The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (30 page)

“I think so. Please be careful, and I do trust you. It’s all arranged. Father’s expecting you.”

Anne forgot Aileen. A more important concern was Peter’s visit to her house.

How would Havel Simek react to the son of his betrayer?

Jeannine was enjoying burgers and fries with Bill and Jack Cannon in a diner not far from the hospital, when her phone vibrated.

It was Aileen in Pennsylvania.

“Jeannine, I know why Hus-Kinetika cheats to keep Xolak on the U. S. market. Xolak contains Atropine as well as two distinct pyridinium oximes.”

Jeannine swallowed and cleared her throat.

“Aileen, please make sense.”

“Injection with these compounds treats cholinesterase inhibitors.”

“So?”

“Don’t you see. Hus-Kinetika can use Xolak to treat Novichok-H poisoning! They’re planning something big with their weapon. They want their people protected. That’s why they kept Xolak on the U. S. market. They need it to ensure that their own crooks feel protected while they work on that damned nerve agent.”

At Area Two, a large farm on Remount Road, south of Front Royal, Virginia, Erik Holub, stood in a field, removed his Hazmat helmet, and surveyed the rows of shiny red tanks before him.

There were two types, small and large.

The small tanks were joined in groups of three with straps, evidently intended for the backs of individual “firemen.” One of the three was intended for oxygen, while the other two, connected by a complex valve, were, respectively, for the two precursors of Novichok-H. The first precursor had been loaded at Area One.

The large tanks posed a separate problem. These bipartite tanks also had been loaded with the first precursor at Area One, but their interior partitions were largely inaccessible, and some had possibly defective welds that needed to be checked for leaks before the second precursor could be loaded.

Any leak would be lethal.

After several hours, Erik, and his technicians, finished their checks for leakage from the first compartment into the second. Only two tanks had defective welds. These were immediately discarded.

Erik sighed. The moment he dreaded had arrived. He could no longer delay the loading of the second precursor into the remaining empty partitions. Any mistake and the precursors would react to form Novichok-H and death would result.

He and the technicians donned their Hazmat suits, sealed the helmets, and started to work. Each man had a syringe filled with Xolak nearby. They were ready.

With great care they checked the special valves on the tanks.

All were OK.

Erik signaled to his men and the loading began.

The first tank was filled without mishap. It sat silent and innocent on its pallet. It would not be moved to the van until the remaining tanks were loaded.

Erik exhaled in relief.
Maybe this will work after all.
He thought of the money that awaited him in Prague.
It has to work!

He and his men moved to the next tank, and the following one.

When the large tanks were loaded with the second precursor, Erik and the technicians turned to the small tanks. Their loading was relatively safe, because the tanks for the two precursors were physically separate. Still, as always, a mistake would be deadly.

Several step vans drove onto the field and the loading of the small tanks began.

However the unmarked eighteen-wheel truck remained on the road. It was too heavy for the loose soil of the old field where the large tanks waited, strapped to their pallets.

Near the van, several forklifts waited. Erik signaled the drivers to begin loading.

A cold wind swept the dry field while the pallets were speared, lifted, and driven to the van, deposited on rollers inside, and pushed to a stable resting place.

The wind in the open field was cold, but drops of perspiration beaded Erik’s forehead. He wiped his brow.
So far so good!

That thought was premature.

At that moment, one spear of a fork lift missed its slot. The driver did not notice. As he elevated the tank, it tilted, rolled off and crashed to the ground, valve first.

The valve opened and emitted a dark mist.

Either in a last selfless act, or in a vain effort to conceal his mistake, the driver of the fork lift jumped off and squeezed the valve closed.

Then he fell writhing to the ground as saliva foamed about his lips. Fluid drained from his eyes across purple cheeks. What appeared to be urine stained his jeans, and his chest froze. A series of awful wheezes failed to expand his paralyzed diaphragm. Starved of oxygen, his brain lost all function. His head fell back, with eyes rolled upwards. After some tetanus, all motion ceased.

