The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (31 page)

At 4 pm in Virginia, 10 pm in Prague, the Hradčany Castle glowed in the spot lights. In the cold air, lovers embraced next to a lamp on the Charles Bridge under which the dark waters of the Vltava River rippled in an incessant flow. The scene reminded Karel Moravec of his own mortality. How many before him had experienced the same sentiment?

Despite the late hour, Karel was still in his office, awaiting a special call.

The secure phone on his desk sounded.

Karel turned from the window and picked up.

As expected, it was Erik Holub. In his relief and excitement he spoke in his native Czech.

“
Dokončil jsem to.
I have finished it.”

Karel could only smile.

“To je dobře, velmi dobře.
‘That is good, very good.’”

Karel hung up and punched Rahman’s number on the secure phone. He grinned, and spoke a single word.

“Geronimo!”

At Masoud’s mansion near Dethorens, Virginia, Quanit Ibn Husayn was deep in prayer.

He bowed and touched his head to the reddish tablet of Karbala clay that lay on his mat. Quanit was a Shiite. His father had been named for Husayn Ibn Ali, the martyr of Karbala, and the third of the twelve Imams.

As he prayed, Quanit asked that all twelve Imams be honored. They, were his “Imams, Masters and Intercessors before Allah.” He would love all of them, and shun their enemies in this life and the next.

He added a prayer for blessings upon the Prophet Muhammad and his family, that he was the best prophet, and that Ali Ibn Abu Talib, and his descendants, were the best Imams.

Quanit was a “Twelver.” He knew that the twelfth Imam, Muhammad al-Mahdi, “The Rightly-Guided One,” now hidden in a state of occultation, would reappear at a moment determined by Allah and spread justice throughout the world.

When Quanit was a teenager, his father, Husayn, had been discharged from his job by his Sunni employer. Husayn never overcame the disgrace. Quanit, young and devout, vowed to honor him. He asked his father’s namesake, Husayn, the Third Imam and “The Lord of the Martyrs” to intercede that he might give his life to Allah.

Now Quanit knew the answer to his prayer. He would give
his
life for Allah the Merciful.

More, Quanit hoped that his own martyrdom, and the terror it would bring to the satanic Americans, would hasten the return of the Twelfth Imam.

At last his training was complete. His back was accustomed to the weight of the triple tanks strapped over his shoulders, and breathing inside the Hazmat helmet now was second nature.

Initially, Quanit had not trusted Masoud, the leader. He did not like Masoud’s fair Caucasian features or blond hair. Besides, Masoud was a convert to Sunna Islam, and he was ignorant of history. He knew nothing of the beheading of Husayn Ibn Ali at the battle of Karbala.

But now Quanit respected his leader. He knew that Masoud liked him. Besides, Masoud was a warrior. And in only days, maybe hours, thanks to him they would strike the
kufari
, the “infidels” a blow from which they could never recover.

Allahu Akbar!

Also in the mansion in Dethorens, William Masoud Jones was excited. It was time to act!

The phone call from the “benefactor,” Abdul Rahman, the Iranian business man, was the last. There would be no more talks between them, at least not in this life.

Masoud knocked on Quanit’s door.

The door opened. Quanit appeared flustered. On the floor Masoud saw the mat and a circular clay tablet. He had disturbed Quanit at prayer.

“Forgive me, Quanit, but I have great news. It is settled. The Dethorens Volunteer Fire Department will be on watch at the Unity Pavilion for the celebration of National Unity Day. No one can stop us now.”

Quanit hugged his superior and kissed his cheek.

“
Allahu akbar
, Allah has answered our prayers.”

“Truly. And it will please you to know that our financial support is from Shia Islam, from the Mullahs of Iran.”

“Thank you for sharing that. I also thank you for your tolerance when you knew my belief that Ali is the first Caliph. Many scorn the Shiites.”

“But not here. Most of our group share your belief, but all of us want to defeat the Great Satan.”

Masoud put his hand on Quanit’s shoulder.

