The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3)

by Mosimann, James E.

  Before she could frame a reply, Mila called from the kitchen.

  “Jim, come and give me a hand with these sacks of garbage. Tomorrow is pickup day.”

  He left.

  Jeannine shook her head and went to Aileen’s side.

  ***

  Aileen was not the only individual on the Outer Banks using the Internet for research.

  In Nags Head, a man hunched over his computer and adeptly clicked keys to craft searches. He did not need much skill to find what he wanted. The Patek Realty website listed its rentals.

  He completed his task and signaled his partners.

  “There are six possible rentals where Patekova could be hiding people. Three of them are in Nags Head, two in Kitty Hawk and one up north in Corolla.”

  Hugo, a short stocky individual with the look of an “enforcer” answered.

  “What do we do?”

  The third individual, Hermann, was tall and had a well-groomed beard. He closed his eyes as if reflecting.

  “We’ll check Nags Head and Kitty Hawk because they’re closer and on the way, but they’ll be in Corolla. They want to be as far from Patek Realty as they can get.”

  He opened his eyes.

  “We must go. Karel needs results, not excuses.”

  ***

  At the beach house in Corolla, Mila sent Jim Harrigan to wheel the large garbage can to the roadside. Jeannine followed. She wanted a moment alone with him

  “Jim, I don’t think that these former communists will gain enough by destroying our cities.”

  Jim recalled his cold war service with the Agency. He had no doubts about the ruthlessness of those guys, whether Czechs or Soviets.

  She read his mind.

  “I know they could wipe us out with a clear conscience, but I don’t think revenge is enough of a reward for them. In the present clime, they are more thugs than communist ideologues.”

  “Get to the point, Jeannine. What are you saying?”

  “They want money. Lots of money. What if jihadists, who lack the knowledge and means to mount a massive nerve gas attack, are willing to pay them multi millions of dollars to cripple the ‘Great Satan.’”

  Jim frowned.

  “Jihadist Petrodollars for cold-war weaponry?”

  “Right. The loss of lives and the damage to the U.S. economy would be much worse than after 9/11. That could be the communists’ revenge for the destruction of Communism. Plus, millions of Euros for each of them would satisfy their thuggish appetites. And the jihadists would further their goal of establishing the Caliphate.”

  Jeannine made sense. Jim’s brow furrowed as he spoke.

  “So what holds the conspirators back is not the means of delivery, but negotiations to maximize their payoff. They want to extract as much as they can from the radical Islamists. When people are willing to die, the delivery system can be simpler. Those who deliver the agent will die, but they want to.”

  A cloud passed before the sun. The air chilled. Jeannine shivered and pressed her arms about her body while climbing the steps to the house. At the top, she looked back.

  To the West behind them, the sun shone blood-red on the horizon. Was it an omen, a portent of what lay ahead?

  The terrorists would strike, but when and where?

  But there was no time to reflect.

  Jim Harrigan knew that the conspirators could easily locate the beach house. And his truck and the other cars parked outside proved that it was occupied.

  It was only a matter of time before Karel’s men found them.

  They all needed to leave, now.

  In thirty minutes, everyone was packed!

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 31

  Saturday, November 27

  William M. Jones was born thirty years ago in Fairfax, Virginia. He was baptized a Christian for cultural reasons, but religion was not a factor in his upbringing. The agnostic tendencies of his mother and father failed to stimulate any reaction, much less belief, in their son.

  William was a natural athlete, but in High School, he disappointed his father by disdaining organized sports. He eschewed discipline unless imposed by himself on himself.

  He was no nerd. He kept physically fit by pumping iron and running. With his friends Barry Wilson and Monica Barrett, he partied, slept late, and mostly ignored his studies. He did not do drugs, he valued his trim muscular form.

  At his high school graduation, the name on his diploma was William Morris Jones, “Morris,” after his maternal grandfather.

  Then, during his third year at university, William’s political science professor encouraged him to examine the tenets of Islam. William eagerly immersed himself in the abundant internet offerings of radical Muslims.

  Faced with the emptiness of his life, William realized that his eternal destiny was to serve Allah. He became William “Masoud” Jones, joined the Muslim Student Association, and a year later, as a senior, headed a study group on “Militant Islam.” He abandoned alcohol and studied long hours. He could not make up completely for his lazy years, but he managed to graduate with a degree in civil engineering.

  Masoud attended a local mosque. Filled with fervor, he vowed to serve Allah, and only Him. He impressed his spiritual advisors who told him to avoid public displays of his religion, and that he must no longer frequent the Mosque. He would be a warrior but only in Allah’s time.

  When he received a wedding invitation from his former friends, Monica Barrett and Barry Wilson, he sent a present, but did not attend the Christian ceremony.

  He himself did not marry, but moved to a small town in Virginia where he joined the Volunteer Fire Department. He became a local hero when he carried the daughter of a prominent farmer to safety moments before the ceiling of her bedroom collapsed.

