Collision of Evil (27 page)

Mohammad al-Assad awoke with a start and was, for a moment, unsure of where he was. In a few seconds, he could make out the dark confines of the warehouse walls and the stained ceiling above his sleeping bag. He released a deep breath and heard one of the other men turn in his sleep, seeking a more comfortable position on the concrete floor. He closed his eyes again and considered the dream. No, he corrected himself, not a dream. It was a vision, doubtless similar to the mystic episodes that the Prophet, peace be upon him, had himself experienced. He did not doubt that what he had witnessed was real, that the blood red sea physically existed in some other place. It was too vivid to have been a mere dream, those nocturnal chimeras that were even permitted to the infidel. His vision had been a message.

He understood what had been revealed to him. That warm and sunny place was the threshold to Paradise, the domain of the elect. The sea of blood represented his earthly mission, the blood that he
would shed in the cause of Allah. The sword was his exalted weapon that would be returned to him in Paradise. Here on earth his weapons were less glorious, but their imperfect forms were sufficient to an imperfect world. But the sword meant that he was recognized as a warrior on the righteous path of jihad against the ranks of
takfir
and
kaffir.
It was he who would release the sea of blood, feeding its depths from springs of death.

There was also the storm cloud to be considered. There was danger loose. He knew with certainty that there were forces at work that meant to prevent his mission. The menace was not imminent; the storm had after all been a distant one. Still, there was no room for complacency. They needed to complete the mission before it could be compromised. What he could not know was how fast the storm was approaching. Had the vision offered further clues? He considered. The storm appeared out of a clear sky. This meant that an untroubling situation had altered. The storm front was far away. If the storm represented a threat, why was it not close at hand?

Al-Assad thought about this and ran through the possibilities. And then he knew. The distant danger. What element of their endeavor was far away? Ibrahim in Turkey, on his visit to al-Masri. He had talked to Ibrahim a few days ago and all had been well, but like the blue sky, the situation must have changed for the worst. If Ibrahim or al-Masri had been captured or compromised, he had to consider the implications. How much could they reveal under duress? Of course, if they had been martyred rather than captured, as bad as that would be, the risk of compromise would be greatly reduced. But no, he concluded, the storm in his vision had not diminished.

The danger was alive and would doubtless relentlessly move in the direction of Rosenheim. Under such circumstances, he had to plan. He unzipped the sleeping bag, stretched, and made his way to the improvised kitchen where he could consider what to do. He squinted at the illuminated dial of his wristwatch and saw that it was midnight.

In Langley, it was six hours earlier than in Germany. At six p.m. in the Counter Terrorism Center, Caroline O’Kendell placed printed copies of the Ibrahim Baran interrogation cables on the desk in her office. She took an orange highlighter from the desk drawer and tapped it rhythmically on the desktop as she read Peters’s reports. The interrogations were turning up useful information, she concluded. They had names now and a sense of the terrorists’ plan, even if details remained lacking.

The arrangement between Robert Hirter and his Bavarian Kommissar seemed to be working well. Initial information from Baran’s interrogation had been passed to them and was being acted upon. A search of warehouses in Rosenheim was underway.

On the negative side, the failed raid on al-Masri’s Ankara apartment was a major disappointment. Capturing al-Masri would have been significant, given his position in the Islamist hierarchy. Al-Masri had outfoxed them, inflicted casualties, and gotten away. At least the young, first-tour CIA case officer wounded in the raid had sustained only superficial injuries and punctured eardrums, and he was being flown home for further treatment.

Caroline shuffled through the documents on her desk. She read Hirter’s account of the interview with Kaltenberg’s widow. Hirter had written he was troubled by Kaltenberg’s chemist background. She shared that sentiment, but had nothing substantial to back up the feeling.

She again surveyed the cable recounting the conversation with Frau Bergdorfer. Caroline noted that the widow was certain her
husband had been specially selected from the ranks of SS officers to lead the convoy. Caroline was inclined to pursue the chemical angle further. She reached for the secure telephone on her desk and punched in the extension for an office across the headquarters building.

“Technical services,” a deep male voice rumbled on the other end.

“Hi. This is Caroline O’Kendell in CTC. I’d like to talk with somebody responsible for chemical detection. I want to see if you have an officer available to fly to Germany on short notice to check something out.”

The other end of the line was silent for a moment before the bass voice resumed. “We probably do have somebody qualified for that. We can talk, Caroline, but what you’ve said sounds pretty vague. Remember, we have lots of competing calls to use our technical folks. Our question is always ‘is it worth it?’ So, you’ll have to make the case.”

“Right. How about this: determining whether there is a convergence of an active terrorist cell and the possession of a chemical weapon left behind in Europe after the war by the Nazis. A collision of two evil forces, one past, one current, combining to create a present threat.”

There was again a pause on the other end. “That would pretty much work,” the disembodied voice conceded evenly.

Robert Hirter watched a red Deutsche Bahn passenger train hurtle by on tracks located a few feet from the loading dock of the warehouse. Hirter counted twelve cars. He watched the rattling mass of metal recede in the distance, on its way south. Turning back to the warehouse, he entered the cavernous space he had left moments ago. The light was poor, and Hirter squinted until his eyes adjusted. The place held the foul smell of industrial oil and wet cardboard mixed with cigarette smoke. A number of crates had been forced open and their contents spilled onto the stained concrete floor. Colorful plastic pellets in large cellophane bags intended for some extruder machine in a distant factory. Stacks of hubcaps emblazoned with the Opel automobile logo. Chinese-manufactured lawnmowers in long boxes.