“Quanit, you will command the attack on the rearmost entrance that will be used by the president’s party. You will be the sword of Allah. If that evil leader attempts to leave, you will strike him dead.”

Quanit was overwhelmed, but he found his voice.

“What exits of the pavilion will you guard to keep the
kufari
from fleeing? Surely you should guard the president’s.”

“No, you will do that. Your task is important. You will need good men to assist you. You may choose any six you wish.”

Quanit’s eyes moistened. He hugged his leader.

Masoud freed himself.

“Quanit. together you and I serve Allah, the Merciful. In two days, we shall both die for him.”

He pointed to Quanit’s prayer mat.

“Now together we will pray that in all things, Allah may be praised!”

While Masoud and Quanit prayed, unknown to either of them, the “benefactor,” Abdul Rahman, made one more call to Dethorens, Virginia.

Hassan Ibn Ali saw Rahman’s number. He punched “Talk” and listened.

“Hassan, will Masoud be strong when the time comes? I am concerned. He has blond hair, like many
kufari
. I find it difficult to trust him..”

Abdul Rahman knew his fate if the mission failed. Hassan replied.

“It is because of Masoud’s blond hair that no one suspects us. There are no problems so far. He is strong, a warrior for Allah. True, he knows not that Ali is the first Caliph, but he is American. He cares little for our history.”

“I trust you, Hassan, but at the first sign of weakness, you will take over. Do not fail us. We rely on you.”

“Click.”

Life in the CIA’s safe house near Middleburg, Virginia was far from glamorous and this afternoon Ivana Novotna was frustrated.

She had enjoyed Elena Krkova’s company. Elena spoke Czech and she had kept Ivana informed of Gustav’s condition at Naval Medical. (He was no longer critical.) But now Elena was gone on assignment elsewhere.

And Tom Fletcher, her guardian, was remote, he answered her requests as best he could, but he was all business.

Ivana missed her
Zlata Praha
, her “Golden Prague,” and she missed Bill Hamm. It was he that had saved her from Hrubec and Karel. And Bill talked to her, unlike the sober Tom.

She had never seen Bill’s redheaded companion, Jeannine. Apparently she was not CIA and therefore not privy to the location of the safe house.

Ivana could care less. She was bored beyond belief.

It was Elena Krkova that called Tom Fletcher at the safe house.

“Tom, there’s a new development. Gustav Slavik is gone. He slipped his handcuffs and walked out of his room at Bethesda Naval. No one saw him leave.”

“Damn. When?”

“This morning, just after breakfast. Lots of people were moving about.”

“Where was the guard?”

“He says he never left the door, but there’s a nurse the guard likes. It seems she’s attractive and distracts him. Likely he was down the hall at the coffee shop with her.”

“What does she say?”

“She won’t talk, but it doesn’t matter. The point is Gustav is on the loose. This is a guy trained to disappear. He’s gone.”

Tom thought of Hrubec.
Great, now two ex-commie killers are running loose
.

Elena continued.

“Tom, you should tell Bill right away. I think Ivana’s holding back on us. Gustav is her father. She might have kept a ‘bargaining chip’ she could exchange for leniency for him. Now that he’s ‘free’ she might be willing to give up what she knows for Bill’s help.”

“She surely won’t give it up to me. She barely talks to me.”

“But she will to Bill. I’m sure of that. Tell him to tell her that Gustav escaped.”

Tom heard a sound. He turned to see Ivana standing behind him.

Damn, what did she hear? The reception had been loud and clear.

He turned back to the phone, but Elena had hung up.

Yesterday, Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan had spent all day in the blue Fiesta bouncing along roads in the Virginia countryside. They had scanned old fields looking for the W&C red tanks, Holub’s step vans, or any traces of either.

The search area included parts of Routes 17, 15 and 29 in a triangle formed by Warrenton, Marshall and Manassas. To no avail. They found nothing. Today, they had searched the same triangle with no success. Now it was five in the afternoon and Jeannine was tired.

“Bill, this is useless. Why do you think that they would load the tanks in the open air where we could see them. Why would they do that?”

