by Lee Jackson
A volunteer lounged near the main entrance. Klaus approached and pulled an identification card from his jacket pocket. “I’m an inspector from the International Atomic Energy Agency, the IAEA,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“Yes. How can I help?”
They spoke in broken English. “We want to ensure that all records pertaining to nuclear research and anyone involved in it are secure. That information should not make its way to the general public.”
“I don’t know how much of that you’ll find here.”
“Probably not much. My job is tying up loose ends, making sure nothing leaks out that shouldn’t. I heard that a few people were imprisoned here who had been educated as nuclear engineers. Where should I look to see if those records still exist?”
“That won’t be easy. Looters destroyed a lot.” The volunteer pointed to a file cabinet. “You could start there. East Germany didn’t have its own nuclear program, but good students were allowed to pursue studies and received degrees in Moscow. Some of them worked there too. Files in that cabinet could point you in the right direction.”
Klaus spent several days at the headquarters, searching through records, combing through a huge number that had been thrown in piles on the floor. At one point, to satisfy an insatiable curiosity, he climbed to the top floor—the elevators no longer worked—and visited the office of the former director of the Stasi, Johann Baumann.
The director had disappeared that night. His role in a conspiracy to prevent the Wall’s collapse had been to arrest the upper echelon of East German leadership. Whether deliberately or by inability, he had failed. History was sealed. Klaus had heard rumors that Baumann had escaped to Argentina.
Strangely, the director’s office was as Klaus had last seen it. The looters had not come this far. A television on which Klaus had watched the announcement of the new policy that opened the Wall still set on a table near the desk, covered with dust. Klaus recalled cloistering around the screen with Yermolov and Baumann while the momentous pronouncement was made. So much had been set in motion as a result.
He looked behind the desk at the spot where he had placed the duffle bags with the five million dollars in them. He had set them there to make room for three suitcase bombs on the desk. How did that man in the street get those bags? He dismissed the thought. Doesn’t matter now.
He recalled having jerked the bomb maker, Veniamin Krivkov, by the collar, forcing him to walk Klaus through the arming process for the bombs for a fifth time. None of the bombs detonated. Veniamin must have done something to all three of them. He went back to his search on the floors below.
Finally, on the third day, he found what he was looking for, a file containing the names of five men whose educations had been in nuclear engineering. The files were thorough and contained the addresses where each man had lived at the time of arrest.
Klaus hurried from the headquarters. He felt rejuvenated. Over the next two days, he visited each address. One of the men had died. A bitter family told of his cruel treatment while in the Stasi prison that caused his death.
Three of the men had moved, and quick conversations with neighbors revealed that they had migrated into the Western world.
The fifth man appeared an improbable subject at first. He was old with no remaining ambition beyond sitting on his porch and watching life go by. However, he was pleased to engage in conversation.
Klaus presented himself as a researcher with the IAEA and set aside his usually abrasive personality to turn on the charm. He learned much about the nuclear engineer that could be useful.
The man, Rayner, had worked in Hitler’s nuclear program for a short while in his youth, before the war ended. Because of his reputation among peers of being exceptionally bright, he had been coerced to work in the nuclear program of the Soviet Union. He had spent years on teams in nuclear arms facilities designing more and more destructive weapons.
On retirement, Rayner had been allowed to return to his home in East Berlin. He had been arrested by the Stasi for complaining about food prices. His tenure at Stasi headquarters had been brief and benign, but in that short duration, he had seen and heard the agony of other prisoners in the prison cells. Because of his stature with the Soviets, Rayner had only been required to sign a confession. He was sent to a short re-education course and released.
Klaus took his time getting to know Rayner. He learned his favorite foods and drinks and brought some with him on subsequent visits. Then one morning, he brought with him his suitcase bomb. “I’m hoping you can help satisfy my curiosity,” he told the old man. He opened the case. “Would you give me your opinion of this?”
Rayner opened it. Inside, he saw a metal plate with etching diagonally across its surface. Two small handles indicated that the plate could be removed. Rayner’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get this?”
“As I told you, I work for the IAEA. I was doing research at the Stasi headquarters, and came across it. I was hoping you could help me identify what it is.”
Rayner had already lifted out the metal plate and scrutinized the components. A tube placed diagonally from the lower left of the case to the top right matched the orientation of the etching on the plate. “This indicates the proper positioning of components,” he muttered. He studied each component. “Do you mind if I open them?”
Klaus assented. Rayner disappeared inside his house. He reappeared a few minutes later with a small tool kit and began tinkering. He first removed tiny screws from the tube and opened it. His eyes registered shock at what he saw, but he said nothing. He left his seat to go inside the house again. When he returned, he brought with him a small instrument. He unfastened a port at the top end of the tube and held a probe next to it. An audible clicking noise sounded. Rayner arched his eyebrows and closed the port quickly but remained silent. Then, he unsealed what appeared to be a timing device and a miniature data entry keyboard and screen.
Finally, he raised his head and faced Klaus. “My friend,” he said gravely, “you have here a nuclear bomb, complete with plutonium. It was designed to be detonated either by a timer or remotely. But there is something strange about the wiring.”
