***
It was a cold yet sunny morning when the embassy staff attending the memorial ceremony exited the rear of the embassy and filed down Ulica Thomasa Jeffersona. It had been six months since the bomb packed in the fuel tanker had devastated the front of the embassy, and it had taken all of that time to stabilise the building. It was estimated that it would probably take a further eight months to complete the repairs. There were no special security arrangements for either junior staff or the many relatives of the dead, as they were not perceived by the security organisations, to be targets of a terrorist threat.
Made with a concrete core, the trapezoidal memorial stone was faced in black polished granite that was three and a half metres wide at the base and nearly two metres wide at the top. The names of the dead, both American and Croat, were written in gold letters across the front panel of the memorial. It was a very plain, almost austere, tribute to the victims of the earlier bomb blasts. The design was a compromise by both the local and embassy officials, and was a good example of how ineffective consensus decisions could be, for not a single person liked the design.
With the dignitaries, survivors and relatives arranged in a ‘horseshoe’ facing the front of the memorial, and the military band and guard of honour to either side, the space behind the stone was empty. Other than a few local politicians, the majority of the people in the first six rows were all American. The American Ambassador and two representatives from Washington on her left, occupied the pivotal position on the front row. Beside the Ambassador stood the Mayor of Zagreb and on his right, two representatives of the Sabor, the Croatian Parliament, beside them were two representatives of the Croatian President, Stjepan Mesic. Once the band had finished playing Jordan King, the American Ambassador, stood to make the opening speech. Having first acknowledged the Croatian dignitaries, she welcomed everyone else before handing over to the Very Reverend Paul Rathbone, the embassy priest, who had been chosen by the memorial committee to undertake the blessing.
Rathbone, resplendent in his red cassock and white surplice, had just begun to speak when a mobile phone started to ring. He stopped in mid-sentence, hoping that whoever the fool was who still had their phone switched on would quickly silence it. The chorus of the Mexican Hat Dance trilled merrily for a few seconds longer, before an explosion tore the memorial apart. The shaped charge of Semtex explosive fragmented the front panel of black granite, breaking it into rectangular pieces that accelerated towards its victims at nearly six kilometres per second. Yet before the granite fragments reached the front row, a pressure wave tore their bodies apart. As the high velocity, ballistic shards of granite flayed those in the front row, those further back were blasted backwards. Bill Yates the military attaché, died instantly when one of the pieces of granite passed through his skull and into the chest of the woman sitting behind him. Michael Sullivan, his assistant was not so fortunate, a chair from the front row crashed into his shoulder and took off his arm. Lying five metres away from where he had been sitting Sullivan’s lifeblood sprayed in pulses across the yellow dress of the ambassador’s secretary, who had barely survived the first bomb eight months earlier. The spook Andrea Price, who was facing away from the memorial stone trying to detect the approach of any possible threat, received a fractured skull when she was hit by the amputated hand of Štefan Petrič, the grieving father of one of the earlier victims. Zac Young, also facing away from the blast, suffocated and died when the flying body of another victim broke his back. Robin Yeager, standing 20 metres back from the memorial had his clothes torn from his body and his flesh burnt by the heat generated by the explosion.
Frank Stewart, who survived the explosion unmarked, couldn’t believe that they had been out-smarted by the terrorists a second time. He and other members of the security team had checked and double-checked the environs around the memorial. It was clear, he could have guaranteed it. So how had this happened? Standing alone at the back of the ceremony, he had seen the flash of a thousand suns before he too was knocked over by the blast. As he wandered towards the carnage, deafened and in a daze, a young girl, her face covered in blood, grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the prostrate form of another woman.
“Help us Mr Stewart, it’s Mary Douglas. I don’t think she is breathing, help her please.”
Staring at the girl, Frank didn’t recognise her or Mary Douglas, even though he had worked with them both every day for the last two years. When he turned Mary over, her face was almost non-existent. Trying to perform resuscitation on Mary would have been impossible. Bleeding profusely, she had no nose and her mouth had been smashed. She was going to suffocate and die very quickly if he didn’t do something fast. Mary’s skin had already started to turn blue when he took a biro from inside his breast pocket and removed the refill. Then without hesitation he pushed the blade of his pocket knife into Mary Douglas’ throat, just above the notch formed by her two collar bones, before inserting the biro tube directly into her trachea. Then miraculously, Mary started to breathe on her own.
“Put her in the recovery position and make sure that the tube stays in place,” Frank ordered. “Once the paramedics get here, tell them what I ‘ve done. You’re OK, yes?”
“Yes, thanks Mr Stewart, I’ll look after her now.”
As Frank stood up, he refocused on the pandemonium before him. The cries of the wounded, the smell of blood and burnt flesh turned his stomach. Falling to his knees, he retched and cried at the same time. But louder cries for help re-motivated him, and he shuffled forward on his knees to assist the next victim. This time it was an old man whose right foot had been nearly severed. Using the man’s shoelaces to bind a scarf around the wound, Frank commanded the woman kneeling beside the old man to keep his leg elevated. Once the flow of blood had slowed to a trickle, Frank moved on to help someone else. As he leapfrogged forward from one victim to another, the severity of the injuries increased exponentially.