“The arrangements in the warehouse at the Fire Equipment Company were makeshift. They make do with what they have. Charging the tanks is extremely dangerous. They won’t have a lab near the target. My bet is they’ll charge them in the open somewhere near it. Only a fool would haul loaded tanks any distance.”

“Damn it Bill, we’re close to Washington. It must be the target.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think they can deliver the gas widely. Any plane would be shot down before it reached the Capitol or the White House. The big tanks I saw in Warrenton were not mobile. Delivery is a major problem for these guys, no matter how suicidal they are.”

He added.

“When the Aum cult attacked the court judges in Japan, they failed because the wind shifted. And their attack on the subway was on a soft, though large, target. These guys have scaled down to a soft target. Hell, they couldn’t get those tanks near the Pentagon, or the Capitol.”

Jeannine thought for the moment. There were plenty of soft targets, the subway, hotels, a long list.

“But Bill, Jack Cannon said he also saw small portable fire tanks fitted with mixing valves.”

“Exactly, and that indicates a personally distributed nerve gas.”

“You still haven’t explained why we’re looking in open fields.”

“Isolated open fields are my best guess because it’s damned dangerous when both precursors are loaded. Any leak, any mistake would be lethal. Seems to me Holub would do the final charging of the tanks in the open air, to minimize the risk.

Bill frowned.

“One thing sure, they don’t give a damn about the environment or local farmers and their stock.”

Bill and Jeannine were hungry, but the terrain was desolate, and there was no sign of a place to eat. Ahead of them, the only building was an old gray barn. No house was visible.

Jeannine spoke.

“This is like looking for needle in a haystack. How many old fields have we passed. We must have seen hundreds of ...”

She stopped and pointed.

In the field on the left, a farmer was driving a green tractor and pulling a dead cow behind him.

Bill stopped the Fiesta on the shoulder. He waved.

“What happened?”

“Damned if I know, I found her dead in the north pasture this morning. There was a dead raccoon too, and several crows. Never saw such a thing.”

“Sir, don’t touch that cow. It may be contaminated. Stay on your tractor. I’ll call someone to check on it and you.”

The farmer sat staring in disbelief. Bill continued.

“Sir, just wait, please. Your cow is contaminated. Please trust me. I’ll have a helicopter here to help you. It won’t take long.”

The chopper from Langley arrived in thirty minutes. The farmer remained on the John Deere while two CIA technicians in Hazmat gear did quick tests on his cow.

One of them lifted his helmet and approached Bill.

“It looks like organophosphate poisoning. That cow has a low active cholinesterase level, the lowest I’ve seen. The poison is more potent than any pesticide. I’ll know more when I get the samples to the lab and do more precise tests.”

The tech looked at the farmer, still seated on the John Deere.

“That old gentleman appears to be OK, but he should check himself into a hospital. Maybe you could drive him. I doubt there’s any danger to you or your wife.”

Bill liked the reference to Jeannine.

“No. When I’m done, you guys take him in the helicopter. I’ll authorize it.”

The tech refastened his helmet and went back to the cow. Bill turned to the farmer and pointed to a distant border of bushes.

“Is the north pasture beyond that hedgerow?”

The old man nodded.

Bill motioned to the helicopter pilot. He opened the door and Bill hopped in. He yelled to Jeannine as the rotors began to turn.

“Hon, you stay here with the techs, I’m going to check that pasture from the air.”

Jeannine ducked away from the whirling dust as the helicopter lifted off.

Bill and the pilot were back in fifteen minutes.

“That pasture is where they loaded the tanks. There’s another dead cow and some crows too. And there are two red tanks hidden near the woods. They piled them with branches so we didn’t see them from the road.”

Bill turned to the Techs.

“This is not pesticide poisoning. It’s a Novichok nerve agent, more deadly than Sarin or VX. Have the lab do their tests as quick as possible. And keep me posted.”

He turned to the pilot.

“Get a Hazmat team here to decontaminate that field. And study those abandoned tanks. Take the farmer with you and have our medics check him and his clothes.”

