Collision of Evil (37 page)

“How large are the tents?” Chalmers queried.

“Each one holds thousands of people. They’re full to capacity day and night. There must be six or seven main tents run by the Munich breweries lined up on a pedestrian boulevard. If I have my facts right, during its two week run last year’s Oktoberfest attracted about six million visitors.”

Chalmers looked somberly at the others. “Tents. That doesn’t sound good. Tents could be a really fine environment for employing Sarin. A confined space is what Sarin requires to be effective. And if this confined space is packed with people, the lethality count is bound to be very high. Tell me, are the tents air-conditioned? Do they try to keep them cool?”

“There isn’t air-conditioning at the Oktoberfest.” Waldbaer clarified. “The tents can get pretty humid and warm from all of those partying, swaying, yelling, and singing bodies. Uncomfortably warm sometimes.”

“That is unwelcome news,” Chalmers said. “Humidity and dampness can work against Sarin dispersion, to be sure. But enough heat, a high enough temperature, counteracts the humidity. If the Oktoberfest is the target, it sounds to me like al-Assad knows what he’s doing. If he succeeds in unleashing high-concentration Sarin in one of those tents, we could see mass casualties.”

“Allen,” Caroline interjected, “what makes you think they want to attack just one tent? If they have multiple canisters, I imagine they’ll try to target several tents, to achieve maximum effect and panic.”

“Agreed,” Waldbaer added tersely. “You can continue discussing this, but I have things to do. I have to arrange for undercover police sweeps downtown. I have to alert the authorities to the target. This
information is going all the way to the Chancellery in Berlin. And I’m still waiting on a decision on a shoot-first policy.”

“A shoot-first policy?” Caroline inquired.

Waldbaer moved toward the door. “Under German law, Frau Skibiski, an armed police officer is obliged to first instruct a suspect to surrender or face being shot. Under the circumstances that might give enough time for one of these guys to set off a device. When we find these people, we need to take them down, immediately. That requires a legal decision. The administrative wheels are moving at my request, but I don’t have approval yet.”

There’s something else you might need to consider, Kommissar,” Chalmers said. “What if the Sarin is deployed, despite our best efforts? What’s the plan? There is an antidote to Sarin, and it can be effective if administered in time. You might want to find out if the German armed forces possess stockpiles of atropine, Mark One injectors, that sort of thing. Depending on the circumstances of the attack, having those items on site could save lives.”

“I understand that Berlin is working that angle already, Herr Chalmers, and I’ll check on progress. Anything else I need to know before I go?”

“Actually, there is one last piece of information,” Caroline replied. “Just to close the loop on how al-Assad got his hands on the production equipment. My organization checked into this Saudi prince Hafiz who arranged for his flunky Rashid to locate the equipment with Kaltenberg. As it turns out, Prince Hafiz had a track record of clandestine contact with al-Qaeda and Salafist groups, including the Taliban in Afghanistan. Hafiz covertly funded their activities from his businesses. According to our information, Hafiz was always urging his terrorist contacts to harness weapons technology. Kaltenberg’s cache was exactly what he’d been looking for, and he clearly arranged to pass it to a terrorist cell.”

“That ties up the chain of acquisition for the Sarin,” Hirter commented.

Waldbaer placed a hand on the unpolished bronze doorknob and
opened the office door a crack. “Frau Skibiski, you spoke of Prince Hafiz in the past tense. Why?”

Caroline fixed the detective with her bright, penetrating eyes. “I spoke of Hafiz in the past tense because he is past tense. Hafiz and three accomplices were killed by an explosion two years ago in the Yemeni desert. The press claims that the prince and his friends were struck by a Hellfire missile launched from a CIA Predator drone aircraft. But I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Of course not,” Waldbaer smiled, disappearing into the long, linoleum-floored corridor of the city hall.

Coffee cups and bottles of mineral water littered the long ebony table in the Crisis Group room of the Reichstag. Dr. Volker Rapp was unhappy with the information he was receiving from his eleven colleagues. A palpable tension held the room in its grip.

