Collision of Evil (26 page)

“Let’s move,” he said and all four doors of the sedan opened simultaneously.

The men spilled from the street to the sidewalk, weapons concealed, eliciting no attention from passersby. The door into the apartment building was unlocked, as Ahmet knew it would be. A surreptitious entry specialist from his unit had disabled the lock discreetly before dawn.

Once inside the door, the four men found themselves in a narrow, empty lobby devoid of decoration save for a dust-shrouded plastic palm tree and an undistinguished painting of an Anatolian village. Dulled street noise seeped through the door behind them, its glass panes bathing the lobby in diffuse, gray light. “Mustapha, get the elevator.”

In response, one of the men punched a green button on the wall next to the lift. A bell rang and the metal doors to the elevator opened. The men piled in, drawing their weapons. As Ahmet pushed his square frame into the elevator’s narrow confines, he noted with satisfaction that the second team of officers was just entering the lobby and heading toward the stairwell. Good, he thought, everything is moving as it should.

The polished metal elevator traveled up to the fourth floor, vibrating slightly before shuddering to a halt at its destination. The doors opened with a clang, and the officer named Mustapha was first into the hallway, his pistol preceding him, barrel toward the ceiling. Ahmet and the others followed. He could hear the muffled approach of his other men as they mounted the stairs.

All knew where to go; they moved in unison toward the door at the end of the corridor, number 421. The apartment of Abdul al-Masri. Ahmet knew they required no battering ram; a covert inspection some days earlier had revealed that the apartments had been built with cheap particleboard doors. The group moved down the hall with quiet celerity. Ahmet glanced at the brown hallway carpet and the bare light bulbs illuminating the scene. They closed in on the apartment just as the second quartet of men debouched
from the stairwell, brandishing their weapons. The pungent smell of frying garlic permeated the narrow hallway.

“Let’s do it, gentlemen,” Ahmet intoned.

The two men in front launched at the door shoulders first. There was the sharp report of cracking wood as the door emblazoned with the number 421 gave way and separated from its frame. The four men squeezed through the entrance and stood in a sparsely furnished living room. There was no one there.

“Kitchen next,” Mustapha said, concealing his disappointment that he had not immediately confronted a quivering, bug-eyed al-Masri. Mustapha entered the narrow kitchen, his automatic pistol held at shoulder height.

Simultaneously, the second unit of four men was moving in file through the apartment door when an intense flash illuminated the apartment followed a second later by the explosion that slammed through their ear drums.

Ahmet felt himself thrown backward by the searing blast; he felt its angry heat flow over him as he slammed into the linoleum floor tiles. A bomb, he judged instantly, that scum al-Masri had rigged his own apartment with explosives. Ahmet rolled onto his side and pushed himself to a kneeling posture. He felt blood in his mouth and knew from a burning sting that his face was lacerated. His weapon had been blown from his grip by the blast.

With effort, Ahmet forced his eyes open. Although his vision was milky, he knew with relief that he had not lost his eyes. He took inventory of the scene. Mustapha lay nearby and was clearly dead; his head hung grotesquely from his solid shoulders by a thread of tissue; a pool of blood spreading out from the shattered corpse. All of the other men were lying on the floor, their bodies in flailing animation like worms after a rain storm. Visibility was poor as the lights had been destroyed by the blast, and the air was thick with smoke and floating particles of debris. Ahmet heard voices whispering feverishly. With a start he realized that they were not, in fact, whispering. His comrades were moaning and screaming for assistance. The sound of the detonation had temporarily ruined his hearing.

Pulling himself to his feet, Ahmet slid his hands over his body searching for major wounds. He found none, but worried about possible internal injuries.

“I can’t move my arms,” he heard one of his men say.