The pilot started the rotors. Bill ducked and raced away as whirling leaves, dust and chaff whipped his clothing. Jeannine shut her eyes. The chaff irritated her nostrils and her eyes teared.

The helicopter rose, turned, and headed in the direction of Langley.

Bill turned to her.

“Holub’s workers loaded the tanks in that field. An accident must have released some of the gas. The dead animals prove the Novichok agent was there, and that means that the tanks are loaded with both precursors. We’re out of time.”

Jeannine managed to whisper.

“But where are they? Where will they strike?”

An hour later, Bill Hamm’s phone vibrated. He punched “Talk” and listened for several minutes. He clicked off and turned to Jeannine.

“That was one of the tech guys. They analyzed the abandoned tanks from the field. They weren’t dangerous, only one partition was loaded, the other partition was empty. It hadn’t been loaded.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there was a valve unit mounted on the tanks that blew their minds. Real advanced. It’s a bulbous chamber with valves at either end. The first valve opens both partitions so that the precursors mix in the chamber. An internal magnetic stirrer, activated by a miniature lithium battery, ensures rapid mixing. The battery also powers a temperature-control device, to maintain the optimal temperature for the reaction.”

He added.

“Then in seconds the chamber’s external valve opens and releases the killer product into whatever device or tube is attached.”

He paused for a breath.

“This system is damned sophisticated. Our M687 binary artillery shell for Sarin only had a thin partition between containers of the two precursors. The partition would burst in flight and Sarin would be formed before the shell struck.”

Jeannine interposed.

“But the big tanks aren’t projectiles.”

“Right, so weight is not a major problem. For them, the partition between the two precursors is metal, and on each side there’s an external port for loading. Mixing can occur only at the outlet valve for each side.

He paused again.

“On the plus side, if we ever find the loaded tanks, we can discharge one of the precursors through its external port in relative safety and render the tank harmless.”

Jeannine interrupted.

“But this means that the rogue Czechs have fulfilled their half of this project. The jihadists have all the expertise they need. The FBI will have to revise their thinking. The terrorists are ready.”

She swerved to the left to pass a slow-moving truck loaded with wired bales of hay. Bill spoke again.

“I haven’t told you the worst. The mixing chamber has a remote-activated switch to operate the valves.”

“No! What’s the range of the remote”

“They’re not sure, at least a football field.

Bill continued.

“There is one good thing, Novichok-H is relatively heavy. It’s not very volatile. It settles rapidly from the air. It looks gray and greasy. That cow had received a sizable dose to die as it did, yet there was little Novichok in the airways. It acted through the skin and the exterior of the nostrils.

Jeannine grew thoughtful.

“Great. So if I touch it I’ll die?”

“Exactly. Don’t touch any surface you think it’s on.”

“What about its half-life?”

“Short we hope. As a weapon, that would mean you could attack and then overrun the gassed position without waiting for decontamination.”

He frowned.

“But the fact is we don’t know anything about the half life.”

In Chicago, Anne Simek’s thoughts were far from terrorists. She called her cousin Mila in Nags Head.

“Mila, my father’s spending a few days with the neighbors. Is the house in Corolla available? I have to get away from here.”

“It is. What about Peter? Will he be with you?”

Anne swallowed.

“The FBI lab in Quantico is testing Xolak for Peter. He’s meeting Aileen Harris in Manassas at the FBI’s Northern Virginia Resident Agency. They’re going to Quantico together.”

She muttered.

“She’s probably already in Manassas waiting for him.”

Mila asked no further.

“When will you get here?”

“I’m flying to Norfolk International. I’ll rent a car and be in Corolla tonight.”

“Good. But I’m not letting you spend the night there alone. I’ll be at the beach house to welcome you.”

Anne managed to smile.
Good old Mila, I’m trusting you again.

Anne hoped that the sounds of rhythmic waves crashing on the beach, coupled with the contented waters of the Currituck Sound rippling under a red sunset, would soothe and heal her.