The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

More minutes passed, and a new sensation impinged—burning on his left buttock. He remembered screaming when Atcho had fired his pistol and struggling to keep Atcho’s wrist from turning for an effective shot. Then Atcho had pulled the trigger.

  Klaus sat up in disgust. Obviously, the bomb had not detonated. His brother’s death would not yet be avenged. He would have no seventy-two waiting virgins, no celebrations among the worldwide faithful of Islam for the mass of dead and maimed infidels in the greatest strike ever against the Great Satan. All he had to show for his efforts was a seared butt—barely a crease. Worse yet, Atcho and his wife still lived and expected a baby. Klaus climbed to his feet and headed deeper into the forest.

  Atcho lay in a hospital bed, his right hand heavily bandaged. Tubes forced oxygen into his nostrils. He lay still. A clear drip-bag fed fluids and pain reliever into his veins.

  The nurses had pushed a second bed against Atcho’s. Sofia lay with similar tubes protruding from her body, but she had regained consciousness and held Atcho’s left hand. Sedatives had reduced the pain of her wound to dull throbbing. Through haggard eyes, she regarded the two men seated at the end of the bed, still dressed in tactical gear, dirty and smelly from the night’s events.

  “Did you get him?” she asked, her voice faint and hoarse.

  Ivan shook his head. “It’s a police and FBI matter now. They’ll put out an APB and initiate a nationwide search. With any luck he won’t get far, but he’s smart and experienced.”

  “No one should underestimate him,” Rafael added. “He’s learned a lot since Berlin, and now he knows how to penetrate us at home. He came so close.”

  Burly stepped into the room carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Anyone awake in here?” he whispered. He crossed to Sofia’s side and put the flowers on the bed stand.

  “Thanks, Burly,” she whispered. “They’re beautiful.”

  “How’s the baby?”

  “Healthy.” Sofia smiled and massaged her stomach. “Already impatient…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed.

  The three men exchanged glances. Ivan and Rafael started to rise, and Burly stepped away from the bed. All three headed softly toward the door.

  Sofia’s eyes fluttered. “Don’t go,” she entreated. “It’s good to have you here.”

  “We’re all smelly and grimy,” Ivan protested.

  Sofia smiled. “Like old times.”

  Ivan and Rafael settled back in their seats. Burly drew another chair close to the bed and sat down. He gestured toward Atcho. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “Those were deep second-degree burns,” Rafael replied. “The doctor said they’ll take a while to heal, but he should get back full use of his hand.”

  “What about Sofia’s leg?”

  “She’ll have scars, but the worst is past. These doctors know their stuff.”

  “What do you think Klaus will do?” Ivan asked. “Will they catch him?”

  Burly shifted in his seat. “I don’t know. He’s high on the FBI’s most-wanted list, but he’s proven he can move around undetected. Catching him won’t be easy.”

  “They’d better catch him,” Rafael said. “He knows how to get nuclear fuel and put plutonium bombs together. He won’t stop, and he still wants Atcho.”

  “Yeah,” Burly sighed. He indicated Atcho with a nod of his head. “He’s the guy who knows best how to catch Klaus.” He sighed. “Maybe we’ll just wait until he wakes up and sic him again.”

  No one laughed. “Sorry,” Burly murmured. “Bad joke.”

  “Hey Burly,” Atcho rasped. Startled, the three men stared. Atcho had not stirred. Sofia turned her head toward him, her eyes half-open.

  Atcho’s eyes remained closed. “Blow it out your ear.”

  Acknowledgments

  Writing thrillers full of twists and turns is not difficult—doing so against a backdrop of known historical events is much tougher. The outcome is known. To tell a rapidly paced story that entertains the reader requires detailed research and insertion of elements to raise conflict and add suspense without altering the facts of history. Surprising readers without confusing them or insulting their knowledge of history or procedure is the real art. Then there are the characters….