Ahmet reached into his tattered trouser pocket and gripped his encrypted cell phone in a tremulous hand, punching in the number for the operations control vehicle parked a few blocks away. He could not hear whether someone answered on the other end, but presumed they had. “We’ve got an emergency in the apartment. A bomb has gone off. Everybody is wounded. We have one confirmed dead, and some of the others are in bad straits. Get ambulances here and make sure they have trauma doctors onboard, not just medics. Al-Masri isn’t here. The place was empty. Alert border control, but it’s probably too late. That bastard knew we were on to him somehow. Just get the ambulances and have them bring blood. My people are losing lots of blood.”

Ahmet was just able to punch off his cell phone before passing out and falling to the floor where the fibers of his tailored charcoal suit soaked in the arterial blood of his companions.

There was a breeze issuing from the south, sufficient to stir small waves upon the placid surface of the broad Chiemsee Lake. The waves lapped at the long, wooden wharf near the ancient convent on the Island of Ladies,
Fraueninsel,
the name a reference to the nuns who had tended the place for centuries, and continued to do so. The sky was iridescent blue laced with milk white clouds, and the distant mountains were starkly visible in the crisp autumn air. Waldbaer and Hirter sat outside at a small table on a leafy terrace of the Cloister Inn.

The two men had identical meals in front of them;
renke,
a mild fish netted from the depths of the lake, and fried potatoes garnished with onion. Also gracing the table were two glasses of beer from a brewery in nearby Traunstein. Waldbaer had invited the American to the island so that they might speak with more privacy than at the police station and because the detective had a weakness for dining al fresco on sunny days. He enjoyed the atmosphere of the island and the boat ride from the nearby village of Prien.

Waldbaer took a long swallow of beer and pointed to the sky. “
Himmel der Bayer
,” he said to his counterpart. “The heaven of the Bavarians. That refers to a blue sky with white clouds—the colors of the Bavarian flag. This kind of wonderful weather occurs mostly in the fall. Summer is often rainy or humid; autumn is the time for beer gardens.”

“Not to mention the Munich Oktoberfest,” Hirter added as he stared out at the lakefront and a passing sleek white sailboat.

“Right. The Oktoberfest usually enjoys good weather. Have you
ever visited it? Two weeks long every year and millions of visitors. And even though it’s called the Oktoberfest, most of it takes place in September. The festival ends on the first weekend of October.”

Hirter took a forkful of white fish. “No, I never went to the Oktoberfest. Some of my CIA buddies who’ve been stationed in Germany have told me about it. They think it’s a lot of fun, but it sounds like a mob scene to me. Giant tents full of thousands of sweating, singing drunks doesn’t strike me as a must.”

Waldbaer laughed and lifted his face to the warming sunlight. “You’re a cynic, Herr Hirter, perhaps a snob. You’re right about the mob scene. All of the Munich breweries maintain elaborately decorated tents that hold several thousand people each. Low class? Absolutely. Fun? Let’s say I enjoy going once every year.”

Waldbaer moved the conversation back to the investigation. “Regarding the case: the next step is to find the warehouse that Ibrahim Baran mentioned. He said it’s in Rosenheim, not far from here. Rosenheim is a fair-sized city, and finding the right warehouse won’t be easy. We’re putting together a plan to check warehouses systematically. I expect the first checks to start this afternoon, beginning near the train station and radiating outward. We might get lucky early on. I hope so.”

Hirter nodded agreement. “This is a solid lead. As for what we’re searching for, I think we have an idea, and it doesn’t make me happy. Chemicals, laboratory equipment. I have a feeling that Kaltenberg’s background as a chemist is no coincidence. His widow says that’s one reason he was selected to move the goods. So we have a trained chemist and trusted SS officer in charge of the stuff that made its way to that cavern. Now, somehow, the Nazi cargo is in the hands of known terrorists. And, according to what Ibrahim admitted under interrogation, an attack is being planned. When I add it all up with my operational math, the answer I end up with is a chemical weapon.”

Waldbaer thought for a moment and his eyes followed a bee’s flight until it disappeared into a bush of wild roses. “Kaltenberg having been a chemist makes me nervous too, especially with the press
writing about weapons of mass destruction. Still, I just don’t know enough about the subject to judge what al-Assad is planning. Maybe it’s all coincidence.”