A technician in a Hazmat suit rushed to the stricken man, a Xolak syringe ready, but Erik waved him away.

The man was dead. There was nothing to do.

The final loading continued in a somber mood.

In Dethorens, Virginia, Masoud was not proud, nor over-confident, but grateful. In his bedroom, an arrow on the floor pointed towards the location of the Kaaba in Mecca. He placed his prayer mat on the floor and oriented it in that direction. His prayers were personal Duas.

He prayed from the Quran (2:250) for endurance and for help against those who reject faith.

Surely, the enemy had rejected the true faith!

He prayed that he not be tested beyond his strength (Dua 2:286), and asked for forgiveness, mercy, protection, as well as for assistance in dealing with deniers of the truth.

They must yield to the truth of Islam!

With the help of Allah, he and his warriors would strike a mighty blow against the infidels.

Allahu akbar!

In her kitchen in Chicago, Anne Simek wiped her brow. The heat from the stove was intense, but that was not the cause of the perspiration. Peter Zeleny was on his way to eat dinner with her father. He was due in ten minutes.

In anticipation of the dreaded event, Anne had prepared her father’s favorite meal. The simmering pot of
kuřecím masem a knedlíky,
“chicken and dumplings” filled the kitchen with a delicious aroma that Anne had known and loved since childhood.

She lowered the heat on the burner, and turned to the blender. She would hand Peter a frozen Daiquiri at the door to mellow him.

Havel already held a bottle of his usual beer, Plzeňský Prazdroj, better known to Americans by its German name, Pilsner Urquell. And a second bottle of the golden-hued beverage stood ready on the counter.

For herself, Anne wanted no alcohol this evening. She needed all her wits to head off any confrontation. The two favorite men in her life had no reason (other than Anne) to like each other.

She lowered the heat on the burner as the doorbell sounded. She stopped in the powder room and straightened her blouse. She fluffed her hair.

Satisfied, Daiquiri in hand, she approached the door.

Peter Zeleny stood at the entrance to the Simek home. Anne kissed his cheek and invited him in. He removed the coat from his six foot plus frame, and hung the garment on the hall rack. Trim as ever, he sported a loose gray sweater and fitted jeans. He looked dashing and respectable.

Surely father will approve of this man. He has to.

Anne threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her lips pressed against his and lingered, moist and tingling.

The voice of her father dispelled that tender moment.

“Anna, is that your boy friend? Bring him in here. I must meet him.”

Anne let go and shrugged. Peter winked.

He took a long sip of the Daiquiri, and followed into the father’s den.

Havel Simek sat in his adjustable chair. He levered the position to upright, but remained seated with his eyes focused on Anne. She responded.

“Father, this is the friend I told you about. We’re very close. He wants to meet you.”

Peter held out his hand and came straight to the point.

“Sir, I’m Peter Zeleny. I love your daughter, and I would like your permission to date her. My intentions are serious, and I promise to respect her and your wishes.”

Havel’s eyes glazed momentarily.

“That is good. You must be from the old country. No American would ask an old man for permission to court his daughter. Where are you from?”

Before Peter could answer, Havel looked up at the ceiling.

“I once had a friend named ‘Zelený,’ but he betrayed me.”

At that thought, Havel shuddered and began to cough. His left leg twitched. Anne intervened.

“Father, sip your beer. Your throat is dry.”

Havel sipped his beer and cleared his throat. His eyes were moist. He tried to speak, but he did not finish.

He slumped back in the chair, eyes closed.

The ceiling was painted pink. He was no longer in Chicago. He shivered but not from the cold. He was afraid. It seemed that a door opened and shut. Lights blinded him and all he could hear was a voice, his own. He repeated over and over.

“Nevim, Nevim, Nevim nic. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know anything.’”

And then the blows, the pain!

“Bože, pomoz mi! ‘God help me!’”