The banal freight items of the industrialized world were on display, but nothing remotely sinister had been detected. The policemen with the crowbars appeared bored. Hirter saw Kommissar Waldbaer at the other end of the hall engaged in conversation with a blonde pony-tailed policewoman. The two were standing directly under a bare lightbulb suspended on a long cord and their features were angular and severe. Hirter decided to join them.

“Have everybody clear out, there’s nothing here. Have your people take a coffee break, and then move to the Schenker warehouse down the tracks. It’s huge, so inspecting it might eat up the rest of the day.
”

The policewoman glanced at Hirter as he joined them. “He’s okay,” Waldbaer said.

Hirter noted that the woman was petite for his image of a policewoman. She was pretty as well, though he noticed that she had a split lip and wondered why. The woman adjusted her black leather service jacket and pulled down on the visor of her white polizei cap, as if aware she was being scrutinized.

“Herr Kommissar, the problem is that we don’t have a good idea of what to look for. Something big? A single object? How many crates, if the stuff is still in crates? Will this be tubes or centrifuges or what? I feel like we’re flying blind.”

”We are flying blind, but at least we are flying,” Waldbaer breathed with a resigned grin.

Hirter cleared his throat and joined the chat. “Here’s what I think. We’re going after something old. We’re looking for items that were stored over half a century ago. I think that the stuff looks like laboratory equipment, mixing vats, test tubes, vials. If you find that sort of thing, there’s a good chance you’re on to something. And there’s a possibility that we might find some actual chemicals. Maybe in sealed drums. As to how much, something that would fill two truck beds at least. Right, Kommissar?”

Waldbaer ran his shoe over an indentation in the concrete floor. “I agree. Keep an eye out for chemicals, but God knows, there are lots of legitimate chemicals stored around here. One more thing, remind your people that it’s possible we might get lucky and find the suspects along with the goods. Your people have the photos we provided. I expect that they’re armed, so make sure your uniforms are ready to use their weapons. We aren’t dealing with teenage bike thieves.”

The woman nodded and stole another look at Hirter, still unsure of his role. “
Alles klar.
Don’t worry, Herr Kommissar, if we find these gentlemen, my boys will know what to do. It’s the finding part that’s difficult, but we’ll keep at it. If that stuff is anywhere near Rosenheim, we’ll find it. It might just take a while.” She snapped a salute to Waldbaer, nodded to Hirter, zipped her polished leather police jacket, and marched off.

“A while is precisely what we don’t have,” Waldbaer exclaimed to Hirter. “I can’t escape the sensation that we’re fighting time.”

Al-Assad had taken a bus to the outskirts of the city, killed time at a café to determine that he was not under surveillance, and had then taken another bus to Rosenheim center to place a call to Ibrahim. He would use a telephone booth near the train station. If he received no answer, or if anyone other than Ibrahim picked up the phone, he would know that the sacred vision referred with certainty to a problem in Ankara. Ibrahim knew the “under duress” parole and would employ it if he were in infidel hands. Al-Assad prayed that all was well, but prepared for the worst as he watched the suburban scenery slip by the grimy bus window.

As the vehicle lumbered to the train station, he noticed a collection of police cars in the parking lot of the Schenker warehouse. Strange, he thought, why would there be such activity at a freight storage facility? It hit him in a second. The bus rolled to a stop in front of the train terminal, and al-Assad exited along with the other travelers.

He did not go to the phone booth as planned, but walked to a newspaper kiosk that provided an unimpeded view of the warehouse farther down the avenue. He purchased the latest edition of
Spiegel
magazine, taking time to survey the parked police cars. Uniformed people were moving in and out, and he detected a policewoman with a long blonde ponytail spilling from her duty cap. Some of the policemen carried crowbars.

He knew that there was no need to make the call to Ibrahim, whose fate was now in Allah’s compassionate hands. Al-Assad rolled
the magazine under his arm, and strolled back toward the train station. He would return to the others. Their plans now required acceleration.

The Schenker warehouse visit had, as Waldbaer expected, taken the rest of the afternoon to complete. Nothing had turned up. There had been a momentary surge of excitement when they had uncovered metal barrels containing blue powder, but it had been quickly determined to be purification material for swimming pools. Nothing else of interest developed, and Waldbaer dismissed the force as the sky provided its first suggestion of darkness. After the police cars rolled off, Hirter extended him an invitation for a beer at the nearby brewery.

They stood at a bistro table outside the brick façade of the century-old brew house, both sipping a slightly sweet Helles. Waldbaer permitted himself half a cigarette, finding this an acceptable compromise in his attempt to kill the habit entirely. He calculated that he was down to about ten cigarettes a week. Or perhaps fifteen. “Your health, Hirter;
Zum Wohl.
” They tapped their beer glasses together.

“What time tomorrow, Kommissar?” Hirter wiped foam from his lip with a sleeve.

“Eight. Now that we’ve checked the train station area we head to the outskirts where most of the other warehouses are located.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his sports coat. “We meet at one forty-five Sterneckstrasse. There are several warehouses in the neighborhood, some active, some abandoned. We try them all.”

Hirter nodded slowly, looking thoughtful.

“What are you thinking, Hirter?”

“About something you said. Abandoned warehouses. I hadn’t thought about that. If you were not just storing stuff but mixing chemicals, what would you need? Not just a place to conceal equipment. You’d need working space. That’s not something you find in an active warehouse being run by someone else. So you secretly set up shop in some abandoned warehouse that no one uses. That’s what my instincts tell me.”

“It makes sense. What do you suggest?”

“We prioritize our search. If you have a list that identifies specific warehouses as abandoned, we hit those first.”