Klaus did his best to act shocked. “I had an idea it might be a bomb, but I had no clue it might be nuclear.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the office of the director of the Stasi. What’s wrong with the wiring?”
“This is a real bomb, but do you see this heavy wire running between the components?” Klaus nodded. Rayner continued. “That should be the line conducting current from the battery to the individual parts, including the trigger mechanism. But look at this smaller wire.” He pointed it out. “It comes directly out of the battery, and this little piece steps down the current so that the data entry screens and test diodes receive sufficient electricity for them to show the components as active when they are not.
“Whoever made this wanted it to appear that it would detonate when, as a matter of fact, it can’t.” He studied the bomb further. “If he had wanted it to explode, he would have connected this main line here and here and here… The small line then serves no purpose. Beyond that, arming the bomb is straightforward. See, there is even a remote connection. The operator would enter the frequency or set the timer here.”
Klaus’ heart took a leap. The modifications Rayner had indicated were not difficult. “Is there a fail-safe mechanism?”
Rayner scoffed. “There is a semblance of a fail-safe system, but all it did really was light up a test diode. Whoever built this bomb wanted it not to go off.” He went back over it one more time. “The engineer knew what he was doing. The electronic components are off-the-shelf, and the structural ones are easy to fabricate. I’m sure the only difficult part of building this was acquiring the plutonium. Even the trigger mechanism is simple. In truth, this is an elegant design.”
Klaus’ spirits were high when he returned to his apartment that afternoon. He lay wide awake that night thinking
of the potential. He foresaw the need to chance a trip to the Soviet Union. His risk was daunting. He was a wanted man there, having deserted the KGB. If caught, he would be summarily executed.
In the early morning hours of the next day, August 2, Klaus watched TV, mesmerized by the news that Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait. Live video showed heat mirages floating up from the desert floor and Iraqi tanks charging across the common border, seizing Kuwait’s oil fields and continuing their advance on Kuwait City.
On hearing the news, Klaus called the orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Burakgazi. “Set a date for my surgery.”
4
Austin, Texas, January 1991—In the evening after Atcho’s lunch with Sofia, and after the meeting with Burly.
Atcho drove up the long, landscaped driveway to his Spanish colonial home with stucco walls and a red-tile roof, set among massive oak trees on the bluffs of Mt. Bonnell above the Colorado River. This was a far cry from the plain town house he had inhabited in the DC area before marrying Sofia, and far above his needs. But its elegance and beauty reflected the wife he adored. He could well afford it and had enjoyed watching Sofia decorate, enhancing a Western-ranch flair with her own impeccable style.
After the Siberia mission a little over a year ago, she had been happy to retire from the US State Department where she had been a senior intelligence supervisor. For much of her career, the job had been a cover for her employment with the CIA as a field operator. Over the years, bad guys had perceived her femininity as weakness. They learned the hard way about the effectiveness of an upward blow to the chin by the heel of her open hand, or the lethality of her legs, developed from years of ballet converted into black belts in several martial arts. Some had missed the chance to regret being at the wrong end of her marksmanship. They were dead.
She met Atcho at the door and embraced him. “I’m glad you’re home.” The lights were turned down, and soft music played. Atcho noticed. She took him by the hand and led him through the living room to a set of stairs.
When Atcho had constructed the house, he had directed the contractor to excavate into the limestone and include a good-sized basement, a rarity in Austin because of the expense. When completed, the room had been comfortably furnished as a lounge with a large home entertainment center at the far end, and it had been soundproofed. He had created his own secure location where he and Sofia could be assured of privacy when speaking. They even swept the basement periodically for listening devices. They had learned from experience.
As they descended into the lounge, Atcho saw that Sofia had taken care to continue the romantic atmosphere with soft lights and music, and a low table with hors d'oeuvres. A wine bottle rested in a bucket of ice, but oddly, with only one crystal glass.
Sofia sat on a sofa and pulled Atcho to sit close to her. Then she poured wine into the glass and handed it to him. “Tell me about your visit with Burly.”
Atcho took a sip. “Aren’t you having any?”
“No. I wasn’t feeling great today, especially after our conversation at lunch. So, tell me about Burly.”
Atcho studied her face. “You’ve been feeling off-balance for several days. Are you all right?”
Sofia rubbed her eyes. “Just a little under the weather. Are you going to tell me about Burly or not?”
Atcho frowned and hesitated. “It’s like you thought. Burly’s visit was official, not social.” He took a deep breath. “Klaus surfaced.”
Sofia sat up straight, realization on her face. “They want you to go after him.”
Atcho nodded slowly. “I don’t see that I have a choice.”
“You’re not buying into that again.” Sofia’s eyes burned with anger. “You’re not a CIA operator, you’ve never been one, but they keep convincing you that you’re the only person on earth who can go into these impossible situations to save mankind.” She stood abruptly. “Let someone else do it for a change.”