As a medical doctor, Peter instinctively reached for the slumped Havel, but Anne restrained him.

“No wait, Peter. This will pass.”

She was right. After a few moments, Havel opened his eyes and sat up.

“Excuse me, Mr. Zeleny, what was your father’s name.”

Peter had to be honest. Anne saw his look and grabbed him. To no avail.

“Sir, my father’s name was Johan. He once was your friend, but he changed horribly. I cannot make up for your suffering, and I do not ask you to forgive
him
, but please forgive
me
for what he did to you, and to others. He is dead. Let him hurt you no more.”

He paused and put his arm about Anne’s shoulders.

“I love your daughter, and will do all in my power to make her happy. I promise to honor you, her father, and I will never keep her from you.”

Havel stared. Peter awaited a response, but a burnt odor emanated from the kitchen. Anne gasped.

“My
knedlíky,
‘the dumplings!’”

She dashed out of the room.

The supper that evening was a complete failure. Most of the dumplings were fine, but they had a residual taste of carbon from the bottom layer in the burnt pot. Peter and Havel exchanged opinions on the weather in Prague versus Chicago, but neither spoke about Peter’s request to court Anne.

Havel finished eating and returned to his basketball game where the Bulls were up by 16.

Peter helped Anne with the dishes. Then he left. Havel, engrossed in his game, did not look up.

Anne fled to her room. In minutes, her pillow was soaked in tears.

In his elegant office in Prague, Karel Moravec sat and read the Sunday Edition of a Washington newspaper. He concentrated on an article in the “Style” section.

CONGRESS TO CLOSE EARLY FOR NATIONAL UNITY CELEBRATION

On Pearl Harbor Day, Tuesday, December 7, the Congress of the United States will close a day early so that members may participate in Wednesday’s National Unity Day celebration at the newly completed Pavilion of National Unity in Front Royal Virginia. An estimated half of the members of the House, over forty Senators, and more than half of the nation’s 50 governors will be present. Guests include, industry notables, Hollywood entertainers, union leaders and media personalities.

The President will address the assembly on the landmark bipartisan Comprehensive Debt Control Act, a bill hailed by both parties as restoring fiscal sanity to Washington.
He will declare December 8 as the “National Day of Unity.”

As a symbolic gesture, the joint session will be held “Outside the Beltway” at the Pavilion of National Unity in Front Royal Virginia. The pavilion along with a future museum is a gift to the University of Virginia from contributors to both political parties. The location will become a satellite campus for the university.

Reaction to the celebration is mixed. “The days of the big-time spenders inside the Beltway are done, finished.” said Tim Higgins of Baltimore, Maryland, “Our representatives are speaking for us, the people, again.” ... But perhaps reflecting the opinion of most Americans is Ashley Rivers, of nearby Dethorens, Virginia. “It’s about politicians promoting themselves. No one cares. ...”

Moravec smiled. The Americans were on schedule and the plan was on track.

He was interrupted by the buzz of his phone. He picked up.

“What is it Fiala?”

A gentleman called you. He spoke English with an odd accent. He said that you were awaiting his call, and that you would know where to reach him. I asked him his name, but he hung up.”

“It’s all right Fiala, I know who it is. And Fiala, it’s noon. You can go to lunch now.”

Karel arose from his desk and went to a nearby wall where a somber painting by Caravaggio stood guard. Karel shifted it to the side, tapped in the electronic combo to the safe, and took out a cell phone.

It was his personal instrument, and very secure. He punched a number.

“Mr. Rahman, you called?”

“Mr. Moravec, what is the status?”

“In less than an hour my men will be at the pavilion to install the remotely-operated fire-control tanks. This is our last task. Our part of the operation will be complete.”

Mr. Rahman did not reply. Karel added.

“There’s nothing more for us to do. Your men received the small tanks, fully charged, yesterday, but of course you already knew that.”

Karel felt Mr. Rahman nod at the other end of the line and added.

