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

by Mosimann, James E.

  Erik made his decision. He had to convince the workers that the increased workload was essential to achieve a deadline that he could not adequately explain. He calculated that double shifts (16 hours on, 8 off) were needed for all workers for the two days to convert the sprinkler tanks on time. He drew up the new schedule and called everyone together.

  The meeting started badly with angry shouts and gestures.

  But Erik understood his men.

  He explained to the workers that their hourly rate would be doubled, which would result in quadrupled earnings because there would be 16, not 8, hours each day. And afterwards there would be no layoffs. After completion, their normal hours and pay would resume.

  The assembly quieted. Many nodded their heads in assent. while others appeared thoughtful, adding up their earnings.

  Erik climbed onto a stack of wooden loading pallets. From this height he spoke to their higher nature.

  “Guys, I have had many different projects.”

  He scanned the group. engaging each man’s eyes in turn.

  “And worked with different groups, but you guys are the only ones I would ask to make this sacrifice!”

  He paused. Positive murmurs rose above the whir of the ventilator fans. Erik’s voice rose in turn to surmount the noise.

  “Anyone else would quit, saying that what I ask is impossible, but not you. For you, the ‘impossible’ is a challenge, difficult, but nothing more.”

  The murmur of affirmation became widespread. Erik drew strength from it.

  “You inspire me. You give me confidence. Together we will succeed.”

  A pause.

  “You will succeed!”

  Another pause, then a shout.

  “Now let’s get to work!”

  ***

  Erik watched the workers quit the assembly. The exit was orderly.

  He discerned no hostility in anyone’s manner. Some, in small groups, talked with excited gestures. Others smiled at their neighbors with assurance.

  He stepped down from the pallets. His knees buckled and he staggered.

  His hand shook. The quivering would not stop.

  Back in the corner office in the warehouse, he swallowed and gulped short breaths.

  He thought of his meeting at the IHOP. Fear and relief mixed to flow through him.

  Thank God for my workers. They saved my butt.

  He wiped the perspiration from his brow onto his sleeve and let out a deep sigh.

  That Hrubec would have killed me.

  ***

  Josef Hrubec sat in the booth at the IHOP in Warrenton, Virginia. He lifted his cup to his lips. Damned weak American coffee. Just like the flabby Americans themselves.

  He thought of the “masses,” he had “rehabilitated” at Bartolomejska Street. They had seen (after some persuasion) the truth that they had been duped en masse by greedy Capitalist overlords who sucked all life out of a society.

  But the ignorant American masses wallowed in their system. They were bought and paid for by television sets or large cars, at the cost of losing all ability to think!

  In the midst of these thoughts a young family - a mother, father, two girls, and a boy - took the table near his booth.

  Hrubec studied their faces. The children appeared happy, and their eyes reflected (he had to admit) intelligence and curiosity.

  The youngest was handed a kid’s menu. She applied herself immediately to some sort of puzzle for which her father offered advice and comments. The mother was engaged in a serious conversation with the older girl.

  The boy, a teenager, was trim and physically fit, obviously into sports. When his order arrived, he attacked his eggs and pancakes with gusto. He only looked up when another teen ager, a girl, passed near his table.

  Hrubec snorted. Even the U. S. society, bad as it was, could admit a few exceptions. He ignored the family and returned to his coffee.

  A waitress refilled his carafe and went on her way.

  So the damned coffee is weak, at least I can have all I want. Immediately, Hrubec pushed that sentimental thought out and repeated, It’s too damned weak! Any affirmation of this culture was a sign of decay in his thinking.

  In the midst of his socialist reverie, a woman with red hair entered the restaurant. She was dressed in jeans and a loose sweatshirt. The hostess guided her to a booth in a another section.

  Hrubec liked her bearing. She definitely was what the Americans would call “Sexy.” He returned to his coffee, but something about the woman’s face disturbed him.

  What?

  All came clear moments later when her partner came and sat across from her.

  Of course, Hrubec knew the woman from the photo in his wallet. The redhead was “Dr. Ryan.”

  As for the man, he was the last person Hrubec wanted to see anywhere near Warrenton.

  His enemy, Bill Hamm!

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 37

  Wednesday, December 1

  Back at his clinic in Chicago, Dr. Peter Zeleny, doubled his normal office hours. His absence had taken a toll on his practice. His colleagues had covered well for him, but Peter felt personally responsible for his patients.

  Peter worked hard through the morning. Now it was lunch hour. He sat at his desk and studied the chart of his next patient while chewing on a ham sandwich. His phone buzzed.

  “Dr. Zeleny, a Miss Simek is on line two.”

  Peter punched the button, and spoke.

  “Anne, are we still on for tonight?”

  “Of course, but we might have a problem with my father.”

  “Have you told him about me? ... About us?”

  “Not really, I mean he doesn’t know about you, but I told him about your father dying.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. I mean he said ‘Jan’ several times. Then he sat in his Lazy Boy and stared. Not a word, just sat and rocked back and forth. He didn’t seem to know I was there. And I worry about his heart.”

  “Anne, you must tell him about us. He loves you. He’ll understand.”