She looked at her husband, hurt and concern in her eyes. She saw a man with classical Latin good looks. Silver lined his dark brown hair, but his daily exercise regimen kept him in superb physical shape. He was a man toughened by combat, years of imprisonment, and impossible undercover field operations normally undertaken by intelligence professionals. His West Point education and training at Ranger and Airborne schools had prepared him for much, but his covert operator skills had been developed on the job, and much of the time, going solo. Whenever she looked at him, she saw a man who had suffered excruciating circumstances and never surrendered his courtesy, humility, or great heart. “They have no right to come to you again.”
Atcho stood and took her in his arms. “Darling, it’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.” He nudged her gently until they both sat down again. “You said you might have some news of your own.”
Sofia was momentarily bewildered. “What?” Her eyes gained a stoic, faraway quality, but she waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, it was nothing. The garden club nominated me for an award. They like what we’ve done with the house. That’s all.” Her eyes met his. “Why are you the only one who can do this mission?”
Atcho took a deep breath and exhaled. “Burly gave two reasons. He pointed out that I’m one of the few people in Western intelligence circles to have seen Klaus and interacted with him.”
“I saw him,” Sofia interjected defiantly. “I was there when that bastard kidnapped my husband, remember? I’ll never forget his face. I gave a description to that German detective’s sketch artist.”
“Yes, you were there, and you acted brilliantly. But I was with Klaus for a while. I know his mannerisms, his voice, and the way he walks and talks.”
“So do I.” Sofia was obstinate. “Ya take in a lot under that kind of stimulation, especially when you’re trained.”
Atcho continued. “The other reason: Klaus has that nuclear bomb.”
Sofia contemplated quietly. Then she sighed. “We’ve known all that. No one’s put on much of a search for Klaus since the Berlin Wall came down. That’s not why you’ll go on this fool’s errand which, as I pointed out, I could do—or someone else could.”
“That’s right. Klaus was wounded badly in East Berlin, but we don’t know which part of his body was hit. For all we knew, he died. If not, he must have taken a few months to recuperate, but did he stay in the East or go west? We don’t know. Over the last week or so, listening surveillance picked up calls mentioning ‘Berlin,’ ‘suitcase,’ ‘nuclear,’ and ‘bomb.’”
“And you think they refer to him.”
“That’s sketchy, I know. His name wasn’t mentioned. ‘Klaus’ is an alias, so we wouldn’t hear his real name. Anyway, when those four words are used in bad-guy chatter over the course of days with increasing frequency, it’s a good guess they mean Klaus, whatever his name is. The trouble is, we haven’t isolated a location, or even a region. He could be anywhere in the world.”
Sofia leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She drew her face close to his. “But why are you taking the job? There are plenty of others who could go after him.”
Atcho blew out his breath again. “To Klaus, it’s personal. I killed his brother, Etzel. Because of that, Klaus threatened me in Berlin, and he’ll never give up. He’s a danger to our home, our friends and neighbors—you. He could plant that bomb near our house and incinerate everything within a square mile. The radioactive fallout alone could turn Austin into a ghost town.”
Sofia listened intently, her instincts piqued by years of experience in the intelligence community. “Okay, I get all that, but something isn’t adding up.” She pulled away to gather her thoughts. “If Klaus were coming after you for revenge,” she said slowly, “he would do it quietly. He was in the KGB and was part of both coup attempts against Gorbachev. When the second one failed, he deserted and went underground. If he makes noise now, he risks alerting the KGB and putting the Soviets on his trail. Come to think of it, why hasn’t that happened already?”
Atcho shrugged. “Because our intelligence is bette
r?”
Sofia looked skeptical. “Demonstrated by what?” She shook her head. “Something else is going on.” She thought in silence. “We know he’s a Chechen Muslim who hates the US as much as he hates the Soviets.”
Atcho noticed a change in Sofia’s demeanor. Gone were notions of an evening of romance. She now thought professionally, tactically. “We’re pretty sure he never exploded the bomb. That would have been hard to hide, and besides, he’d look to inflict massive destruction. So, if he still has the bomb, and it’s intact, the fail-safe mechanism must still be engaged. At least that’s what he would think.
“Veniamin, the bomb maker, wanted to get away from the conspiracy and protect his family. He was coerced to make the bomb. He said he wired it to look like it was active when the arming mechanisms were set, but that neither the timer nor the remote control would detonate it for real. Klaus never knew that, and besides he never had the remote. That maniacal general who led the plot kept it under his personal control, until you killed him.” She drummed her fingers against her chin and went on.
“As far as Klaus knew, he had a bomb ready to detonate remotely or by a timer, and he could neither set it off nor open up the suitcase to shut it down.”
Atcho listened closely. Sofia’s insights had been widely respected at both the state department and the CIA. He was the beneficiary of a keen analytical mind at work.
Sofia ruminated out loud again. “What else could he be thinking?” She leaned her forehead into her palm. “He’s been involved in at least two big conspiracies, one to depose Gorbachev and one to stop the Berlin Wall from opening, so he’s a guy who participates in big-picture projects. Atcho, tell me his background again.”