Frank, and others like him, saved countless lives in that interminable time between the explosion and the arrival of the paramedics. The carnage hijacked all the senses, the sight of mangled and blooded bodies assaulted the eyes, the smell of blood, vomit and excrement mingled into an unholy concoction that even made the toughest retch. Assaulting the ears were the screams of those in agony, harmonising obscenely with the wailing sirens of the approaching emergency services. Many of the walking wounded wandered aimlessly, locked inside their own terror, seemingly oblivious to the bodies they stumbled over.
It took forever to sort the barely alive from the dead, the fatally wounded from those who had a chance of living. Once the barely alive had been removed, the sickening tableau was a crime scene that perversely had to be preserved. Soon another crowd of people would be crawling on their hands and knees across the charred, bloodstained ground, although these would be searching for clues as to how the terrorists had accomplished yet another massacre, within a year of the last.
***
The clink of two wineglasses heralded the celebrations of two brothers half a world away from the carnage in Zagreb. Dino and Levorko Sutic raised their glasses in triumph as news of the attack in Croatia was broadcast in New Zealand. Because of the 12-hour time difference, the two brothers had stayed on at their restaurant at the Viaduct Harbour in Auckland. Even though all the staff and customers had left Terra Brasil hours ago, the merriment of the busy restaurant had continued as the BBC World news told the story that both of the brothers knew was about to break.
The chorus of the Mexican Hat Dance trilled once again, only this time it was Dino’s cell phone, Matej Korošec was calling to tell them the news.
“Good morning, I understand that business has been booming there. I hope that you don’t mind me pre-empting your report regarding the profit you have made.”
“No, no that is fine.” Korošec replied. “I can report that although the figures are a little lower than in our previous statement your investment in our company has been turned into a sizeable profit.”
> “Thanks, Matej, that’s good news.” Said Dino as Matej paused.
“I must thank you for your gifts, our family’s success has benefited enormously from your generosity.” Continued Matej. “The financial report showing the figures should be with you very soon. I look forward to your continued investment in our venture. It must be late, so I won’t keep you up any longer. Thank you and goodnight.”
“Thanks for your kind words, you and your employees deserve a lot of the credit for your efforts. Please convey our good wishes to your staff, you have done well.”
At the conclusion of the call Dino turned to his brother and raised his glass once more.
“Matej has done us proud once more, I think. Turn the sound up again.”
Levorko un-muted the television just as a rather dishevelled reporter started his commentary.
“I am reporting to you live from the site of yet another terrorist attack on the American Embassy here in Zagreb. Whilst we were filming a short vignette about the previous bombing at the front of the embassy, an explosion at the memorial ceremony took place. We were thrown to the ground by the force of the explosion even though we were nearly 100 metres from the seat of the blast. I can’t give you any news of how many casualties yet but I understand that it may be over one hundred. I can tell you, though, that the scene is too traumatic for live television. The carnage caused by the blast cannot be adequately described in words. The human tragedy that has occurred here literally defies description; it is truly terrible. As you can see behind me, there is almost a continual stream of ambulances taking the wounded away for treatment. The memory of what we have witnessed today will be with me forever. I ….”
At that point the telecast changed to the newsreader in the London studio.
“As you can imagine, I am sure Felicity Campbell and her crew must also be traumatised by this tragedy. We will take a short break for now and return to her as soon as she is able….”
Levorko switched the television off. They were soldiers, not ghouls, they could imagine what it was like at ground zero, they didn’t have to see it or have it described by a TV reporter.
“I think we can go home now Dino; we know how successful Matej has been. Next time the return on our investment will be much greater, of that, I am sure. Next time Matej will be telephoning to congratulate us on our venture.” Levorko patted his brother on the back, triumphantly.
***
The death toll rose eventually to ninety-three, with a further one hundred and forty- two injured. Statements by the world’s leaders echoed abhorrence and revulsion at such a cowardly attack on the innocent mourners at the memorial ceremony. The tragedy of survivors of the first bomb attack dying in the second was a poignant reminder of the fragility of life. America awoke to the sound of politicians rattling their sabres and promising that the perpetrators of this crime would be hunted down and brought to justice. The cliché that they “could run but they could not hide” was repeated ad nauseam. Security was upgraded around the world as more politicians “closed the stable door,” even though the “horse had already bolted,” because someone had to be seen to do something about the perceived threat.
But although tough questions were going to be asked of those responsible for the security of the mourners at the memorial ceremony in Zagreb, Mr and Mrs Joe Public soon forgot about the incident and continued their lives as if nothing had ever happened.
Special Investigator Brian Nicholls pounded the desk in front of him to gain the attention of the investigative staff that had assembled in the conference room at the embassy in Zagreb.
“It’s been three fucking weeks now and we still don’t know jack shit about who did this, so come on people, let’s get with the program here. Tony what news have you regarding the bomb?”
