Collision of Evil (16 page)

The few narrow, heavily grimed windows of the warehouse were built high into the walls and had been covered over with black masking tape so no sliver of light would escape to the outside world. To any casual passerby on the little-traveled street outside, the warehouse would appear unoccupied and lifeless, just another unexceptional and inelegant structure in a district of dull and indifferently constructed buildings. Inside the warehouse, life surged and pulsed. Four men were present and each was a vessel of purposeful activity, focused on some assigned task in the dim illumination of the low-wattage bulbs installed to lessen the chances of inadvertent discovery.

Mohammed al-Assad was contemplating a row of metal antiseptic-looking cylinders on the table before him. The polished vessels looked much like thermos bottles. Ah, but the contents are much different than Eduscho coffee, al-Assad noted with a smile. He was reaching for one of the cylinders when his Nokia cell phone rang, the tinny refrain of Mozart’s
Eine Kliene Nachtmusik
echoing incongruously through the cavernous space. Al-Assad activated the phone and listened to the voice on the other end.

“This is Ibrahim. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you just fine, Ibrahim. How are you?” Assad felt a frisson of excitement course through him but willed himself to speak naturally, calmly.

“I’m great. The cold that I had earlier is gone, and I couldn’t be feeling better.” Al-Assad relaxed. Ibrahim had just delivered the
agreed-to code; the reference to not having a cold meant that he was not calling under duress, and “couldn’t be better” meant that Ibrahim believed himself free of surveillance.

“I’ve been busy. I was talking to the father of the bride. He thinks that the wedding should take place soon. He sees no reason to delay it, since his daughter is excited about the ceremony he feels the wedding should go ahead. He’s looking forward to it and hopes many guests will attend.”

Al-Assad kept his voice casual, trying to convey the illusion of boredom. “Wonderful. Pass along my congratulations to the bridal party. I’m certain it will be a wedding to remember. I’ve got things to take care of, so I’ll ring off now, Ibrahim. See you soon and thanks for the call.”

“Okay,” Ibrahim replied. “I have a few chores to do here, but I expect to be back in a few days. See you then, my friend.”

Al-Assad punched the off button on the Nokia and considered what he had learned. Ibrahim Baran had apparently done well on his trip to Ankara. He had departed on a Lufthansa flight from Munich two days ago and was already reporting back. It was obvious that Ibrahim had, as planned, contacted Abdul Al-Masri, who had traveled to Turkey from Pakistan expressly to pass instructions to Ibrahim. The details, of course, would have to await Ibrahim’s return to Bavaria.

Nonetheless, Ibrahim had communicated the most important piece of information. The operation should proceed. Al-Assad smiled broadly. Excellent. This was the message that he had awaited, had longed for, had dared to pray for. Now things would happen as they should. He noticed that his three associates were arrayed in front of him, alerted to the prospect of news from his telephone conversation. Nodding solemnly, he stretched out his arms as if to envelop the men.

“Brothers. I have wonderful news. The time has come to purify our hearts and put aside daily concerns. Make yourself ready for what awaits, that which will honor us and our families for generations.”

As one, the trio responded with hands raised toward the sky as they intoned the venerable chant
“Allahu Akbar,”
the triumphant syllables reverberating against the solid brick walls of what had become a temple of implacable and murderous sentiment and purpose.

Waldbaer stared at Hirter. Perhaps he had misheard. The subdued background sounds of the police station, voices, and coffee machines went on around them, unheard.

“I can help with names. I can help a lot with names. Herr Kommissar, you just need to provide me whatever information you have on these people—full identification, date and place of birth, criminal record, known relatives, and known aliases.”

Waldbaer half-rose from the embracing richness of his leather chair. “Aliases? Aliases? What are you talking about, Hirter? And, why in God’s name do you think you can acquire information that a police officer can’t? Do you think we’re untutored buffoons?” Waldbaer sank back into his chair. “I know that since you arrived here you’ve wanted to play a role in solving your brother’s murder. But you need to understand that, despite your best intentions, no untrained amateur —”

“I am a CIA officer.”

Waldbaer found himself momentarily speechless. He wondered whether he was experiencing a sudden hearing disorder.

“You have some sort of badge, an ID?” Waldbaer’s question was intended to give him a few seconds to get over his shock.

“As you might understand, Kommissar, we don’t usually carry compromising official identification in countries where we aren’t declared. At least not those of us in the Clandestine Service, which is the CIA directorate where I work. If you don’t believe me, I can give you an official phone number to call, and someone will confirm my affiliation, someone can even meet you if you insist.”

Waldbaer rubbed a hand against his temple. “Herr Hirter, enlighten me, why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I would have told you earlier, but I only received permission to break cover last night. These things take time. I received a phone call from Langley last night, due to the different time zones. There are details of a secrecy agreement that we’ll have to talk about, but we can leave that for later. The salient point for you is that I—and the CIA—can conduct international name traces and background checks.”

Waldbaer continued to stare at Hirter. The Kommissar was aware that his plans for the day had suddenly, irrevocably changed.

“Hirter,” he said at last, not without a trace of wonder in his graveled voice, “you’re right. We need to talk. We need to talk a lot. But not without beer, Hirter, not without some beer. You still have that rental car? You drive, I provide directions; it’s not far to where we’re going.”

Zum Hirschen was as quiet as a monastery refectory given the early hour. Waldbaer and Hirter sat at a small square table on which two tall glasses of dark Wieninger wheat beer were placed. Waldbaer slowly drummed his thick fingers on the creviced tabletop.