“The installation will be finished today. That will complete all our deliveries. Is the money ready to transfer? Have you the account numbers?”

Karel had provided Abdul Rahman account numbers for three different Swiss banks. Fully one half the total would go into Karel’s personal account at the first bank.

Mr. Rahman frowned. Thousands would die, and this
kufar
was only concerned with himself and money. The decadence of the godless West! He spoke.

“Of course, Mr. Moravec, we are not stupid. But how will I know when my final delivery is complete?”

“I will call this number and speak one word, ‘Geronimo.’”

Karel liked this choice. Somehow, he felt the Apache Chief would be pleased. He spoke again.

“Mr. Rahman do not hesitate to deliver the money. We have our own wireless control of the remote that triggers the release of the agent. We can jam the remote and your men would fail.”

Mr. Rahman hung up.

An early morning mist hung over the work site near Front Royal, Virginia, where Harold Watts, the superintendent of construction of the huge new Pavilion of National Unity, surveyed the work in progress.

Watts had been in charge since the ground breaking last February. The task had been routine until July, when the president and congressional leaders had decided to hold a signing event in the new pavilion on December 8. The mostly ceremonial session was to honor national unity, hence the building’s name.

From August on, Watts’ ulcers had bedeviled him. The close deadline and the added burden of security had caused him many sleepless nights, at home and on site. But now success was near. Barring an accident, the work would be finished in time. He looked forward to evenings with his family once more.

This morning found him near a gate in the tall wire fence, topped with razor wire, that enclosed the newly finished structure. Outside the fence, as demanded by Homeland Security, his bulldozers had placed large blocks of stone to block vehicular access to the perimeter. No van loaded with explosives could be driven sufficiently close to the pavilion to pose a serious danger.

Apart from a small “presidential” entrance gate, the only access to the complex was through the lone well-guarded gate where he stood. Any truck of size could only enter here.

He sighed. Only 48 hours remained before the president and members of congress would assemble for their signing ceremony.

Damn it Watts, you have it ready or I’ll have your head!
Those words of his boss still echoed through his brain, but no longer disturbed him. He was done, almost.

The interior of the pavilion was finished. Several crews were busy patching flaws in the drywall, while painters stood by waiting for the “mud” to dry. The laying of carpet in some “dressing” rooms was underway, and the seats for the auditorium had finally arrived yesterday evening. Watts’s most experienced men had worked all night. Already, half the seats were bolted to the floor.

Wherever possible, cleaning crews were busy sweeping and finishing up.

Now Watts worried about the landscaping. From the gate, through the fog that hung over the site, he surveyed the work in progress. A fleet of Bobcats was pushing imported topsoil over the construction-exposed clay that was everywhere. Two flatbed trucks, piled high with rolls of green sod stood ready, waiting for the Bobcats to complete their task. Next to the building, numerous large evergreens were freshly set in mulched beds. To the untrained observer, they appeared to have grown there,
in situ
, for several years.

There was no time to pour concrete paths and driveways, but gravel substituted well, a reminder that the pavilion was indeed new.

For the first time in months, Watts relaxed.
Damn it, We’re going to make it!

The sound of a motor disturbed the peace. Harold Watts turned to see an eighteen-wheel semi approach the gate. It was followed by a flatbed truck.

The guards waved them to a stop.

Watts watched as a man stepped out and came towards him. The man handed him a sheaf of papers. Watts spoke.

“What the hell is this?”

“That’s a work order to replace the fire prevention tanks.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with the damn tanks? Can’t you see that we’re working on the landscaping. Everything has to be ready in 48 hours.”

The man, Erik Holub, was not dissuaded.

“Hey, don’t blame me. Read the reports yourself. County inspectors found most of the tanks in your fire suppression system are defective. The welds have extensive lack of weld fusion and porosity. They’re dangerous.”

“So what. There’s no time.”

“There’s time. The solution is new tanks. We have them. My crew can replace the defective tanks in twelve hours. The pipes and valves are already in place. All we need is to hook them up and cart away the defective hardware.”

