by Lee Jackson
Horton’s face morphed to one of mock seriousness, his eyes narrowed. “Well, have you punched her in the stomach any time recently?”
Atcho smiled and shook his head. “No.”
“Did she get punched in the stomach today?”
“No.”
“Well then sir, you just need to stop worrying about it ’cause it’s just like my momma used to say…” He looked up at the ceiling as if searching for words. “Ah hell, I cain’t remember what my momma used to say.” He grinned. “But it was good, and you should follow her advice.” His forehead furrowed. “I think she would say that the baby’s going to be just fine.”
Atcho grasped Horton’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Who, me?” He looked around and ducked his head close to Atcho’s as if to tell him something in confidence. “Truth is, I’m out of cognac, so I came over hoping I could bum a few bucks to go get some.”
They both laughed hard. Atcho could not believe how much better he felt. The door into the treatment room opened, and the doctor came out. Atcho looked up, anxiously searching his face. The doctor smiled. “Everything’s looking good. You can go in and see her now.”
Klaus fumed. “How could they let her get away?” He was alone but expressing his anger out loud, incredulous about the story of the fracas. Many people had identified the woman as the one in the photo. Klaus was sure he would not have another such opportunity.
He sat down to clear his mind and think. The odds are against me in Berlin. I need to even them up.
Late in the evening, he made two calls. The first was to order a taxi. “It needs a large trunk. I have at least five suitcases.” He gave the address of his workshop and set a pickup time for late the next evening.
The second call was to the no-questions-asked air service he had engaged with twenty-four-hour notice. “I need a flight out tomorrow at this time. I’ll tell you the destination when I see you.”
13
US Embassy, Berlin, January 17, 1991
Atcho and Sofia entered the office set aside for their mission. They found Horton watching television intently. The view focused on a close-up of a slew of jet fighters taking off into the skies, one after another, until they disappeared into a field of blue.
“All hell broke loose,” Horton announced. “It’s D-Day!" He spoke with animation, excitement tinging his voice. “We started air combat operations against Saddam this morning. A 101st Airborne Division task force sent in four Apache attack helicopters under radar. They hit ammunition depots and fuel dumps with forty Hellfire missiles. Then they knocked out air defense guns with a couple hundred rockets carrying flechette rounds. They finished off with a huge number of thirty-millimeter rounds.” He looked up at Atcho. “They’re saying it was one hundred percent destruction. The Apaches flew back low level. They cut an air path twenty miles wide. On their way out, the pilots watched four hundred fast-movers fly in over their heads.”
Atcho had to chuckle at Horton’s enthusiasm, while reminding himself that he was watching a fight to the death for many, on live TV.
“That Shephard guy really knows his stuff,” Horton said.
“Who’s Shephard?”
“A buddy of mine. He ran the 101st tactical operations center last night.” He smirked. “That’s called a TOC, for you civilians.” He turned abruptly from the television to Sofia. “Oh, forgive my manners. Are you feeling better today, ma’am?”
“Yes Joe. Sorry I was so short with you yesterday.” She smiled and touched his arm. “I’m ready to get to work.”
“Quite understandable. Nothing more to say. Me too—about getting to work.” He started toward the conference table. “Oh, and congratulations. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say anything about the—you know.” He rolled his eyes toward the floor and put on his best sheepish expression.
Atcho and Sofia chuckled. “It’s OK, Joe,” Atcho remarked. “Let’s get to work.”
“You got it, boss. Burly should be calling in any moment for a status.”
“Joe,” Atcho fired back, “since when did I become ‘boss’?”
The phone rang. “Sorry, sir.” He grinned. “You don’t like that either. I forgot.” He flipped a switch on the speakerphone. “Is that you, Burly? I got you on speaker. We’re all here.”
Burly congratulated Atcho and Sofia on the baby and then got down to business. “I want to go over everything and get a handle on where we are right now. Obviously, Sofia, you presented a threat to someone. A good guess is, that ‘someone’ is Klaus.”