  Anne recalled her father’s bulging eyes and ash-purple face when she had shown him Peter’s picture in the Chicago newspaper. She was not sure that her father would understand.

  “I’ll talk to him, tomorrow.”

  The possible rejection by Anne’s father darkened Peter’s mood. He did not want to lose her to the past or her father. Moreover, the longer they waited to tell him, the more likely that any rift between Peter and Havel would devastate her.

  “No Anne. We shouldn’t wait. We can tell him tonight. I’ll pick you up at the house. I’ll talk to him and we’ll go out to eat afterwards. Will you agree to that?”

  “I guess so. If you think that’s right.”

  “It is and I love you.”

  Anne’s voice was a whisper.

  “And I love you Peter. I do.”

  “Good. I’ll see you up at the house.”

  Anne put down the phone. She was not sure about this.

  ***

  At the IHOP in Warrenton, Virginia, Josef Hrubec sat in his booth. A copy of the Washington Post afforded him ample cover from behind which he watched Bill Hamm and his attractive partner.

  They had finished their pancakes and eggs. Now the two were engaged in animated conversation, one filled with smiles and punctuated by laughter from both sides.

  Hrubec knew that Hamm had just arrived from Europe. He surmised that the couple had been apart for some time. He saw the joy that arose in each of them, as anxieties and imagined fears were replaced by confirmed affection, and yes, even Hrubec could admit it, love.

  Hrubec was pleased. He would use the woman to strike Hamm a lethal blow!

  And his reinforcements from North Carolina were less than an hour away.

  When Hamm’s back was fully turned, Hrubec rose from his booth and slipped out of the restaurant. He muttered.

  “All right Hamm, so you know about the fire equipment plant. This
time I’m ready.”

  ***

  Back at the plant, Hrubec entered the warehouse and strode to Erik Holub’s corner office. Hrubec studied the revised schedule and tossed it on the desk. He frowned.

  “Hamm is in Warrenton. He must suspect you and this plant.”

  Erik blanched.

  “Then there’s no time to finish the containers. I’ll tell the men to stop and move another project on the floor. We’ll delay the shipment.”

  Hrubec gripped Erik’s arm.

  “You will not. You must finish. Hamm cannot act yet. All he has is suspicions. If he had proof, the FBI would be here now. First, Hamm will check you out, sometime today. He’ll need probable cause for a search and then he’ll have to notify the FBI, so that they can organize it. And they’ll have to get a warrant. The Americans are slow about such things.

  He released Erik’s arm.

  “Control yourself. You have, maybe, two days. Push your men harder. Leave the rest to me.”

  Erik stared in disbelief. Hrubec continued.

  “Hamm won’t live to tell the FBI what he finds.”

  The office phone rang. Erik listened and turned to Hrubec.

  “Your security men are here from North Carolina. There’s a construction trailer to the right as you leave the loading dock. They’re waiting for you there.”

  “Good.”

  Hrubec had one last instruction.

  “Hamm’s driving a blue Accord. This is the license plate. This is a photo of the woman with him. Her name is Ryan. Don’t be fooled by her looks. She’s sharp. Stay alert.”

  He went on.

  “They won’t get by me, but if they get by one of my men, you know how to signal me. Just push the button.

  Hrubec held out a small device that featured a single red button. His dark eyes read the fear in Erik’s.

  “Stand up. Be a man. Now go make sure everyone is busy.”

  Erik turned and left Hrubec in the office.

  The farther away he was from Hrubec, the better.

  ***

  At the Warrenton IHOP, Bill Hamm was filled with coffee, pancakes and joy. This time with Jeannine had revived him.

  He and Jeannine were back on track.

  He stood to leave, but Jeannine’s face grew serious. Bill paused. What did I do now?

  “Sit down a minute, Bill.”

  He sat.

  “Do you see that booth over there?

  Bill turned to look. It was in the far corner of the restaurant.

  “There was a man there. He was watching you from behind his newspaper.”

  Bill smiled.

  “Maybe he was watching you? Guys like to look at you.”

  “Get serious, Bill. This guy waited until he knew you were occupied. Then he left.”

  She smiled and touched his hand.

  “Maybe you didn’t notice him because you were looking at me, thanks. But he left in a hurry by that aisle furthest from us. He did not want you to spot him. When he was outside, he looked at our car. I think he memorized the license plate.”

  “Are you sure you’re not imagining things?”

  “I snapped a picture of him through the window.”

  Jeannine handed him her cell phone.

  Bill studied the image, but the face was obscured. He reached into his wallet and put a clean photo on the table.

  “Is this the man you saw, short but stocky?”

  Jeannine nodded.

  “That’s him. Where did you get that picture?

  “From the files in the Vienna office. Damn. I should have spotted him. His name is Josef Hrubec. He’s bad news. Now that he knows I’m here he’ll be waiting for me. This confirms your suspicions about this fire equipment plant.”

  He frowned.

  “We have to leave now, but you need to be safe. You need to go back to Maryland while I check out the plant.”

  He helped her out the booth.

  They left.

  ***

  The W&C Fire Equipment Company of Warrenton, Virginia, was accessible by two roads.

