Collision of Evil (25 page)

“Yes,” she said at length, pushing back the unwelcome image of flaming buildings and wailing air raid sirens. “Horst was lucky to avoid the Russians. But they were experienced fighters, and they made it south, despite everything. Horst was proud of having completed his mission. He told me that.”

Go gently, Waldbaer commanded himself. “It was certainly an accomplishment against great odds. Did your husband mention what his mission had been? Did he ever say what the convoy was supposed to accomplish? It’s ancient history, I know, but it might help me, Frau Bergdorfer.”

“His assignment, you mean? It was secret. Quite secret.
Streng Geheim.
”

Waldbaer felt his heart sink and noted, from the corner of his eye, a downcast look cross Hirter’s face as well. A secret mission; they knew that much from Sedlmeyer. Did she not know, or was it that she would not tell, would not betray the memory of the honored loved and lost?

“A secret mission. Yes. Like so much in that war, I suppose. Of course, those secrets don’t need to remain secrets anymore. The secrets of a regime that no longer exists can’t count for much. But, if your husband never related these secrets to you, there’s little else to say.”

A smile creased Frau Bergdorfer’s thin lips without communicating warmth. She looked again at Waldbaer with eyes that struck him as uncomfortably predatory. “You’re not as subtle as you think, Herr Kommissar. I didn’t say that I knew nothing, only that my husband was on a secret assignment for the Reich when the war ended. That assignment was successfully completed. That much I know, even though Horst was circumspect about it. He felt that he’d done his duty one last time.”

Waldbaer nodded. “I won’t treat you like a child, Frau Bergdorfer.
Since we’re being honest with one another, let me ask the obvious question. Your husband’s mission involved delivering cargo somewhere. What was the consignment? What did the convoy transport all the way from Berlin? Did your husband reveal that to you? To be frank, it’s the key for which I am looking, perhaps it will unlock the door to a recent murder.”

“Remember what I said, Herr Kommissar, my husband was not one of those aging, beer-swilling men who regaled one and all in the
gasthaus
with war stories. He was taciturn by nature and silent on these matters by discipline. I never pushed, why should I have? My life with him was in the present, not the past. I don’t know exactly what was inside those military trucks.”

The detective considered the formulation of her words. “I believe you, it goes without saying. It’s too bad, for me that is. Why don’t we do this: tell me whatever your husband did say about this mysterious freight.”

“All right, Herr Kommissar, I can do that. But the garden grows chilly for my old bones. Perhaps you and your assistant would care to invite me for a cup of tea? There’s a little café in Freilassing center, five minutes by car.”

“It would be an honor,
gnadige frau,
” Waldbaer replied, using the ancient formulation for “honored woman.” Frau Bergdorfer responded with a smile that, for once, was not at all predatory.

Peters was pleased with how the interrogation had progressed but troubled by the results. He was certain that Ibrahim had been truly broken and was revealing whatever he knew with as much accuracy as he could muster. Ahmet agreed; the information Ibrahim was providing was valid. That was the problem. The details that Ibrahim provided were alarming.

Peters glanced around his office in the Ankara CIA facility. The off-white walls were decorated only with a government-issue calendar and two framed United Airlines travel posters, one of the Grand Canyon and one of cherry tree blossoms in Washington, DC. They were an inheritance, having been there when he took over the office from his predecessor. After a few moments, Peters put his pen to a pad of paper and wrote rapidly in large block letters:

SECRET

TO: COUNTER TERRORISM CENTER. RESTRICTED HANDLING

IBRAHIM BARAN (SUBJECT) OFFERED FOLLOWING INFORMATION TO JOINT INTERVIEW TEAM DURING THREE-HOUR SESSION TODAY. ALTHOUGH NERVOUS, SUBJECT RESPONDED OPENLY TO QUERIES. FULL INTERRORGATION TRANSCRIPT IS BEING SUBMITTED SEPARATELY. SALIENT AND TIME-SENSITIVE POINTS ARE NOTED BELOW.

1. SUBJECT IS ACTIVE MEMBER OF JIHADIST CELL LOCATED IN SOUTHERN GERMANY AND CONTINUES TO IDENTIFY MOHAMMED AL-ASSAD AS CHIEF OPERATIVE OF THIS CELL.

2. SUBJECT TRAVELED TO ANKARA ON AL-ASSAD’S INSTRUCTION TO MEET WITH ABDUL AL-MASRI, A MIDDLEMAN TO AL QAEDA LEADERSHIP IN WAZIRISTAN. SUBJECT CONTACTED AL-MASRI AND RECEIVED PERMISSION TO INITIATE A TERRORIST ACT IN GERMANY.