  I’m grateful to the Editors and Beta Readers of Fahrenheit Kuwait for their guidance with the finer points of plot and character, and for their assistance in fighting my natural inclination toward typos: Jennifer McIntyre, Stephanie Parent, John Shephard, Mark Gillespie, Rich Anderson, Paul Smit, Bonita Burroughs, Kevin Clement, Steve Collier, Jerry Warner, Christian Jackson, Anita Paulsen, Margee Harwell, Al Fracker, and friends who cannot be named.

  Target: New York

  Dedicated to the Victims of Terror

  Prologue

  Austin, Texas

  March 1991

  Klaus crashed through the bushes, searching for shelter from the epic blast that would seal his real name, Sahab Kadyrov, among those of the martyred heroes in the annals of Islam. He thrilled at the thought, although he regretted leaving this life. He found exhilarating the feel of breathing, the pulse of blood through his beating heart, and the strain of running through the forest. His life had been difficult, but he had relished much of the challenge. They’ll write songs about me in Mecca.

  He stumbled in his flight. He had lost his night goggles during the melee with Atcho, so he only saw silhouettes where occasional shafts of bright moonlight filtered below the canopy of trees. He tripped over a log. On recovering, he sensed that it might be large enough to provide at least a modicum of protection from the flash flame and searing heat of thousands of degrees that would be the least of what he could expect upon detonation.

  He had heard Atcho calling to a search party and police to seek shelter, and as he lay down alongside the log, he grinned. There will be many dead infidels tonight.

  He guessed that Atcho might have taken the suitcase bomb and tossed it over the cliffs. If that happened, Austin would be smothered in radioactive dirt from the mother of all shaped charges, and the notion of surviving behind the log would not be farfetched, although the after-effects of burns and radiation exposure were not pleasant to imagine. Either way, I’ll be a martyr.

  He looked at his watch. Should be any second. He took a deep breath and buried his face in his arms. A minute went by. Then another.

  In the distance, he heard the wail of sirens and realized that there would be no martyrdom for him this night. More minutes passed, and a new sensation emerged—burning on his left buttock. He remembered screaming when Atcho had fired his pistol and struggling to keep Atcho’s wrist from turning for an effective shot. And then Atcho had pulled the trigger.

  Klaus sat up in disgust. Obviously, the bomb had not detonated. His brother’s death would not yet be avenged. He would have no seventy-two virgins waiting, no celebrations among the faithful of Islam around the world for the mass of dead and maimed infidels in the greatest strike ever against the Great Satan. All he had to show for his efforts was a seared butt—barely a crease. Worse yet, Atcho and his wife still lived and were expecting a baby. He climbed to his feet and headed deeper into the forest.

  Atcho ignored the pain in his badly burned hand, the result of grasping a hot metallic object for too long. He faced the fighters gathered around the conference table at his corporate headquarters. They stank from their search for Klaus and his bomb along the cliffs below Atcho’s house last night.

  “We can’t wait for Klaus to surface again,” he said. “He detonated a nuclear bomb. He penetrated the United States. And he hates that I’m still alive. He’ll try again.”

  “What’s your plan?” someone asked.

  “To hunt him down.”

  1

  Buenos Aires, Argentina

  March 17, 1992

  A red Ford F-100 pickup truck with a white camper shell rolled east behind a yellow and black Ford Falcon on tree-lined Arroyo in a tranquil neighborhood, heading toward the intersection with Suipacha. The vehicle cut clos
e to the street’s edge and parked a few feet from the side entrance of the stately three-story Israeli Embassy. Its tires squealed against the curb, casting off an odor of burnt rubber.

  Across the street, those were the last sounds that Father Juan Carlos Brumana heard as he strolled in front of Mater Admirabilis Cathedral toward the adjoining children’s school. The blast of two hundred and twenty pounds of high explosives and shrapnel in the back of the pickup hurled a chunk of debris from the church, striking the priest and killing him instantly. It ripped the façade off the embassy and blew through the concrete and marble structure, sending it skyward in a cloud of dust.

  The concussive force caught the Ford, heaved it into the air, and shredded it into thousands of unrecognizable pieces that rained to the ground, along with dust and rubble, revealing a gaping emptiness that formerly housed the embassy. The building’s rear wall remained upright, still supporting sagging fragments of its corrugated roof. Remnants of the second floor spilled onto the first, bright red splotches identifying where human remains and body parts lay.