Hirter shook his head. “My case officer instincts tell me otherwise. Kaltenberg is key to all of this, I’m sure of it. If we find the Rosenheim warehouse, all will become clear. I just hope that we find it before these guys blow something up.”

“That’s another point,” the detective said. “We don’t know the intended target for the attack. The prisoner in Turkey doesn’t know himself. This means that we can’t put security on a specific location. If we knew the target, I’d feel a lot better than I do right now.”

Hirter nodded. “I know. Let me tell you something, Kommissar. I’ve learned about terrorist modus operandi over the years. The real professionals know how to keep a secret and restrict information even in their own circle. The plans for nine eleven weren’t widely known within Al-Qaeda. Even some of Mohammed Atta’s people aboard the aircraft weren’t sure what was going to happen until the last moment. Baran is telling the truth. He doesn’t know the target because he doesn’t need to know it. My suspicion is that the cell leader alone—al-Assad—knows where they’re going to strike. I think the terrorists are exercising good operational security. That doesn’t mean they can’t slip up, but I don’t count on identifying the target until we can scoop up these guys.”

Waldbaer gazed out over the sparkling water of the Chiemsee and focused on a pair of gulls hovering over the wharf. Gulls are perpetually hungry, he thought, never content, never satisfied. “They might slip up. We might get lucky. But all in all, Herr Hirter, I’d prefer better odds. Let’s eat up, catch the boat to Prien, and drive to Rosenheim to check some warehouses. That, at least, will give us the illusion of progress.”

He stood in a vast sea of blood that stretched off to a distant horizon. A soft, warm breeze caressed his face and the sun reflected like thousands of twinkling diamonds on the brilliant red surface of the sea. The sky above was indigo blue and shorn of clouds. There was no sound, only perfect silence, ineffably pure and soothing. He had never in his life felt so at peace.

His feet and ankles were immersed in warm blood, washed by it. He was garbed in a robe of spotless white that moved slightly with the gentle touch of the diffident breeze. Even when the hem touched the red sea it remained unsullied. His hands were at his side, palms up, and he could feel the persistent warmth of the sun embrace his skin. He stood like this for a long time and no longer cared about minutes or hours or days.

After a while, how long he could not say, he noticed another object in the sky aside from the orb of the sun. This object reflected the sun with such intensity that he could not readily determine its shape. Without worry, he watched the object and determined that it was growing in size and brilliance. No, he concluded, it is not growing in size, it approaches. The reflection was moving toward him and it cast a black shadow upon the blood of the sea. It is meant for me, he knew. He was not surprised when the object, moving with stately deliberation, came to rest in the air directly in front of him at a distance of a few feet. He looked upon the shining object, but his eyes were not troubled by its intensity, and he knew that the thing was enchanted. By stages, the reflection on the surface of the object dulled until he could perceive its form.

It was, he saw, a sword, a curved scimitar, its burnished blade engraved with script, its hilt ornately crafted from solid gold. He began to weep with the unrestrained happiness of the saved because he knew that the sword was a gift for him. He reached out his hands until they closed on the warm metal hilt gently and reverently. This was no dead thing; the weapon’s energy pulsed into his palms. He brought the blade to his lips and kissed it. I will be worthy, I will not dishonor you. The weapon, he knew, was intended for use and he had been selected as the warrior who would wield it.

He looked again at the extraordinary scene before him, the expanse of burgundy blood merging on the horizon with the flawless blue sky. He intuited that there was something else yet, and waited. Eventually, he noted a change in the distance. The deep blue of the sky deepened further still until it became a wall of black cloud, its surface billowing and angry. At intervals he could detect a jagged flash of silent lightning, there and gone. The storm was at a great remove from him and did not threaten. Still, he felt tendrils of concern. The storm blemished the perfection of the scene. And provided a warning.