3. SUBJECT PROVIDED ADDRESS OF SAFE HOUSE WHERE HE MET AL-MASRI ON MULTIPLE OCCASIONS. TURKISH INTELLIGENCE IS PREPARING TO RAID THE APARTMENT; ONE OF OUR OFFICERS WILL ACCOMPANY AND REPORT RESULTS UPON COMPLETION OF RAID.

4. ACCORDING TO SUBJECT, JIHADIST CELL IN GERMANY IS PREPARING “SOMETHING BIG” IN NEAR TERM. SUBJECT CONFIRMED THAT THIS REFERS TO A TERRORIST ATTACK IN GERMANY. AL-ASSAD HAS NOT TOLD CELL MEMBERS SPECIFIC TARGET. IN CONVERSATIONS WITH AL-MASRI, SUBJECT LEARNED THAT TARGET SELECTION IS BEING LEFT TO AL-ASSAD’S DISCRETION. CODED NOTES CAPTURED WITH SUBJECT CONFIRM THIS. SUBJECT SURMISES THE ATTACK WILL TAKE PLACE WITHIN GERMANY AND NOT INVOLVE A CROSS-BORDER OPERATION TO ANOTHER EUROPEAN COUNTRY DUE TO SECURITY CONSIDERATIONS.

5. SUBJECT ADVISED INTERROGATORS THAT THE ATTACK WILL BE LAUNCHED EMPLOYING MATERIAL HIDDEN FOR LONG PERIOD OF TIME IN A CAVERN IN THE BAVARIAN ALPS AND RECENTLY RELOCATED TO A WAREHOUSE IN ROSENHEIM AREA (NO FURTHER INFORMATION). SUBJECT DOES NOT KNOW THE NATURE OF THE STORED MATERIAL. HE DESCRIBED THE MATERIAL AS “SCIENTIFIC DEVICES” WITH WHICH HE IS UNFAMILIAR. AT ONE POINT SUBJECT SAID HE UNDERSTANDS THAT THE EQUIPMENT IS “LABORATORY EQUIPMENT” BUT CANNOT ADD DETAILS.

Peters rubbed his chin and considered the last sentences he had scribed. He had a case officer’s intuition and decided to note it for the record.

FIELD COMMENT: CASE OFFICER BELIEVES SUBJECT MAY BE REFERING TO EQUIPMENT REQUIRED TO PRODUCE UNCONVENTIONAL WEAPON OF SOME SORT. NOTATION OF LABORATORY EQUIPMENT AND “SCIENTIFIC” MATERIAL
WOULD NOT SEEM TO FIT WITH PRODUCTION OF CONVENTIONAL EXPLOSIVES WHICH COULD BE READILY PRODUCED IN AN APARTMENT, EMPLOYING HOUSEHOLD OR COMMERCIAL ITEMS. JIHADIST CELL MAY BE PLANNING AN ATTACK USING A RADIOLOGICAL, CHEMICAL OR BIOLOGICAL WEAPON. CASE OFFICER VIEW ON THIS POSSIBILITY IS REINFORCED BY SUBJECT’S DECRYPTED NOTES WHICH QUOTE AL-MASRI AS CLAIMING THE ATTACK WILL BE “DEVASTATING” AND REPRESENTS NEW LEVEL OF TERROR AGAINST WESTERN INTERESTS.

Peters had a queasy sensation that he and his associates had uncovered enough information to provide warning of a pending attack, but had failed to garner sufficient detail to prevent it. He ran through the unknowns. Where would the attack take place? No information. When was the attack scheduled? No information. What type of attack would it be? No information. Still, he consoled himself, we have something. The material for the attack is in a warehouse in the Rosenheim area. That was a lead that could be pursued. In addition, a raid on al-Masri’s safe house in Ankara was even now unfolding. If they bagged al-Masri, they would acquire more information that could be exploited to stop the attack. Things could work out positively, Peters concluded. He put the chances of preventing a terrorist event in Germany at fifty-fifty. Not good math, he thought to himself, not nearly good enough.