  Masoud enjoyed the fame, but he felt rejected. He should be a warrior for Allah. Surely that was his destiny! And he was tired of keeping the name “Jones,” no matter how important his mentors thought the deception was needed But William Masoud Jones, domestic terrorist, was obedient.

  He waited.

  ***

  And Masoud’s patience had been rewarded this past September, when he received several electronic communications.

  First, there was the money. A new account established in his name contained more money than he could ever have thought existed.

  Then there were the instructions. He was to move immediately to Dethorens, Virginia, to form a Volunteer Fire Department. An anonymous benefactor had given a large amount of money to the town specifically for that purpose.

  The benefactor’s only stipulation to the authorities was that Masoud be appointed Fire Chief. They voted on the gift in a special session, and William “M.” Jones the “hero of Marshall” was unanimously approved.

  Already the benefactor had started the erection of a steel frame building in the town’s sole commercial area. The target for completion was early October, at which time the latest in fire equipment, a modern tanker-pumper, an ambulance, and yes, special Hazmat equipment, was to arrive.

  Masoud also received a list of “volunteers” to interview. From it he was to choose three shifts for the volunteer fire department, but he must accept everyone on the list whether or not they were assigned to a shift. He was to house everyone in a multi-million dollar mansion located on over sixty acres that the benefactor had rented.

  And he was to train everyone in Hazmat procedures endorsed by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) as well as in the use of his own special equipment.

  Head down on his prayer mat, William Masoud Jones had thanked Allah.

  The waiting was over.

  ***

  In Belgium, Josef Hrubec had postponed making this call for 24 hours. He could wait no longer. He was not afraid of Karel, far from it, but Hrubec was proud. He hated failure. This call would confirm the failure at Malèves to himself, as well as to that pompous ass, Karel.

  He picked up his phone, paused, an
d punched the number. The voice that answered was familiar.

  “Fiala, let me speak to the Chief.”

  “On není tady. ‘He’s not here.’”

  Hrubec started to hang up, but Fiala continued.

  “He told me to ask you two things. ‘Where is the package?’ and ‘Where is Gustav?’”

  Josef Hrubec swallowed. To have to answer to this blond idiot was a major punishment. Evidently, the delay had proved to Karel that the news was bad.

  He contained his distaste for the secretary, took a deep breath, and recounted to Fiala the ‘mishaps’ of the Belgian operation.

  Then he provided her with the latest from his informants.

  The Americans had placed Gustav Slavik on a military flight to the U. S. He was to be treated at a hospital in the DC area, probably Naval Medical in Bethesda, Maryland.

  A CIA hack named Hamm, stationed in Vienna, had flown with Ivana to the U. S. in a private charter. The two of them were likely at a safe house somewhere in Virginia.

  Hrubec was deliberately brief in his account. He omitted all details of how Bill Hamm and Gustav had thwarted his abduction of Ivana, particularly the casualties his group had sustained.

  By the time he hung up, Hrubec was smoldering. He would not forget Karel’s snub. He was sure that Karel had listened to his entire conversation with Fiala.

  He was right.

  Almost instantly, his cell phone buzzed. It was Fiala again.

  “Karel wants you to fly to America immediately. Your flight is arranged. Pick up the tickets in Brussels. A member of the Maryland team will meet you at Baltimore-Washington Airport when you arrive. He will have instructions for you.”

  “Click.”

  Hrubec ground his teeth. Another demotion. Instructions from one of the Maryland lackeys?

  Karel, be careful, I too have limits.

  ***

  In Maryland, in a Hus-Kinetika laboratory not far from Aberdeen, Michal Pacak retrieved a remote printout with the High Performance Liquid Chromatography (HPLC) results. The high performance chromatograph, and the samples it measured, were located in a specially sealed and isolated area where robotic arms and other devices performed their programmed tasks under the watchful eyes of a multitude of television cameras.

  Michal was a Czech chemist, a graduate of the Technical University of Brno. He was young, his entire education was after the Velvet Revolution. All he knew of Communism, was the bitter old men who sat at street-side cafes to share stories while they soaked in beer or stronger spirits. Their archaic notions bored him.

  Michal was no ideologue, but he was gifted. At the Technical University his professor of chemistry had recognized Michal’s intelligence and abstract lack of moral sense. The combination made him a natural recruit for Hus-Kinetika’s “special project.”

  Michal’s professor had been a protégé of a well-known Czech Colonel who conducted research on nerve agents at an institute in Brno. With the dissolution of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, the records and equipment of the institute had been purchased by Hus-Kinetika. At the university nearby, Michal’s professor had introduced him to the world of organophosphate and carbamate pesticides.

  After an internship with Hus-Kinetika and the subsequent completion of his studies, Michal, seduced by an absurdly high salary with multiple benefits, was sent to the laboratory in Maryland, in the United States of America.

  Now he had a key role in the conspirators’ plans.