Rapp glanced at his wristwatch. “We’ve spent two hours trying to determine what’s available in Germany to counter a Sarin attack at the Munich Oktoberfest. As far as I can figure from the conversation, we have crap for information.”

Frau Schmeider, sitting beside Rapp, looked pained.

“Well,” Rapp continued, “that won’t do. Let’s look at what we have. The
Bundeswehr
doesn’t know how much atropine it has on hand. It has some in storage, but some percentage of the atropine might be beyond its effective shelf life. Additionally, some of the nerve agent antidote is on German soil, but held in NATO facilities, and the procedures for transferring the stuff to German authorities are hardly clear. Wonderful! Can uniformed military medics from the
Bundeswehr
be sent to Munich to administer the atropine? It would appear not, because that would transgress restrictions on domestic deployment of the armed forces. This means that we have to get the lawyers involved before we can involve the military. Which will, of course, take time, which is precisely what we don’t have. As you are aware, I have to brief the chancellor today, and it’s going to be damned hard to claim that we have an efficient response structure in place to handle an attack.”

Rapp turned his attention to the huddled, red-smocked form of Frau Schmeider. “Am I being too pessimistic?”

Frau Schmeider, overwhelmed by the situation, had hoped to sit out the dreadful session in silence. Now that Rapp left her no choice but to participate, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I expect that no one here is satisfied with our lack of preparation, Doctor Rapp. We should try to move to Munich whatever antidotes we have available. Given the situation, perhaps we need to do something drastic. Why not call off the Oktoberfest? If the Oktoberfest doesn’t open tomorrow, there’s no crowd; if there is no crowd there is no target. We should recommend that the Oktoberfest be cancelled.” Her green, mascara-outlined eyes surrounded by puffy flesh searched the length of the table for sympathizers.

A representative from the Office for the Protection of the Constitution spoke up. He was a middle-aged man with a close-cropped red beard, and he spoke with a Rheinlander accent. “I don’t think that would help. It’s too late; this group is ready to strike. If we announce that the Oktoberfest is cancelled, they’ll know why and they’ll hit a different target. Maybe the train station. Maybe Munich Airport. We could cause them to shift the locus of the attack, but not the fact of the attack.”

Rapp drummed his knuckles on the tabletop. “I agree. This plan is too far along for them to abandon. They have Sarin and they plan to use it. The only way to stop them is capture or killing by the police. If we cancel the Oktoberfest, these people might manage to leave Munich and attack a different city altogether—maybe the trade fair coming up in Düsseldorf next week or the economic forum in Hamburg. At least now we know where they plan to hit, and the police can take precautions. No, Frau Schmeider, not a good idea, I’m afraid.”

The woman nodded almost imperceptibly and shrunk back in her chair like a deflating red ball.

No one else offered a comment. “All right,” Rapp sighed. “I’ll advise the chancellor that we’ll stage in Munich whatever antidotes we have. We can’t recommend stopping the festival or issuing a threat notice. That would only alter the venue of the attack and put us in a less-prepared position. This crisis will be resolved by police
action and good intelligence, nothing else. Let’s hope to God that this kommissar and the police get lucky.”

As the others filtered from the room, Rapp organized his papers and placed them in his attaché case. He was the last to leave the chamber, and mentally started to prepare his briefing for the chancellor. In the Reichstag corridor he looked through the broad glass window at the rooftops of Berlin stretching across the flat landscape. The city was cowed and unanimated under a gray, drizzling cloud. It suited his frame of mind perfectly.

On Friday morning at seven a.m., a force of four hundred plainclothes policemen began a circumspect sweep of downtown Munich, concentrating on specific neighborhoods. Some of the law enforcement officers had been brought in from as far afield as Frankfurt and sworn to secrecy as to the nature of their assignment. Most of the undercover force was male, but there was a smattering of women officers and, where possible, they were paired with a male counterpart to appear as a “couple” innocuously strolling the streets. Some of the surveillants roved in unmarked cars and others rode the blue and white subway trains beneath the city. Most of the force was on foot, however, and both Waldbaer and Hirter believed that they had the best chance of spotting their targets on a sidewalk, in a park, or entering or exiting a hotel or other building.