  The roar of the explosion and its aftermath gave way to moans and cries of agony. Seconds later, wailing sirens joined them as emergency vehicles rushed to the scene. Good Samaritans waded in to rescue those they could, while onlookers formed a wary half-ring at the edge of the debris field.

  Among the growing crowd, Klaus watched. He had known the time and place of the attack and had exulted on seeing the truck approach, pull alongside the ceremonial entrance, and disappear in a shock wave of dust and rubble. Now he allowed himself to be jostled aside as police moved in to clear the crowd and make way for rescue teams.

  He moved aside to watch for a few minutes and then returned to his hotel to make a call. “It’s done,” he said. “Where should I go next?”

  “Come back here,” the deep voice replied. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Two days later, Klaus climbed the wide stairs into a palatial home on the outskirts of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. It belonged to Yousef, his hawaladar, the man who moved Klaus’ money to wherever he needed it on short notice.

  “Welcome, Habibi.” Yousef greeted him with the traditional exchange of kisses on the cheeks and led him to a seating area in a courtyard amidst swaying palms and tinkling fountains. A boy brought out a brass tray with small, clear glasses and a pot of tea.

  “Tell me about the bomb in Buenos Aires,” Yousef said, tugging at his traditional white Saudi garb and settling his portly form onto an ornate couch. He tossed his head to move aside the red and white headdress.

  “Not much to tell. The operation went like clockwork. The embassy was completely destroyed. Twenty-nine people were killed, including the wives of two Israeli diplomats and two other staff members. Two hundred and forty-two were wounded. I’d call that a success. Thank you for arranging so that I could observe.”

  Yousef acknowledged his words with a slight head bow. “Let’s talk about your next active mission.”

  Klaus gestured impatiently. “I’m glad to be with Al-Qaeda, but I have my own targets. That was the deal Osama bin Laden promised. I spent most of the last year training his recruits at the camps in Sudan. I’m tired of that. I want to return to action. I have my own money and three nuclear bombs. My name is still Sahab Kadyrov, and I want to strike for Chechnya.”

  “I know.” Yousef nodded despite the slight edge to his voice. “But let’s review the deal with Al-Qaeda.” He settled his eyes directly on Klaus. “We offered to buy one of your bombs for a particular operation. The agreement included you going to our camps in Sudan to train a team there—and instructing our recruits in advanced military tactics.”

  Klaus could barely conceal his vehemence. “But that part of the bargain was so I could hand-pick and train my own team for wherever I wanted to use it—and I choose Moscow.”

  Yousef stirred with a hint of impatience. “I’m your friend. Don’t be angry with me. The Soviet Union is history, gone, voted out of existence three months ago. Detonating one of your bombs there would be a waste, and anyway, there is talk that Chechnya will declare its independence from Russia soon.”

  “Russia.” Klaus smirked. “The great northern bear will take only enough time in its cave to lick its wounds. Whoever emerges in the Kremlin as the strong man will not let Chechnya go—it’s at the center of too much economic activity that benefits Moscow. We need to strike before anyone there consolidates power.”

  Yousef took a sip of tea while watching Klaus’ face. “I understand, but a bomb in Russia would be wasted. Your goal was to destroy the Soviet Union, but it came down under its own pressure.” He reached over and nudged Klaus. “Your higher objective is to spread Islam, is that not so?”

  Klaus nodded.

  “Let Al-Qaeda help you. Only one superpower remains. After it is brought down, the way will be clear to bring shariah everywhere and mold the Chechnya of your dreams.”

  Klaus regarded Yousef skeptically. He sat up and leaned forward, and when he spoke, his voice quivered with urgency. “I want to strike for Chechnya now.”

  Yousef shot him a cryptic smile. “Think of the US nuclear weapons at our disposal. You’ll just order Russia to let Chechnya go, and it will have to comply. Can you wait nine months?”

  Klaus stared at him in annoyance. “The things I do for Islam,” he growled. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re sending you to observe another operation—actually, two of them.”