  ***

  Michal Pacak hunched over his lab bench to study the output. There were no windows on this floor, and his eyes strained under the fluttering fluorescent lights that flooded the work area. To his right, an array of over twenty TV’s served as monitors of various robotic activities taking place in a “sealed” laboratory area.

  Michal focused on the latest printout from the Varian chromatograph. The peaks were clearly defined and occurred precisely above the correct points on the axis. This was the signature of Novichok-H.

  Meanwhile, “peaks” from both precursors all were nearly flat, at most two per cent of those chemicals remained. At this temperature and mix, the reaction had yielded the lethal product with an efficiency of 98 per cent.

  Michal thrust his fist in the air with a silent cheer. This was the last of the containers to be tested, After years of shipment and storage, the chemical precursors had not deteriorated. Tons of Novichok-H were available for whatever plan his superiors had in mind.

  Whatever the plan was, it required a large volume delivery. Michal’s next requirement was to scale up the reaction volume to a 320 liter tank. This had problems beyond those for the small volumes already tested. He would need a “stirring” device inside the tank to ensure rapid mixing and reactivity of the precursors.

  A footstep sounded behind him.

  Michal turned and recognized a coworker, Elena Krkova. Like Michal, she was in her mid-twenties. She was clad in a long rubber apron and her hair was concealed in a protective wrap which she loosened to let long brown tresses tumble free.

  She tapped her finger on a pack of American cigarettes.

  “Michal, come take a break with me. I need a smoke.”

  Elena was a new arrival from the Czech Republic. The dire warnings of the United States Surgeon General had not yet intimidated her.

  Michal stood quickly. Elena was a “Dish.”

  “Why not, I just found good news. There’s no deterioration in that shipment of pesticides.”

  He said no more. He did not know what Elena knew about his real work. She may have been assigned to watch him, or maybe she was simply friendly. In either case she was attractive. He would enjoy her company They took an elevator to the ground floor. This was the United States. She had to leave the building to smoke.

  ***

  The air outside was cold and the wind was brisk. Elena stood in the open while Michal stayed in the shelter of the doorway. It was not possible to wander. A high fence topped with razor wire barred access into the nearby tulip poplars, now bare except for small dry cuplike clusters of seeds, that dominated the surrounding woods.

  Elena lit up and inhaled. Only then did she hold out the pack to Michal.

  “Would you like one?”

  “No thanks.”

  Elena was relieved. At today’s taxes, each cigarette was precious.

  “What pesticide are you working on, Michal?”

  Michal replied with a question of his own.

  “Where are you from, Elena? And where did you attend university?”

  “From Kladno, near Prague, and Charles University, of course.”

  Michal was not sure if her reply was a put-down. Graduates of Charles University often acknowledged no other institution but theirs, but Michal was not offended. The Technical University of Brno was world-class. He continued.

  “Why did you come to Maryland? Why the States?”

  Elena inhaled and lit a second cigarette from the first. She smiled. She too could be evasive.

  “This is my first time in the States and I need to see some sights. Maybe you could take me to Baltimore tonight. We could eat at the harbor.”

  She turned in his direction. She possessed an ample chest under the drab rubber apron. Michal could not say no. He didn’t.

  “That would be great. You’re off at six, yes? I’ll meet you at the main gate. We’ll take my car. It’s a brown Audi.”

  Elena noted with satisfaction that he knew her schedule. So he is interested. She not only knew the make and color of his car, its license plate was committed to her memory, along with his cell number and address. She had her assignment and she would complete it. But what a nerd!

  “Thanks, Michal.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette.

  They returned to the third floor.

  ***

  Once on the third floor, Michal went directly to his lab bench.

  Elena re-wrapped her hair and resumed her task of monitoring the robotic manipulation of lab vessels on closed ci
rcuit TV.

  Next to the battery of TV’s, a large panel exhibited rows of green lights. Elena checked them periodically, a blinking red light would signal a leak from one of the sealed hoods. If that occurred, the cubicle (itself sealed) that contained the leaking hood would have to be flushed and decontaminated.

  A third layer of protection was indicated by a row of large lights, likewise green. Each light represented a major “Zone” that contained multiple modules. The zones were graded by degree of risk. Zone A contained the hoods where the most toxic reagents were handled.

  Elena sighed. This was boring work, but it placed her near to her assigned “target.”

  ***

  Michal sat back and shut his eyes. Images of stacks of Euros flashed before him. He would soon be rich and not just Elena, but women of all sorts, would seek his company.

  The thought of the shapely Elena in a bikini-top, sunning on the white sands of a Caribbean island delighted him.

  But the Baltimore Harbor in the evening, with lights shimmering over the waters and its excellent restaurants was a romantic setting too. And afterwards, if he obtained a room high over the waterfront, perhaps Elena would reward his attentions.

  ***

  The fieldstone house was located at the end of a long wooded lane in the Virginia countryside near Middleburg. The small house had a central kitchen and living area with a bedroom on either side. The kitchen was ultra modern, and the open living area sported a large High Definition TV on the wall.