The superintendent pulled out his phone.

“I need to check with Homeland Security. This work order needs their approval?”

“Go ahead, but we already have their authorization.”

Erik handed the superintendent another document. It was signed by an official from Homeland Security. (The official had received a nice stipend from Hus-Kinetika. No terrorist, he had been assured that fixing a defective fire prevention system was necessary.)
Watts grimaced.

“All right, what do you need.”

“We have the diagrams from the county inspectors. We need a place to set up that won’t upset your landscaping.”

“There’s a loading dock at the rear of the Pavilion. You can unload your rigs there.”

Watts pointed to the gravel roadway.

“Try not to tear up my roads. The gravel may not support your load.”

Erik nodded. He exhaled and mounted the passenger side of his van.

He was in!

Before the trucks could proceed, two men blocked the path. Both wore blazers and ties. Neither smiled.

The man closest to Erik flashed a badge and spoke.

“Secret Service. Step out the truck, Sir. May I please see your ID?”

Erik’s hand shook as he handed his license to the man. The man examined his photo and returned it.

“Sir, this is a restricted area. What are you doing here and where are you going?”

Watts came running.

“They’re here to fix the fire prevention system. The county inspectors found bad welds in the tanks. They’ll swap the old tanks out with new replacements.”

The Secret Service Agents stood their ground. An advance team for the president, they could not afford mistakes. They examined the report of the county inspector.

While they read, Watts handed over the rest of the documents.

“They have the approval of Homeland Security.”

Instantly, one of the agents was on the phone to speak with the official who had signed the approval. After what seemed a lifetime to Erik, the agent hung up and frowned.

Erik’s knees shook. He wanted to throw up.

Finally the agent spoke.

“Have your men step out of the truck, with their photo ID’s please.”

The agent checked each man against the list from Homeland Security, while his partner entered the van. After a minutes he called out.

“Looks OK back here, a load of red tanks for the fire system, and several forklifts. Matches the invoice.”

The first agent turned back to Erik.

“All right Mr. Holub. You can proceed. But don’t let your men outside the work area. You have to finish fast. In twenty four hours this area must be secure.”

Erik nodded and exhaled.

He stumbled as he mounted the cab, but no one appeared to notice.

Wordless, he signaled the driver to roll forwards. The wheels dug into the gravel.

He was in.

But all he wanted was to get the hell out!

Although the tasks were performed with great care, Erik Holub and his men finished in seven hours, not twelve.

All the bipartite tanks with the Novichok-H precursors were installed, and the old “defective” tanks removed and loaded for disposal.

Erik had been truthful that the replacement was straightforward, that the valves and pipes were already in place and only the tanks needed to be swapped.

But that was not the whole truth.

The fire prevention system was a unified whole with sensors reporting constantly to a central computer that controlled alarms and valves remotely. To his tanks Erik had attached new valves with remotes no longer subject to central control, but only to his own remote controller.

With the new remote, tanks could be opened and closed, and corresponding alarms activated or deactivated. The central fire prevention system no longer had a role.

The conspirators and their jihadist clients could open and close the tanks at will.

The stage was set.

Erik and his men mounted the trucks and pulled up to the gate.

Watts, the construction boss, was pleased. The fire-prevention system was ready on time. One more task checked off.

Uniformed guards approached to check the trucks.

Everything, and everyone, matched the paper work. The guards appeared satisfied.

Erik stayed in the truck and waited for clearance to leave. His role was finished.

He thought of the tickets in his pocket. Tomorrow, a flight to Europe for his payday, followed by a flight to Rio de Janeiro the week after.

He would be gone from the U. S. when the fireworks erupted!

For a brief moment he thought of warning Hus-Kinetika’s man at Homeland Security to flee. He thought better of it.

That compliant bureaucrat would discover that greed has real consequences!

The guards waved Erik through.

He was done!