Oh please, you don’t have to do this.”
“Yeah. I do.”
When panic started to set in and Manning tried to get to his feet, Qusay sent him back to his knees with a hard strike from the butt of his rifle. When Manning struggled to regain his footing for a second time, Qusay hit him hard enough to see internal stars.
That was when Mustafa retrieved his cellphone from the pocket of his war attire, hit nine, then placed the phone to his ear. The phone rang once, twice, three times before Müller finally answered.
“Are you looking up, Müller?” asked Mustafa.
“You don’t have to do this. I told you, we now have everything under control.”
“This is to assure me that everything from here on in stays in control. No more surprises, Müller. If the chopper is not on its way, then you lose. If it’s not here in the timeframe specified, you lose. Do you understand?”
