Collision of Evil (42 page)

Holzer could make out a splash of denim amid the moving shapes in front of him. He aimed his pistol at the pitching image and pulled the trigger. The shot reverberated in the tent, intensifying the panic. Clusters of people dropped to the floor. The number of human obstructions suddenly reduced, both Holzer and Spockmeyer got off separate additional shots.

Jawad bucked forward as the first round ripped into his shoulder, tearing out a furrow of flesh and muscle along with denim fabric. He was swaying on his feet as the second and third bullets, spaced less than a second apart, exploded into the center of his back.

Jawad looked down, curious as a torrent of black blood spilled through the front of his shirt, above the waist. His stubby legs gave way and he fell to his knees. People were screaming and the band
had ceased playing. He felt the onset of deep, throbbing pain, let his eyelids close, and welcomed the darkness, readying himself for his imminent appearance before the virgins. I will be taller in the next life, he thought.

People who had fallen to the floor were screaming and whimpering, but Holzer and Spockmeyer saw that their target was down and immobile. They could not see the canister.

“We need to get them out of here,” Holzer yelled to his companion.

Spockmeyer yanked a police badge from his shirt and held it above his head; the metal glittering in the overhead lights. “Police! Everybody out of the tent. Stay orderly! Gather in front of the entrance and stay there until advised to leave. Move out.”

The people closest to the officers lifted themselves from the floor, shaken, but moving as instructed, glancing uncertainly at the armed undercover men as they proceeded by.

Holzer produced a police phone from his jacket and held it to his mustached lips. “Kommisar, Holzer in the Löwenbräu tent. One suspect down, likely dead. We’re evacuating the tent. We instructed the people to stay in front of the tent. They should be checked for symptoms. Don’t know if the canister has been activated. We’re searching for it now.”

Waldbaer’s voice crackled through the receiver. “Good. I’ll get medical teams to the Löwenbräu. I’m not far away. Any officer who entered the tent, use your atropine now.”

Holzer and Spockmeyer nodded to one another and applied the atropine syringes to their thighs, both of them wincing as they did so.

“Let’s find that damned canister,” Holzer instructed his partner.

A jarring crash in front of them drew their attention. A thin, middle-aged waitress had fallen to the ground yards away, a clutch of beer mugs rolling about her inanimate form, the frothing contents seeping into the floorboards.

“God,” Holzer implored quietly, “don’t let it be that crap at
work.” Running to the woman, the men noted that fluids were running from her nose and mouth and her limbs were twitching.

The woman’s eyes were unfocused and she labored to draw in air.

Holzer pulled another atropine injector from his pocket and slammed it into the waitress’s arm. A moment later her struggle for breath ceased, and Spockmeyer gripped her wrist. “No pulse,” he mumbled to Holzer.

Nearby, a grey-haired, lederhosen-clad man vomited and moaned, staggering toward the tent entrance before collapsing in a quivering heap. The two officers noticed other people moving drunkenly, disorientation marking their features. More individuals fell to the ground. Some groaned, others emitted panicky whines. Still others, with red eyes or flowing nostrils, moved successfully out of the tent.

Holzer again grabbed his police phone. “We have casualties. Over a dozen,” he said with a quiver in intonation. An auburn-haired woman fell a few feet distant; her male companion knelt by her side and tried to revive her.

“Carry her outside,” Holzer instructed him. The man complied. His nose had started to emit a stream of bright blood, but he managed to carry the woman from the tent.

Waldbaer and the others had reached the Löwenbräu tent and watched as a wave of people poured from the structure. Behind the detective moved a line of ambulances, inching through the crowds along the chaotic runway, emergency lights flashing. People kept issuing from the tent, hundreds of them, not out of control, Waldbaer noted, but not far from panic at their sudden, mysterious affliction.

A guttural voice erupted through the receiver at the detective’s ear and Waldbaer strained to catch the transmission. “Holzer here. We’ve located the canister. It’s hissing, so it must still be active. We’ve moved the crowd away from it. What’s the course of action under the circumstances?”

Waldbaer described the situation to Chalmers, who was watching the scene in front of the tent open-mouthed.

Chalmers considered for a moment before replying. “Kommissar, we have to improvise. If they can cover the Sarin device with a trash bag or something, that’s a start. Have them see if there’s a water container in the tent. If they can submerge the canister in water, that should reduce dispersion of the nerve agent or incapacitate the device.”

Waldbaer repeated Chalmers’s instructions and waited. He knew that it meant the officers inside the Löwenbräu tent would be directly exposed to Sarin at extremely close quarters.

“Holzer again. We can use one of the trash barrel liners here. We’ll take the canister to the kitchen. They’ve got to have sinks there. We’ll report back in a few minutes.”

Waldbaer turned to Chalmers. Robert and Caroline were huddled with them, both feeling powerless to influence the events that had been set in motion. “Mr. Chalmers, an answer, please. The officers in there have injected atropine against the Sarin. Will that be sufficient to protect them while they dispose of the device?”

“I don’t know,” the chemist said. “I hope to God so, but there are too many unknowns at work. How concentrated is the Sarin in there? Did they employ the atropine injectors properly? Once they get that canister under water they need to leave immediately and let the doctors examine them.”

Waldbaer nodded. “Right. Assuming they’re able to make it out of the tent.”

Holzer and Spockmeyer stepped over the corpse of an elderly man wearing a Boston College sweatshirt and lifted the black plastic liner from a metal trash barrel located next to a support beam.