“I think so too. I saw him in the doctor’s office. He saw me when I followed him. I don’t know how he managed to get so many people looking for me so fast though.”
“I know how that happened,” Horton interjected. “Last night, while these two lovebirds were consoling each other, I sent some of my guys out to talk with informants in Little Istanbul. It’s like I was tellin’ Atcho earlier, someone distributed a huge number of copies of Sofia’s photo there. I don’t know where they got the original, but instructions to the residents were that if someone saw her, to hold her and report to the imam at the mosque. Rumor has it that German intelligence was involved.”
Sofia and Atcho looked at him, startled. Burly cleared his throat. “All right. It looks like we smoked Klaus out, but he went after the wrong target. He must have seen the news reports about Atcho though, so now he knows that both of you are in Berlin and he can figure out that Sofia was searching for him—and why. Atcho, he’s either going to come after you soon, or he’ll stay quiet until you leave.”
“Sir, if I may,” Horton cut in. “We have sources in the mosque. We can use them to find out where Klaus hangs his hat. I’m friendly with German intel too. I can check on that rumor about their alleged cooperation.”
“Good idea. Set it up. What else?”
“Dr. Burakgazi definitely did the surgical work on Klaus’ shoulder,” Sofia said. “Collins told you he saw both Klaus and that guy with the duffle bags come through Checkpoint Charlie. Veniamin identified the duffle bags. Shouldn’t that be enough for Detective Berger to question Burakgazi regarding the murder investigation? We have photos of Klaus. The doctor might know where he lives too, or he might have picked up on some other useful information.”
“Good thinking. I’ll run it by Berger. Maybe y’all should get together with him. By the way, I heard from him this morning. Seems that some upstanding citizens in Little Istanbul filed a complaint about a crazed she-devil who beat up some of their people yesterday. Sofia, did you really take down six big men?”
Sofia smiled. “Four. Two went down under the weight of one of their buddies when I shoved him.”
Burly chuckled. “The way I heard it, you shoved him with your left foot to the side of his face. OK, next topic. Any theory on what Klaus’ target might be—for his bomb?”
Atcho, Sofia, and Horton exchanged glances. “Yermolov wanted him to hit a target in Chechnya,” Atcho said after a prolonged silence, “to help destabilize the Soviet Union. I don’t see that being something he’d want to do now. The idea was to detonate a bomb there in conjunction with one here in Berlin, but that was overcome by the Wall coming down. I guess he could still strike here, but I don’t see any benefit to him.”
“We’re pretty sure he got that five million dollars,” Burly said. “Any chance he’d just forget the terrorism racket and disappear to enjoy his money?”
“I don’t think so,” Atcho replied. “If that were the case, he would have hidden from view when Sofia came on the scene. He came after her. Besides, he won’t leave me alone until one of us is dead.” As he made the last statement, he glanced at his two colleagues. Horton raised his eyes to the ceiling. Sofia remained expressionless.
“Does anyone think he might try to get in the middle of what’s going on in Kuwait?” Burly asked.
“God help us if that happens,” Sofia said softly. “Our job will be much more difficult.” She looked across at Atcho and hel
d her emotions in check. “Much more dangerous.”
Burly spoke after an extended pause. “Let’s put first things first. Atcho, you keep doing your tours with the business types. Horton, he’ll still need your security. Go ahead and get your guys talking to German intel. Sofia, follow up as we discussed with the mosque and the doctor. I’ll call ahead to Berger to give him a heads-up.” He started to say goodbye, and then added, “And Sofia, use your resources. Please don’t go out on your own again, for any reason. I’m asking as a friend who cares about you and your new family member.”
Klaus could not believe what he saw on the television screen. Scene after scene of fighter jets taking off from land bases around the Persian Gulf and aircraft carriers. Their missions: first to destroy Iraq’s radar and surface-to-air missile sites, thus blinding Saddam Hussein to the intentions and actions of the US coalition arrayed against him. Immediately following, massive strikes bombarded assets critical to Iraqi communications, command and control, and logistics. He watched, dumbfounded and dismayed at the dizzying numbers of fighter-bombers pounding Saddam’s forces.
