The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (38 page)

Early morning in Prague. Alone in his office, Karel Moravec finished packing his satchel. As promised, Abdul Rahman had deposited the many millions of Euros in the three Swiss accounts. And now, thanks to a clever mnemonic device, the numbers of those three accounts were committed to Karel’s memory.

And no one could withdraw funds but Karel. That knowledge was insurance. It guaranteed his survival.

The satchel held several passports. The tickets to Brazil were in his suit pocket. Of course that country was not his final destination. He was headed for a remote area east of the Andes in Argentina near Bolivia and Paraguay.

Not that he planned to be a hermit rancher. No, isolation was not for him. He needed luxuries and a night life. He would arrange to spend long “vacations” in a civilization with high culture, in Montevideo, Uruguay. He had already rented a small office there in the shadow of the World Trade Center building. Karel had major investment plans.

He zipped his satchel shut, and turned to the laptop on his massive desk. Erik Holub would arrive soon, and Karel would see to a generous transfer to Erik’s account.

His work was done. He leaned back and relaxed. He shut his eyes.

Karel opened his eyes to a gentle knock on the door.

“Erik, come on in. That was a great job you did in Virginia.”

The door opened, but it was not Erik. Rather the man who entered was disheveled, as if he had traveled all night.

Karel gaped in amazement.

Gustav Slavik stood before him.

And Gustav held a gun, a CZ-52, pointed directly at Karel’s chest.

Karel froze.

He forced a smile.

“Welcome back Gustav. Our goods are delivered. Our part of the project has succeeded. We have received our payment, so I can pay you now.”

He paused to add.

“But put away the gun. There’s no need. I have a magnificent share for you. It’s ready.”

Gustav did not move. Neither did the gun.

Karel tried to avoid looking at the aperture of that lethal barrel. Somehow he continued to smile.

“What would you like? More money?

Gustav did not answer. He seemed in a dream.

Karel carefully slid his desk draw open. Gustav appeared not to notice.

Karel’s armpits were sweaty. He steadied himself.

“Gustav my old friend. If it’s money, I can make you rich beyond your dreams.”

At last Gustav broke his silence.

“I am too old for money.”

Karel felt hope. He knew that he could out-talk Gustav.

“But not too old for a woman. Beautiful and young! Would that please you? I can arrange it. Along with all the money you need to keep her happy.”

“You mean like Ivana Novotna?”

“No, no. Not like her. Ivana is a whore. Trust me. You can do better.”

“Yet you lived with her.”

“Yes, but only because she begged me. She’s a bitch. Besides she may be dead by now. A good thing too.”

Gustav’s brow furrowed.

“Dead?”

“Yes, I saw she was interfering with the mission, with ours, with yours. She was a threat to both of us.”

Gustav’s face turned red.

“Karel, you bastard. Ivana is my daughter.”

Karel stared.
His daughter?

Gustav continued.

“You tried to kill my daughter. And you would have succeeded if it were not for the Americans, their damned CIA and that ‘Bill Hamm.’”

He added.

“Capitalists! You put me in debt to greedy money-grubbing Americans.”

Karel interposed.

“Gustav, I’m sorry, I had no ... ”

Gustav did not notice. He scratched his chin with his free hand.

“I could excuse you for the Americans, but for my Ivana? No. Never!”

His eyes focused on Karel’s.

“You used my daughter for your pleasure. Then you discarded her.”

“No, Gustav. She left me, remember?”

“She told me about that. She only left after you tried to have me killed, and after you chose Fiala over her, not before.”

“Not true.”

But his voice was weak. His lies could not convince Gustav.

Karel’s eyes fell on the open desk drawer. In it his P226 Sig Sauer lay chambered and ready.

Gustav, saw that glance. His voice was dull and monotonal.

“Yes, Karel, reach for the weapon. I have no conscience, but my little Ivana does. It will help her to know that I killed you in self defense, not in cold blood.”

Karel did not wait.

He grabbed the Sig Sauer and got off the first shot.

Then he squeezed again. Because of the mechanism, the second round required less finger pressure than the first, but it never left the chamber. The second squeeze had been a weak reflex.

Karel hit the floor, a hole in his forehead.

Gustav stuffed the CZ-52 in his belt, at back. He felt his left shoulder. His suit was torn and damp where Karel’s slug had grazed him. It was not a problem.

With his right hand he fumbled in his shirt pocket and drew out a king-sized Petra cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, and looked about the spacious office.

The massive desk, symbol of Karel’s authority, was unstained. It hid the body from view.

But not from the
plaster angels on the ceiling above. They looked down, silent and uncaring.