Dr Tony Shelly was one of the FBI’s most gifted explosive experts. He had been investigating and studying the techniques of terrorist bombers for more than twenty years, including the so-called Oklahoma Bomber, Timothy McVeigh. Shelly’s testimony had been instrumental in both the capture and conviction of McVeigh. Tony Shelly was a tall thin man with rimless bifocal spectacles. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were a ‘salt and pepper’ mixture that gave him a distinguished, scholarly appearance. He spoke softly, with a broad Scottish accent, and had recently married a Croatian girl from the embassy’s typing pool.
“The memorial stone wasn’t actually a single stone at all, it was comprised of four rectangular concrete posts, one at each corner that were attached to a reinforced concrete foundation plinth, nearly a metre deep around the perimeter, with a fifteen-centimetre-thick reinforced concrete slab popped on the top. Three centimetres thick, polished granite fascia panels were keyed into the underlying core and secured, using a form of grout. Now the interesting aspect about the front panels, those facing the mourners, was that a network of channels had been cut into the back so that they would fragment in the explosion and thus form the shrapnel that killed so many people in the first few rows. The explosive, I estimate about ten kilos, was packed in sheets behind the front panel only. So, the considerable mass of the memorial structure itself ensured that the full force of the explosion was directed forwards, toward the mourners. The explosive train was initiated by a mobile phone, connected to a blasting cap containing PETN. The telephone itself was connected to a motorcycle battery, so that the whole mechanism could have been placed behind the front panel, months ago. Simple but very effective.”
“Can we get any details from the phone debris, Tony?” asked Brian Nicholls.
“No, I’m afraid not. It was presumably a pre-paid mobile and the SIM card itself was destroyed by the blast. It had probably been covered with an oxidising agent like potassium chlorate. The serial number was also erased, probably using a soldering iron or something like it. So, I’m afraid to say the clues are few and far between. However, I can tell you that the explosive was again Semtex 1A, and was manufactured by Explosia in 1989. It was vintage stuff, and from the same batch used in the earlier attacks.”
“Where the fuck are they getting all this shit from Tony?” demanded Nicholls.
“Well, I can give you a quick history lesson, if you wish”
“OK by me, I’ve got no other leads to pursue at the moment, go for it Tony.” As Tony looked around the others seated at the conference table there were several nods of approval.
“When the U.S. started to use C4 explosive in the war against the North Vietnamese, Ho Chi Minh asked the Czechoslovakian government to develop an explosive counterpart. Explosia, the Czechoslovak explosives factory in Pardubice, developed Semtex, the now infamous rival of the American C4, in 1966. After the war, Vietnam’s economy was in tatters, so in order to help repay its war debts, Vietnamese workers were sent to the Pardubice factory, as cheap labour, to manufacture Semtex.
Since then, it has been linked to the first attack on the World Trade Centre and the bombing of the US embassy in Nairobi. But even though Semtex has been linked to only 58 of over 3 000 terrorist bomb blasts, the legacy of those attacks has been the demise of Semtex and its legitimate manufacture. Semtex now constitutes only 0.1% of Explosia’s income; however, it is still at large, and can be easily sourced, through the right channels, at $500 a kilo. Even though C4 is easier and cheaper to procure, Semtex still generates fear amongst the innocent.”
“Do you mean to say that the explosive used in these attacks could have been made by the fucking Vietnamese?”
“No, I think that’d be stretching the truth a little, the sweat shops that were occupied by the Vietnamese workers are now part of Pardubice University. No, by 1986 all that had finished.”
“So, where is the stuff coming from?”
“I can only guess, from Libya maybe, or some corrupt Czech military quartermaster. Flip a coin and choose.”
“Well, you’re a great help,” stated Nicholls, as others in the room started to snigger. “OK Tony, get on to those Explosia guys and see if you can get any more details of that
particular batch of Semtex. Now for the rest of you: Sam I want your team to track down the monumental stonemasons who were contracted to do the memorial stone. If Tony is correct about that front panel being worked so it would fragment, then that took some planning. We must be able to grab someone for that.” Nicholls looked around the room prompting someone to speak.
“OK boss,” said Sam Taverner, an ex-FBI special agent, “but we’ll have to work through the local police. We’ve got good liaison with their Chief of Police so I don’t think we’ll have much of a problem with that, but they are sensitive to us wading in heavy handed.”
“Andy, your team work on the phone, it was a Nokia 6012. Try and get a handle on where it came from. You too will have to work with the locals.”
“On to it boss.” Andy Cho, a Chinese-American and always a man of few words. If anyone could trace the Nokia needle in the haystack, he and his team could.
“What about the detonator?” asked Brian Nicholls.
“We haven’t found all the pieces yet,” replied Tony Shelly again, “and we might not in the end. But what I can tell you is that it was made by Koryo Nobel Explosives Korea. I think that it was one of their NPED Number 8 detonators. I did a bit of checking myself and it seems that Istrochem, an explosives manufacturer and supplier from Bratislava in the Slovak Republic, distributes similar detonators in this neck of the woods. But that means jack shit if I can’t find the piece that’s got the serial number on it.”
Crystal Ice Page 19