Despite himself, he found the videos of pinpoint precision munitions fascinating. One report even showed the first guided missile to strike its target in Iraq—it entered through the side door of an Iraqi hangar and blew the aircraft protected inside into a huge ball of fire and dust.
The air attack seemed to come from all directions. He could almost hear the whistle and roar of incoming munitions, feel the thunder of explosions shaking the ground and the fall of reinforced concrete as massive buildings caved, crushing everything inside. The technology he saw performed beyond belief, one bomb striking within the city of Baghdad into the center of Iraq’s air operations command, and descending through its spine, demolishing the building and destroying the Iraq air command system.
The range of air combat assets awed Klaus. F-111s and Marine F/A-18 Hornet fighter-bombers flew anti-radar missions and hit bunkers and bridges with precision GBU laser-guided bombs directed by their Pave Tack pods. F-16s and Saudi F15E Strike Eagles flew joint missions with the fabled A-10 Warthogs, the titanium-encased close-air support jets with their cluster bombs and 30-mm multi-barrel cannons attacking Saddam’s vaunted Revolutionary Guard tank formations with impunity, raining down destruction. Even Vietnam-era A-7E Corsair IIs flew Wild Weasel missions against radars and SAM launchers.
The British flew their Tornado GR1s in low to take out the short tarmacs from hardened hangars to main runways, thus incapacitating Saddam’s air force while his jet fighters and bombers remained encased in what became their tombs. The news reporter on Klaus’ TV screen emphasized the danger of the attack, and Klaus felt a bit mollified to learn that five British airmen lost their lives in completing their missions.
French pilots flew their Jaguars and Mirage 2000s equipped with laser-guided AS30L missiles. Even the Kuwaiti air force entered the fray, flying their Skyhawks against Iraqi targets within their homeland to soften the occupying forces there.
As Klaus watched, his fury grew, seeing that missions flew from six US aircraft carriers, attacking from unpredictable directions, and from Arab countries arrayed around the Persian Gulf. “Traitors,” he railed. “Cowards.”
His dismay mounted as he witnessed Iraq’s response—all but nonexistent. He watched, further disheartened by videos of Iraqi MiG29s, the finest Soviet fighter ever built, running from engagement, failing to employ the impressive armaments and capabilities of the aircraft, and rapidly succumbing to the attacking force. ““They go up to get shot down,” he muttered.
Meanwhile, AV-8B Harrier II jump-jets established close-in support bases near the front with improvised runways, while flying missions into Kuwait to further soften up Iraqi positions. Watching the reports, Klaus’ anger peaked when a pilot returning from a bombing mission over Baghdad was met by reporters as he climbed down from his aircraft. They pummeled him with questions.
The pilot was young, looking healthy, and not even tired. He seemed shy and carried an air of humility. “There are not enough wows and gollies to describe all that stuff—the anti-aircraft fire coming up at us. Hard to dive into, but we got the job done. And now I have to eat breakfast and get ready for the next mission.”
Klaus stood, fuming. “That son-of-a-bitch. We’ll teach you a lesson.”
All morning he watched and listened for reports from which to seize hope. He turned to other channels, including those with sympathy for Saddam Hussein’s side of the fight. They only showed expressions of anger over the progress of the war.
Some accounts were taken in neighborhoods in Little Istanbul where Kuwaiti expats waited out the conflict. Those people smiled and laughed. Some demonstrated for the camera that they were already packing to go home.
Early in the afternoon, Klaus walked into Kadir’s offices. They conferred for a while about how and where to move his money, and afterward, he returned to his apartment to weigh alternatives. His only remaining question: Where can I do the most damage?
With intelligence services closing in on him in Berlin, he had to leave. Vengeance against Atcho would have to wait. All the countries in the Arab League had sided against Saddam, except Libya and Sudan. The Palestinian Liberation Organization also supported Saddam, but Klaus regarded Palestine as a place with little use aside from keeping hostilities with Israel alive. That was good for business. From his experience, that was the way most Arab countries viewed Palestine.