Gustav left.

Behind the desk a dark pool of blood formed under Karel’s head.

In Prague, Erik Holub arrived at the main administrative building of the chemical and pharmaceutical giant Hus-Kinetika. He was relaxed for the first time in months. After a restful day in Paris to alleviate his jetlag, he had flown to Prague for his big payday.

In the hallway to Karel’s office, he was stopped by uniformed
policie
who blocked the corridor.

Their unsmiling questions left him confused.

“Who are you?” What is your business with Mr. Moravec?”

They noticed the suitcase in his hand.

“When did you arrive in Prague? From what city? Where were you earlier today?”

In vain, Erik peered over their shoulders to see what was happening.

“Sir, you need to come to the station with us. We will drive. Here, give me your bag.”

One of the policemen picked up the suitcase and motioned Erik to follow. As he did, a gurney topped by a black plastic body bag appeared in the hallway. Erik found his voice.

“Is that Mr. Moravec?”

With a barely perceptible nod, the policeman pushed Erik towards the exit.

“
Prosim
, ‘Please,’ come with us, Sir.”

A bewildered Erik complied.

It was evening in Vienna, Austria, when Ivana Novotna, accompanied by Bill Hamm, arrived at her hotel.

That afternoon, the news of Karel Moravec’s untimely death had convinced Bill’s superiors that the “Goldfinch” no longer needed protection. Ivana could shift from a safe house to a hotel of her choosing.”

Ivana agreed. She was no longer a “package” to be moved about at the whim of others. Further, the Americans had presented her with a good sum of Euros for her cooperation. But to date, of all the Americans she had met, only Bill Hamm appealed to her.

Happily he had been chosen to escort her to her new room.

Ivana was bubbly. Her hair was blond again. It was short, but shaped well to enhance the pleasant curve of her neck. She wore fitted jeans, topped by a quilted lavender jacket that hugged her waist. And she was pleased to see that Bill approved of her outfit!

Bill stopped at the gilded entrance of the hotel.

“Ivana, I have to go. I guess this is goodbye.”

Ivana tossed her head. A cold breeze brightened her cheeks as she shivered.

“No, it’s too cold. I cannot say goodbye properly here.”

She pulled him into the lobby. It was crowded, a convention, but she heard no English, only German. For a moment she feared that he was uncomfortable. No, Bill was at ease in that language.

Good, she wanted him relaxed.

“Bill, there are too many people here. Can you escort me up to my room?”

They rode the elevator up in silence.

At the door to her room, Ivana paused.

“Bill, thank you for everything. Won’t you? ...”

She did not wait for a response. She threw her arms around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him. At the shock of those moist lips, and the softness of her chest, he held tight and kissed back.

After a moment she drew free.

“Bill, come inside, I ... ”

He looked into her warm blue eyes. She was most desirable. He took a deep breath.

“Ivana, you are beautiful, but I cannot. Don’t make this more difficult for me.”

She frowned in disbelief.

“You mean that person, Jeannine?”

He nodded.

Ivana frowned. She turned into her room.

Somehow she managed to slam the heavy door.

Inside, the smell of a cigarette assailed Ivana. Instantly, Bill was forgotten. She looked about in terror.

Who?

Gustav stepped from the shadows.

Ivana exhaled. Color returned to her cheeks. She found her voice.

“Father, then it was you that killed ... ”

He nodded.

“Daughter, that beast will never bother you again.”

The hour was late when Bill Hamm returned to the Vienna office. No matter, a smiling Chief was there to greet him.

“Congratulations, Bill, you’re a damned hero. The press has been all over my butt for interviews, and Sky Channel wants to do a video piece on you.”

Bill started to answer, but the Chief continued.

“Unfortunately, I think you know that with this publicity, your covert days will be over.”

The Chief’s smile disappeared.

“Also, Bill, a storm is brewing. Some higher ups at the FBI and Homeland Security are desperate to blame anyone for their screw up at the Unity Pavilion. They want to know why you and Elena Krkova were running a domestic operation. They say the CIA had no business running an ‘OP’ in the States.”

“But the Czech side of the ‘OP’
was
our business. Everything flowed from that.”

“Exactly. You know that and I know that, and we both know they are trying to cover their butts. I’m giving you a heads up, that’s all. The Director is on our side. Hell, those guys in Homeland Security can’t even use the term ‘War on Terror.’ Everything is some damned ‘incident.’”

“And I kept everybody, you, the FBI and Secret Service, informed at all times. The raid at Warrenton was run by the FBI.”

“Of course. But if you have any memos or notes so I can build a paper trail, it would help me.”