Waldbaer had a battery of police transceivers set up in the city hall office, and he and his American counterparts, along with four uniformed Munich police officers, hung on the incoming reports. The radios crackled regularly with patrols citing their positions and routes. As the morning grudgingly gave way to afternoon, the most commonly heard message was a simple “nothing to report.”

Surely, Waldbaer reflected, they are out there somewhere. Al-Assad had a mission to perform and he would do his best to succeed. He intended to die in Munich. Well, I intend for him to die in Munich, too, Waldbaer thought. Still, he could not dispel a gnawing frustration as the negative patrol reports accumulated. He entertained a possibility that he would not express: a terrorist change
of plan? Perhaps al-Assad had learned of Sayyid’s phone call to Rosenheim and moved to a secondary target.

Hirter listened to the radio reports as well and could see that Waldbaer was restive. He made small talk with Caroline and Chalmers, but found no relief in it. There was too much at stake to seek distractions.
“
Kommissar,” he said at length, “everything is being done that can be done. You have a lot of people out there. If the terrorists are going to hit the Oktoberfest tomorrow, at some point they have to move into the open. It’s a physical requirement that they hit the streets. And that’s when they’ll be vulnerable. I’m optimistic.” He tried to sound encouraging, concealing his own uncertainties.

“Hirter, you don’t need to cheerlead for me,” the detective replied brusquely. “I know how this works. We have good coverage and a good plan. But that’s not the same as having these guys dead or in custody. Not the same at all. So, you’ll permit me to be less optimistic than you.”

Hirter considered the situation for a moment. “I have an idea. Why don’t we get out of here for an hour and ride the streets ourselves? We have our cell phones if something develops. It might do us good to take a break.”

The detective snorted. “Good for my health or good for my nerves? Whatever. It’s a sensible idea Hirter, let’s go.”

With a brief explanation to the others, they set off for Waldbaer’s car parked behind city hall. Ten minutes later they were cruising slowly in heavy traffic near the
Karlstor
plaza, heading toward the
Hauptbahnhof,
the Munich Central Train Station. The two men checked the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalks lining both sides of the bustling street. The district was noisy and not prosperous, with small storefront shops hawking cell phones, jewelery, and electronic appliances of dubious origin, and selections of ethnic foods. The human tapestry passing on the sidewalks included Asian families, clusters of African blacks, Turks, and Middle Eastern Arabs.

“This is the type of area where they’re hiding, I can feel it,” Waldbaer half-whispered to his companion.

Hirter nodded without taking his eyes off the sidewalk traffic. “Eyes right, Kommissar, there are two of your undercover people, I believe.”

The detective glanced as directed and saw two German males in nylon jackets and running shoes, eating pizza slices as they navigated the sidewalk, the appearance of boredom written on their features. The detective chuckled softly. “You’re right, Hirter, I recognize them from my briefing. You have a good sense for the business.”

“Like I said, Kommissar, when the bad guys move, your chances of seeing them are good.”

The ride, the sense of movement, was improving Waldbaer’s mood. Hirter had been wise to suggest it. “I suppose we have decent street coverage. You’ve heard most of this, but let me run through things one more time. First, we received the ‘shoot first’ permission last night from a special judge. Good. Second, we’ll have people at all of the entrances to the Oktoberfest grounds tomorrow. We actually have the place staked out now in case al-Assad tries to preposition before the official opening. Third, our plainclothesmen have taken over the duties of the private security guys who work the tents. That gives us another tier of coverage. Even if al-Assad and friends get on the Oktoberfest grounds, they still have to make it into the tents. Our people have been instructed to inspect backpacks, which should appear to be a normal security measure. In fact, they’ll be looking for canisters that match the mock-up sketch Chalmers provided. If a suspect goes for a canister, we shoot to kill. Something else from Berlin—federal authorities are placing Sarin antidote near the Oktoberfest in case it’s needed. The details are shaky, I gather, but at least something is being done. All in all, things could be worse.”