“You are aware, Herr Hirter, that there is an official side to international cooperation on criminal cases in Germany. If you’re representing American Intelligence and offering to assist the police, this has to go through channels. There is a procedure. I believe you are who you say you are—why would you lie about it? But I have to coordinate this with my superiors. I can’t even guarantee that liaison with the CIA will be approved in a case like this.”

Hirter swept some unruly hair from his face and nodded. “Well, that’s one way to do things.”

“You are suggesting that there are other ways?” Waldbaer suppressed a frown, reached for the glass in front of him, and took a swallow.

“Sure. There’s always an informal alternative for things like this. Nothing officially declared, no memo, just conversation that no one
needs to acknowledge. It’s often the more efficient way to conduct business, in my experience.”

Waldbaer’s face creased in a slight smile. “Ah yes, you mean
Der kleine Dienstweg;
the little path of the services, as the phrase goes. Not exactly a legal alternative, you understand.”

Hirter leaned in toward the table, his chair scrapping against the terra cotta floor. “Right. Not the sort of thing a bureaucrat would warm to. But you’re a Kommissar and I’m an intelligence case officer. My logical partner would be the German Foreign Intelligence Service, the BND. And you would be more comfortable dealing with an FBI legal attaché. True, but that’s not the situation we find ourselves in. If we try to do this with official coordination and memos back and forth, this could turn into a shipwreck. You want this case solved as much as I do. Not just to clear up a murder. We both feel that something else is going on here, something sinister. Something we need to prevent.”

Waldbaer heard himself sigh. He worried again that he was sighing too often these days and wondered if it was a signal of incipient depression. “All right. Maybe we can work offline. I’m probably making a mistake. I have an unpleasant feeling that I’ll get in trouble for this, but okay. We can at least start on an informal basis and see how it functions. But, Herr Hirter, there is one thing you need to agree to up front. It is this: I am the lead agency and I make the decisions, period, full stop, no discussion. I am willing to let you into the investigation in what is a highly irregular arrangement. I’m willing to let you have privileged information. You can accompany me on investigative matters—when I decree. In return, I expect you to provide me with anything and everything that your organization turns up relevant to this investigation. No games. I don’t have the temperament for games. Those are the unshakable rules of the road if you want to do things outside of channels.”

Hirter considered the proposal, moving his beer glass across the table. Eventually he nodded and looked the police detective in the eyes. “Agreed. You’re in charge. I play a subordinate role on the side.
I’ll pass you any and all information the CIA clears for passage. I’ll also provide you my professional views for you to accept or ignore. When you say go, I go, and when you say stop, I stop. I can live with that. We are in agreement?”

Waldbaer stared across the table and clasped his hands underneath his chin. “Yes. For the time being anyway.”

Hirter smiled and raised his glass in a toast to Waldbaer. “Herr Kommissar, it occurs to me that our little agreement means that we’re partners of sorts. Am I right?”

The police detective pulled down on the knot of his ancient cravat and undid the button of his frayed collar before raising his beer glass in a riposte. “I fear that you are correct, Herr Hirter, I do fear that you are correct.”

Security was infinitely important now. Every minor activity, every seemingly inconsequential move would have to be considered. They could not afford discovery so close to achieving the goal they had worked toward for years. The goal they had killed to protect. The quartet had pulled up metal stools alongside a workbench that served as a table. The shadows from the dim lighting emphasized their cheekbones and brows. Al-Assad raised a finger in the air in the traditional Arabic gesture of emphasis.

“Our rules must change, brothers, as our behavior must change. I remind you that you have sworn loyalty to me and promised to follow my orders. We are in a strong position to implement our plan but things could still go wrong, something that we must prevent at any cost. Whatever trials we go through are done to fulfill Allah’s will. So, from now on, there will be no more contact with our families. We have disappeared to them. We are dead to them. They will understand later. Allah will inscribe a message on their hearts.”

The trio around the leader nodded without comment, eyes lowered contemplatively. Satisfied, al-Assad continued. “From this moment there will be no more contact with anyone outside of this room. We are our own self-contained universe. This means that you don’t need your cell phones anymore. We are as the dead, and the dead do not talk. I want you all to take out your cell phones and crush them underfoot. Crush them as you would crush the skull of Satan’s serpent.”

The men shuffled to their feet, searching for the telephones. Three black plastic Siemens phones hit the floor. A moment later they had
been splintered into unrecognizable heaps of component parts. This accomplished, al-Assad motioned the men to sit back down.

“Good. We are now safe from the outside world. I have my cell phone to receive calls from our other brothers, including Ibrahim, may Allah protect him and guide his return. But the number of this phone is known only to a few, only to those who support our mission. Still, we must do more to avoid detection. We cannot take the chance of being seen or risk an encounter with the police for any reason, like a traffic accident or passport check. So, it’s best if we remain here in this place, and make it our home as well as our workplace for the remaining time.”

The tallest of the trio replied. “You mean eat and sleep here? We don’t have beds. We don’t have anything to cook with.”

Al-Assad smiled thinly and looked across the expanse of the warehouse as he replied. “Yes, Sayyid, we sleep and dine here. It is not a perfect setting, but it will do. These are small sacrifices, surely.”

The others murmured agreement.

“I will drive out later and purchase sleeping bags. I will bring a portable stove and food and utensils. We already have water here for tea and for cleaning. The important thing is to reduce our profile to the world to almost nothing. Whatever errands are required, I will do. We are blessed with much space in this warehouse, so staying here should not be unbearable. Remember, if we would be caught for some reason, we would all occupy a small cell in very short order.”