  Startled, Klaus nudged Yousef’s elbow. “Why? I know how to deliver bombs.” He shrugged. “Look, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I’m a jihadist, a son of Islam who proved his worth. I don’t have patience for small talk or touring the world. Would you please tell me what you want me to do?”

  Yousef cast a somber glance his way and then took a sip of tea. “You are certainly a worthy fighter,” he said, “but let’s face facts. You have not hit a target successfully. The coup in Moscow failed. The strike in Berlin failed. In Kuwait—”

  “I get it.” Klaus scowled. “We don’t need to go through the history, although, for the record, I was not a principal in the Moscow operation. And you forget that I captured a plutonium bomb complete with fuel, then learned how to make them and get more fuel.”

  “Granted”—Yousef nodded—“and you’re doing an excellent job with our recruits in Sudan. You bring expertise we didn’t have.” He took another sip of tea. “But that’s not your greatest value, and that’s not why you joined the jihad.”

  “Exactly.” Klaus sipped from his own small glass while gathering his thoughts and then leaned forward again. “Allah put in my hands the means to bring down infidel nations. That’s fact, not arrogance. I must live up to the faith bestowed on me.”

  “I understand and agree.” Yousef spoke quietly, firmly. “On the other hand, victory has not yet been yours. We want to determine why. When you strike again, you must succeed.”

  Klaus leaned back into the couch. “Is Al-Qaeda doubting me?” His eyes burned with frustration.

  Yousef waved his hands in a declining motion, then grasped Kraus’ elbow. “Not at all. We’re trying to help you, and by helping you, we help Islam.” He pursed his lips in thought. “What do you think caused your missions to fail?”

  Klaus grimaced. “That’s easy. Atcho interfered.”

  Yousef studied Klaus. “He’s not a superman. Resourceful, yes. Tenacious, absolutely. But he has no more ability to move about this planet and affect things than you do. He is a private citizen?” He waited for Klaus’ nod. “Then how has Atcho managed to be out front each time? If we can determine that, we can limit your exposure so that you reach the target undetected. Does that make sense?”

  Reluctantly, Klaus nodded, though his irritation was still evident. “But why did you have me travel all the way to Buenos Aires? That was a Hezbollah operation, and we’re Sunni.”

  Yousef’s bulky stomach jiggled under his robes as he chuckled. He shook Klaus’ shoulder. “Patience, my brother. We
won’t win our jihad in a day. Hezbollah is not our friend, but it is the enemy of our enemy and will help us destroy the infidel. When that is done, we can settle disputes among Muslims. Meanwhile, Hezbollah will sell us their experience, and they have fought the Jews and their allies for a long time.”

  Klaus’ head jerked up. “You don’t call them filthy Jews and godless infidels?”

  “Filthy Jews, then, but I don’t like to be redundant or get off subject. The point is, we sent you to observe the bombing in Buenos Aires so you could see the operation’s successes and failures. We thought maybe you could offer advice or learn something useful from it.”

  “What’s to learn? A guy drives up in a truck and pushes a button.”

  Yousef frowned. “You’re making my point. Planning and executing a mission like that is not so easy. The bombing was revenge for the assassination of Hezbollah Secretary General Sayed Abbas al-Musawi in southern Lebanon by the Israelis back in February. In only a month, Hezbollah conceived, planned, and executed.

  “You saw how careful the team was in the South American Tri-Border Region. Hezbollah already has a significant presence there. They have men, equipment, money—they can obtain anything and move it with ease. They knew the embassy’s location and the traffic patterns. To this day, the authorities don’t know if the driver escaped or was blown up.” Yousef paused momentarily, cocking his head to one side. “Let me ask the question again. How did Atcho get ahead of you each time?”

  Klaus shook his head. “He’s smart, I’ll give him that.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that he and his wife were connected to the CIA?”

  Klaus nodded.

  “Then he had an organization behind him with intelligence capabilities that extended into the army and the FBI. That’s why you can’t act like a lone wolf. He stopped you in Berlin, Kuwait, and Texas. Walk me through each. We need to figure out how he anticipated your moves.”