“You know I don’t work that way, memos and all.”

The Chief answered with a shrug.

“Right. Look, this is your hour. Enjoy the limelight.”

He paused.

“But you should clear your interviews with me.”

Bill waited a moment, then spoke.

“If I can’t work covert ops, I’m not sure I’ll stay with the Agency. I have somebody waiting for me Stateside. She won’t wait forever.”

The Chief looked down at his desk.

“That might be a good idea for all of us.”

Bill left in silence, his lips parted in a grim smile.

Both Homeland Security and the FBI invoked the purported domestic operation by the CIA to blame that agency for the disaster at Front Royal, Virginia. Bill Hamm’s reassignment by the Agency took the pressure off of his immediate superior, but only confirmed to a compliant media that the accusations were well-founded.

The Secretary of Homeland Security dubbed the events at Front Royal the “Unity Pavilion Incident.” Tragically, almost three hundred Americans died in that “incident,” including an entire squad of battle-ready marines, numerous police and a number of Secret Service agents. Among the dead were a dozen Hollywood celebrities, numerous “guests,” several members of congress, a governor, and well over one hundred “spectators.”

In contrast, in their war on the Great Satan, the jihadists lost twenty men.

The disaster would have been many times more deadly if the untested Novichok-H had been more volatile, had a longer half-life, and not been weakened by the alkaline water with a high iron content from the newly-drilled well that supplied the pavilion. Also, without Xolak and the intervention of Peter Zeleny and Aileen Harris, the deaths among the spectators would have more than doubled.

Roger Dixon died in the best tradition of the Secret Service. He gave his life to protect his president, and not in vain. By killing Quanit Ibn Husayn, he gained precious minutes for the president’s evacuation to safety. Roger (posthumously) and Harry Thomas, who took charge of the evacuation, were honored in a brief ceremony at the White House. Harry Thomas is now head of the presidential detail.

Neither Quanit Ibn Husayn, killed by Roger Dixon, or Hassan Ibn Ali, killed by Bill Hamm, had time to voice his final praise,
Allahu akbar
, at death. Each perished before the thought could be formed.

Ryan Associates was awarded several contracts by the CIA, but Jeannine Ryan elected to keep the company small. Aileen Harris remains with her as a minority owner. She and Mary Catherine still reside in Bethesda with Aileen’s mother.

Bill Hamm occupies a desk at Langley. He still hopes to obtain an assignment overseas. He and Jeannine remain close, but because of professional commitments their future together remains uncertain.

Anne Simek successfully defended her doctoral thesis in philosophy, “Dietrich von Hildebrand, Catholics and the Nazi Persecution,” in Chicago. Afterwards, Anne adopted the religion of her deceased mother. She was baptized Catholic at the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington, DC. There she and Peter Zeleny were wed in the Czech chapel under the image of Our Lady of Hostyn inscribed,
ZŮSTAŇ MATKOU LIDU SVÉMU
, “Remain a mother to your people.”

Jim Harrigan left the Duck Police Department, took a short course in Real Estate, and joined Mila at Patek reality. Mila received her United States Citizenship. They married shortly after. Jim is grateful that his wife does not call herself “Harriganova.” Mila pretends to like doughnuts.

In an example of justice trumping truth, Gustav Slavik, who tried to kill Vaclav Pokorny but failed, was convicted of his murder. He pled out and received life with possibility of parole. He is incarcerated in a close security facility in Greene County, North Carolina.

Ivana Novotna moved to the United States to be near her father. She enjoys a peaceful life in Goldsboro, North Carolina. She visits Gustav regularly. Each time she takes him a supply of Petra cigarettes.

Scot Henderson stayed with the Fish and Wildlife Service in North Carolina. He continues to monitor the deaths, accidental or otherwise, of Red Wolves on the Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge.

The death of Larry Hodges at the FDA was ascribed to natural causes. Ultimately, after negotiations with Hus-Kinetika, the composition of Xolak was changed back to its pre-2002 form. The FDA has approved it for the American market.

Jack Cannon joined the Prince William County Police Department. His freezer is still filled with venison.

Monica Wilson remarried. She has a hard time accepting that Bill Jones was Masoud.

Tom Fletcher and Elena Krkova remained with the CIA. They work out of Vienna, Austria.

Michal Pacak returned to Brno. He and Elena Krkova correspond occasionally.

The numbered bank accounts died with Karel Moravec. Erik Holub never received his final payment. After extradition to the U. S. he received a life sentence in a Federal prison.

Shortly after the tragedy at Front Royal, Abdul Rahman was summoned to Tehran. He has not been seen or heard from since.