  The first was a paved two-lane road that left Lee Highway and dead-ended at a gated entrance to the plant and warehouse area. A high wire fence, topped with coils of razor wire, surrounded all buildings of the complex. Eighteen wheelers and smaller trucks used this road to carry supplies and remove finished goods.

  The second had not been used recently. It was an unpaved overgrown and rutted “ATV trail” that wound south through abandoned farmland to a narrow road off of Highway 17.

  Along that trail, old fields with dense clusters of junipers alternated with wooded tracts of thin Virginia Pines surrounded by vigorous hardwoods that crowded out the dying evergreens.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when Jeannine Ryan and Bill Hamm drove south on Highway 17 past Warrenton. An old billboard marked their turn. A short distance away a red F250 pickup had parked. Its tailgate was down and heavy planks provided a ramp to the ground. At the foot of the makeshift ramp, Jim Harrigan stood next to a mud-splattered All Terrain Vehicle.

  Bill got out of the Accord. Jeannine turned the car about, waved to Jim, and drove off.

  Bill spoke.

  “Jim, you got the ATV, good.”

  “Here it is. It’s full of gas, and there’s an extra tank strapped to the side. The rental guys wanted to hose it down, but I said not to worry. Where is Jeannine going?”

  “She’s going to Hertz in Gainesville. Josef Hrubec has the Accord’s license number. She’ll swap it for another rental, and head back to Maryland.”

  “Will she be safe?”

  “She should be OK in Rockville at the Best Western with Aileen. No one has found them there yet.”

  “Why not send her to the safe house?”

  “The damned CIA won’t let me. No clearance.”

  “What’s next, Bill. You said Hrubec is expecting you, I’d better come with you.”

  “No, but thanks. Hrubec will never see me. I don’t need to get inside the plant. I have night-vision glasses. Besides, you’re my exit strategy. There’s a shack one mile down the road. Park your truck there. Wait for me there, ready to load this thing.”

  He patted the fender of the ATV and continued.

  “Coming back it will be dark. I’ll leave the trail and cut through the old fields to that shack. The ATV can weave through the junipers. Anyone chasing me, even with 4-wheel drive, won’t make it through them. We’ll load her up and go.”

  “But you still need backup.”

  “You’re it, Jim. Don’t worry.”

  Without further words, Bill mounted the ATV and drove onto the overgrown trail towards the plant. A moment later, he was lost in the twilight.

  Jim loaded the planks into the pickup and drove to the old shack.

  ***

  Jeannine knew that Hrubec had the license plate of the Accord, so she returned it to a Hertz office in Gainesville, Virginia. There she picked up a blue Ford Fiesta.

  But she did not head for Maryland. She would spend the night in Gainesville, closer to Bill. The nearby Hampton Inn was inviting.

  She took a comfortable room and settled in to await a call from Bill.

  ***

  ******

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday, December 1

  At the Simek home in Chicago, the sound of the TV echoed through the hallway. Anne peered into the den. Her father, Havel, eyes shut, mouth open, dozed in his comfortable chair. The large-screen television blared from the opposite wall.

  She slipped into the room and turned the sound lower. Havel did not move. His breathing remained deep and regular.

  She was concerned. Her father had eaten little that evening and he needed rest. But there was nothing she could do. He was determined to watch the basketball game. The game would start in about an hour.

  Tonight’s contest was important. His team, the Chicago Bulls were to play their division rivals, the Detroit Pistons. How he had become a fan of American baske
tball, she did not know, but he never missed a game. He spent his evenings in that chair.

  Anne did not wake him.

  Tonight she had reason to leave him be. Peter would arrive shortly, and she could protest to him that her father not be disturbed. The meeting she dreaded would be delayed until they returned from the restaurant.

  She looked at her watch. It was time to freshen up before Peter came.

  ***

  Peter waited in the hall while Anne put on her coat. She took his arm. They shut the door after them.

  Havel slept in front of the television. The sound of the front door closing entered his subconscious.

  The dream always started the same way. A door that opened and shut. A room with a garish pink ceiling under which ran exposed pipes. Lights that blinded and a voice, it had to be his own, that repeated over and over.

  “Nevim, Nevim, Nevim nic. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know anything.’”

  And then the blows, many to the kidneys, to the shoulders, the repeated shrieks of pain, his shrieks, always followed by a welcome blackness that undulated to nothing, to an empty nothingness. Nothing at all.

  At this point in the dream, half awake, Havel always wiped a wet forehead and loosened his sweat-drenched collar before drifting into darkness through which a voice cursed and pleaded. It was the voice of Johan Zeleny, his “friend,” Jan.

  “Tell him, Havel! Tell him. For God’s sake, tell him.”

  But what? Tell who what?

  More blows to the back, pain, pain, pain, followed by darkness.

  Then that final voice. Rasping tones that Havel did not recognize, barely human and surely evil. The voice of the unknown man who was the source of all Havel’s suffering.

  At this point, as always, he would awake, arms clasped, body shaking.

  Tonight was no exception. He stared blankly at his ceiling. It was white.