“This will do the trick,” Spockmeyer muttered. The two men emptied the bag of its pretzel remnants, empty cigarette packs, chicken bones, and grease-soaked paper plates. They carried the plastic to the corner of the tent where the Sarin container reposed, hissing audibly like an enraged goose. Both men held their breath and enveloped the gleaming device inside the trash bag, twisting shut the folds of plastic. The act concluded, Spockmeyer ran ahead
of his partner to the kitchen at the back of the tent and located an industrial-sized stainless steel sink. He placed a black rubber stopper in the drain, twisted open a faucet, and let loose a cascade of cold water into the basin.

Holzer followed and dropped the Sarin container into the filling sink. It sank to the bottom, the hissing now silenced beneath the surface. Holzer activated his phone. “Holzer again. We’re done. The device is immersed in water. We’re coming out.”

Both men moved hastily across the kitchen, heading for the tent entrance.

“Let’s hope to hell that worked,” Spockmeyer said to his colleague.

Ordered chaos prevailed outside the Löwenbräu tent as the two officers emerged. The mechanical lion continued its programmed pattern of activity, but no one noted its incongruous behavior. Walbaer slapped Holzer and Spockmeyer on their shoulders and ushered them to an ambulance and a waiting physician. A police cordon had been formed, isolating the tent and the people who had issued from it.

Hirter approached Waldbaer and spoke in a low voice. “What do we know about casualties?”

“Holzer estimates thirty to forty bodies inside. One of the medics said that at least three people have died outside. Some of the others being brought to hospitals have severe symptoms and could go either way. It looks like hundreds of others have symptoms of some sort, but most of them should recover with treatment. That’s all I know. This will take time to sort out. We still have one more of these bastards on the loose. We’re evacuating the other tents. With luck we can deny him a target.”

Al-Assad watched the scene outside the Löwenbräu tent with mixed emotions. Passing by the tent on the way to his own target, the Hofbräu tent, he had spontaneously decided that it made sense to wait a few minutes and ensure that Jawad attacked successfully. He loitered at a souvenir tee-shirt stand and was rewarded by a rising aural tide of commotion from the Löwenbräu structure. He could not suppress a smile as he contemplated the image of Jawad activating the Sarin in the crowded confines of the tent.

Al-Assad’s momentary satisfaction was jarred by the unmistakable sound of gunfire. One round followed some seconds later by two more. Had Jawad been found out? Seconds later, people began streaming out from the tent’s interior. Al-Assad detected that a number of them were stumbling, some falling to the ground incapacitated. Good, he thought, the Sarin has been discharged. Many infidels would certainly die. He hoped that Taamir and Sayyid had carried out their attacks as well.

Turning to continue his trek to the Hofbräu tent a few hundred yards distant, Al-Assad found his way blocked by a cordon of police. Worse, he saw in the distance that throngs of people were being ushered from Hofbräu and other beer tents. He cursed to himself and could not fathom how the authorities had reacted so quickly. He closed his eyes for clarity of thought. He saw again the gleaming sword of his jihad, floating above a burgundy tide of blood. He flashed his eyes open and knew that he had to change targets. He would still succeed in his mission. Physical speed would be required, but al-Assad knew that he was a strong runner. All would be well.

Al-Assad left the souvenir stand and walked deliberately toward the police line.

“Everyone stays here, those are our orders,” a green-uniformed police officer was advising a confused-looking man in farmer’s garb.

Al-Assad moved steadily toward the officer, carefully fixing a pleasant smile on his face as he approached. The officer glanced up at him just as al-Assad drew the Walther from his belt, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The policeman went down instantly with a low moan, his peaked cap in the dust at his side. Al-Assad fired another round and a second policeman crashed face forward.

Screaming erupted and the crowd surged in blind panic as al-Assad had expected.

The police cordon broke in confusion and al-Assad sprinted from the crowd, pistol in one hand and the plastic bag clutched in the other. The layout of the Oktoberfest imprinted securely on his brain, he headed for the amusement park section of the festival grounds, fixing on a large Ferris wheel revolving in the distance.

Waldbaer and the Americans squatted low and looked up as the two shots tore through the air nearby.

“I see him,” Hirter yelled. He tore off after the sprinter.

Waldbaer drew himself to his feet with a huff and followed Hirter as best he could, Caroline and Chalmers by his side.

“Stay here,” he rasped, and Chalmers obeyed.

The lithe woman remained in motion with the panting detective. “Not this time, Kommissar.”

Waldbaer did not argue and pushed through the disrupted police line. “Follow me,” he shouted and three uniformed officers picked up the chase.

Al-Assad quickly darted off of the main runway and onto a back alley behind the beer tents. The narrow way was devoid of people and al-Assad moved ahead unobstructed, keeping the Ferris wheel in sight. He was pleased that he had kept a fallback plan in reserve. Al-Assad reflected that his secondary target might even be better than his first. After all, what demonstrates a government’s weakness more than its inability to protect its children?

Hirter watched the man with the firearm and plastic bag launch away from the main avenue. He made the same turn moments later, legs pistoning against the ground. He heard voices and knew that Waldbaer and others were following him. Hirter wondered if the target intended to leave the fairgrounds and disappear into the anonymity of Munich, hoping to strike another day. Or did this last remaining terrorist still have a target in mind? Hirter felt himself slowly, but perceptibly, close the intervening space separating them.

Waldbaer and Caroline watched the progress of both men. The detective held his service pistol above his head. He felt winded from the exertion of the run, and was frightened that he might not be able to keep up for long. “Halt or I’ll shoot,” he yelled with a sandpaper voice, hoping that the terrorist ahead of Hirter might react. He did.

Al-Assad had not focused on his pursuers until he heard the rasping command from behind him.
Filthy kaffir
, he thought as he stopped and turned, aiming his pistol. Hirter pitched to the ground to make a smaller target.