The idea of allying with either Sudan or Libya brought little comfort. He knew scant about the former, and the latter was led by a madman, a clown, Muammar Gaddafi. Many Arabs liked to listen to him speak for the comedy value. He made pronouncements, and at one time, he had been feared in the world. However, after Ronald Reagan bombed his tent in the desert while Gaddafi was in it, he changed his tune, or at least his actions. He gave up nuclear ambitions and settled down to be a compliant little dictator who sought pleasure only from the torture of his own people and left the rest of the world alone. Europeans and Americans who lived in Libya touted the country’s safety and security.
With his money and bombs, Klaus lived within the irony of having resources which, if revealed to others, would make him a target. Without them, he had freedom to move at will, but would have no resources with which to travel, and no bombs to further Islam.
He was not personally familiar with the countries around the Persian Gulf, but he had spent time speaking with the imam, mosque members, and immigrants from each country such that he had a working knowledge of them. He had even gone to a library and studied maps of eastern Mediterranean and Persian Gulf countries to understand relative proximity and their geodynamics.
Late in the afternoon, he visited Kadir again, this time to confirm plans. Then he took a taxi to his shop to retrieve his five suitcases. An hour later, he climbed aboard a small private jet.
“Where are we going?” the pilot asked.
“Riyadh,” Klaus replied. “Saudi Arabia.”
“I can’t fly there directly and keep you undetected,” the pilot replied.
“Do what you have to do but get me there as quickly as you can.” Klaus’ choice carried huge risks, but for him, it made sense. The petroleum-producing behemoth occupied most of the Arabian Peninsula and was a friend to the US, at least on the surface. Yet, many fundamentalist Islamists of various sects worked behind the scenes to promote their own objectives. The country had grown wealthy on oil revenues and followed an aggressive schedule of infrastructure development. As a result, Klaus’ needs to secure his suitcases and establish a means of moving money were readily met there. Kadir had arranged introductions to contacts in the “Kingdom.”
Saudi Arabia had two other advantages that determined Klaus’ decision. The first was its proximity to Iraq, Kuwait, and the war. The second was that a major target for one of his bombs currently resided in Saudi Arabia—US and coalition forces spread along the border with Kuwait and Iraq.
He felt a surge of excitement as
the small jet took to the air. “Keep looking for me in Berlin, Atcho,” he smirked. “Your day will come.”
14
At the end of the second day of Desert Shield, Atcho found that he had to resist the urge to stay glued to almost constant televised news reports of the war. He could scarcely believe the rapid progress.
He had just returned to the embassy in Berlin from yet another tour of facilities, this time in France. He had begun to feel guilty over the deception. Executives representing companies eager to bring his product to market in Europe spent a lot of money on him. Touring Berlin in limousines and stopping for lunch was one thing, but to be flown in a corporate jet to a central location in France and then toured by helicopter to potential facilities so that he could be back in Berlin by nightfall was another. The trip to France had been done for appearances to placate NATO allies. Other countries pressed to be included.
That evening, the three of them, Atcho, Sofia, and Horton, gathered in their office at the conference table to compare notes. They called Burly to include him in the discussion. “Things have been quiet the last two days,” Atcho began. “How long can we keep up this pretense? We’re likely to wear out our welcome with the business sector soon.”
“I know,” Burly agreed. “Has anyone turned up anything at all?”
“If Klaus is doing anything,” Sofia interjected, “he’s being very quiet. No visits back to the doctor or the mosque. We even located the gym where he works out, but he hasn’t been there either.
“I met with Detective Berger today. He’s going to quiz Dr. Burakgazi about the murder. He’ll do it discreetly.”
“I got something on that,” Horton cut in. “I contacted people in German intel. The rumor about them looking for Sofia is BS. They think it was planted to get people in Little Istanbul thinking that detaining her was okay.