The coffee tasted bitter to Waldbaer, so he dropped in another cube of sugar. Frau Bergdorfer was contentedly sipping her Ceylon tea from a fragile-looking porcelain cup, and Hirter was idly moving a spoon in his steaming mug of hot chocolate. The small café across from the Freilassing church was nearly empty. Two young, bored waitresses engaged in desultory conversation by the front door. Waldbaer found the chairs far too dainty and unstable and worried that his own might, with the wrong move, collapse unceremoniously beneath him. Glancing about, he noted that the décor was entirely feminine. There was garish wallpaper exuberant with pink roses, and prints of nineteenth-century Parisian scenes were placed at precise intervals. He preferred the honest rusticality of Zum Alte Post. Frau Bergdorfer was comfortable in these surroundings. The waitresses had smiled at her in recognition. The old woman pointed a long, thin finger at the street outside the window. “Freilassing isn’t much to look at these days. When my husband and I first settled here in the 1950s, things were different. The German border with Austria is at the bridge over the Saalach River less than a kilometer away. Freilassing was a border town. Salzburg residents traveled here for German products not available in Austria. All of that business made Freilassing a lively place. But that’s gone now. The European Union put an end to the border. All of a sudden, Freilassing was nothing special and went into decline. Businesses closed up, people moved to Munich to find work. Still, this is my home. My husband is buried in the cemetery, and I will join him there one of these days.”

“There are red roses on his grave,” Waldbaer said softly.

The woman regarded him. “Yes, Herr Kommissar. From me. Once a week I visit his resting place and leave roses for him. False name or not, he was my husband for many years. I knew him better than anyone. If he can be judged on this earth, I can judge him best.”

“Exactly,” Waldbaer replied. “Now perhaps we can discuss his final mission of the war?”

Frau Bergdorfer’s eyes narrowed and she knew that the conversation had been maneuvered to where the detective wanted it. She took another sip of tea, holding the cup in both hands before replacing it on the saucer.

“Horst told me this much, years ago. He said he was ordered to transport valuable scientific items to Bavaria and hide them. Some of the cargo originated from the fortress Zitadelle in Spandau. Some scientists from Berlin accompanied the convoy to ensure things were properly stored. They found a location that was suitable and placed the items there. That’s about all I can tell you.”

Waldbaer considered the information. “Why would they want to store these items, for what purpose?”

Frau Bergdorfer nodded almost imperceptibly. “They thought it might be of military use to a German resistance to the occupation. That’s why Nazi Party functionaries accompanied my husband. They needed to know the location to be able to access the items in the future. Of course, a resistance never developed. Almost everyone welcomed the end of the war; they didn’t want to go back to fighting. They wanted to get on with their lives. This meant that the cargo remained hidden. No one wanted to make use of it. In the end, my husband’s last mission was for nothing.”

“Frau Bergorfer, let me tell you this. Somebody discovered these hidden items and recently moved them away. I’m troubled by that. Did your husband know what was in that consignment?”

“Yes, he knew. He never told me though, not that I would have understood anything technical.”

“Is there anything else, Frau Bergdorfer, any detail that might help me?”

“One thing perhaps. Horst said he had not been chosen to lead
the mission at random. It was because of his background, his education before the war. Horst had been a well-respected young chemist; he went into the chemical export business after the war, perhaps you know that. Anyway, I suppose that means that the material in the convoy had something to do with chemicals.”

Waldbaer locked eyes with Hirter who lowered his cup of hot chocolate to the table with a discernable thud. Yet still, despite her seeming openness, the detective could not shake the feeling that the graceful old woman was concealing something.

Ahmet Saygun chambered a hollow-point round in his 9-millimeter automatic pistol and glanced up at the apartment with rustling orange curtains flowing from an open window. There were three other officers with him in the sedan, and another sedan parked across the street contained three more Turkish intelligence operatives as well as a dark-complexioned CIA case officer. Ahmet was aware that two of the officers in the other car carried compact Ingram submachine guns under their jackets for added firepower. A radio crackled; the men in the other vehicle wanted to know how long before they entered the apartment block. “Tell them it will be a few minutes,” Ahmet said to the driver who was monitoring the scrambled communications. “We go first; they follow thirty seconds after we enter the front door. I don’t want us bunching up on the street. We take the elevator, they work the stairs.”

Ahmet flexed his thick fingers and returned his pistol to the holster under his left arm, the safety off. He wanted to get his hands on al-Masri. That would be good for his career, of course, but he had other motivations. He had a visceral dislike for jihadists and their smug conviction that their acts were divinely sanctioned. Ahmet Saygun was the product of secular Turkey and he worried mightily about Islamist fundamentalists gaining power and destroying Attaturk’s imperfect, but functional, legacy. That little bastard al-Masri isn’t even a Turk, Ahmet reasoned, what the hell right did he think he had operating in Ankara? He glanced at the ticking hands on his Swatch and exhaled a breath.