by TR Kenneth
“By the way, Henry,” Portier said, “I’ve a project for you in DC. I want you to head there ASAP, and stay there while I arrange everything.”
Sadler couldn’t have looked more willing and able. “You know Potomac’s the only place I want to be.”
Portier seemed to smirk beneath all the gray lines of illness. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
“We’ve been looking at all the private Bombardiers being flown out of Germany and Switzerland. There’s nothing so far,” Duffy informed the admiral.
“How many have been altered?” the admiral asked.
“Pretty much all of them. They’re intercontinental business jets. Nothing but money to customize them.”
“What you’re looking for is an altered Bombardier making a trip to Moscow, is that it?” Stag asked.
“Exactly,” the admiral said. “But there are lots of trips to Moscow by private plane each day. We won’t have much time to act between the discovery of the nexus of the altered plane and the flight plan. We’re very worried it might take off before we can stop it.” He paused. “Once it’s airborne, I don’t have to tell you we have the ability to shoot it down. But it will make an environmental mess of horrific proportions.”
Duffy rubbed at the weariness on his face. “We’re standing by in real time, waiting for whatever information the numbers station can convey. We have to balance our agent’s ability to stay alive long enough to release the information with the delay of it getting to us. Very frustrating.”
“Why can’t they just shut down all airports till we get our hands on this thing?” Stag asked.
“We have medivac planes, planes carrying vital medicines and organs, not to mention a complete business shutdown. All based on what? The idea that someone might—might—have gotten a nuclear device? Preposterous. Particularly since any shutdown would be blocked at the highest levels of the government, as we know now.”
It was Stag’s turn to rub his weary face. “The waiting is excruciating.”
“Yes,” Duffy agreed. “But think of the poor fools in the path of this monster. Just going about their day.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
INSIDE TEUFELSBERG, THE news stared at Stag from headlines of the day’s Berliner Zeitung:
Employee of high-end building found dead atop Quadriga.
Attack of the Vikings?
Numbly Stag picked up the abandoned paper left in the coffee room outside the SCIF and read about Einhar Kronbauer’s gruesome death. To others, it seemed like a sick joke. To Stag, it bore all the trademarks of a Tarnhelm hit.
Kronbauer must have been taken from his workplace. Escaping detection from the cameras of the Dresdenhof and the Pariserplatz, he’d been tied to one of the Quadriga horses and murdered. His back was cut open, and while still alive, his attackers had pulled out his lungs to lie like angel wings, paralleling the wings of the chariot driver behind him, the figure of Eirene, the goddess of peace.
Parallels aside, it was not hard to see the Tarnhelm footprint. Pulling the lungs out and laying them on the victim’s back like wings was a Viking mode of death.
It was called the Blood Eagle.
He shoved the newspaper aside and resisted the impulse to beat his fists against the concrete wall till they bled.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
THE GAZEBO WAS built at the end of a dock that jutted from Eisschloss out into Lake Zug. Portier liked to take cocktails there but, it was still too cold to do that. Now he was on the phone, an encrypted and secure line used only by him. While he spoke, Angelika played quietly with Genevieve who was making a big deal of putting on “lipstick” from a plastic toy shaped like a lipstick. The child’s purse was emptied of its toy contents: a pink plastic Hello Kitty cell phone, matching plastic key and key chain, a comb shaped like a bow.
“Shall we feed the swans?” Angelika asked, grabbing a roll from the tea tray.
Genevieve was eager to go along.
“Aren’t you going to take your purse?” Angelika asked with a smile.
Responsibly, Genevieve picked up all her purse’s contents and placed them in her plastic Hello Kitty purse.
“The second it leaves ‘O,’ I want to know.” Portier hung up. His assistant placed documents in from of him, diverting his attention.
‘O’ was Oberpfaffenhofen. An educated guess on Angelika’s part, but the airport was private and near Munich. Convenient when one was transporting a bomb from the Königssee.
“I’m ready,” Genevieve announced rather imperiously.
“You sure? You didn’t forget anything?”
The little girl clutched the pink plastic purse now bulging with her accessories. She ran ahead, the purse flapping on her arm.
Angelika nodded to Portier who acknowledged her with a glance.
When they got to the gazebo, they lounged on the cushioned chairs. Angelika enticed the swans with pieces of a roll. Genevieve laughed with delight as more of them arrived by wing, spraying them with icy droplets.
She handed the roll to Genevieve and took the chair farthest away from the lake. Beneath the gazebo, satellite surveillance was impossible. While she had no doubt there were at least two boats training cameras on them, there was no way to see what she was up to behind Genevieve’s chair.
She watched her daughter and laughed, all the while stealthily pulling out the Hello Kitty phone. Built into it was all the circuitry of a real phone, but because it had to pass the weight test as a useless child’s plastic toy, it had an extremely limited battery. She had just enough power to get out a last text.
Taking a paperclip from her pocket, she stuck the end into a tiny hole in the toy phone. Nothing indicated it was turned on but a very faint vibration.
Watching her daughter while typing the encrypted message onto the phone’s big purple keypad, she laughed and played the doting mother, all the while sending out the word Oberpfaffenhofen over and over again to the numbers station that would signal Duffy.
“Mama! Come here! A black one!” Genevieve pointed to the group that had gathered at the end of the dock. Angelika slid the toy phone back in the toy purse. There was no need to turn it off. It was dead. The battery had little more use. Her desperation with this last message had surely drained it.
Now it was indeed a useless child’s plaything.
In the NATO helicopter, Duffy barked into the phone while Stag clutched and unclutched the armrests. They were tearing across the 57 kilometers from Munich Airport to Oberpfaffenhofen. Intelligence on the ground had a flight scheduled to depart for Moscow in fifteen minutes with a parts payload that could serve cover as their bomb. All the paperwork was filed. Everything was completely good to go. The thought of it made his stomach lurch more than the helicopter ride.
“We need to see that flight plan,” the admiral shouted into his headpiece.
In seconds, it was forwarded. He stared down at his device and pointed to Duffy how the flight path deviated slightly to put it over Barvikha on its approach.
Duffy’s phone binged incessantly. He looked at it. “They say the co-pilot just emailed the flight plan to an IP address in Zurich.”
“Portier’s going to let the Russians know exactly who was behind this.” The admiral released an extraordinary string of epithets. “We’ve got to hope like hell this intelligence isn’t wrong. Who knows what the fuck the Russians will do if they think the US is behind this? Washington will be Hiroshima.”
The helicopter landed. Behind it were four more. Several private jets were in the sky, having already taken off. A string of others awaited their turn.
“Which one is it?” the admiral barked.
“I think the Global 7000 is that one there,” Duffy answered.
“We’ve got a NATO threat on the Global 7000 here on the tarmac,” the admiral screamed into his headgear. “Tell the tower to take it back to the hangar. Now.”
By now, several Oberpfaffenhofen airport security cars, lights flashing, sirens wailing, were racing up to them.
On the tarmac, the next plane in the queue went to the end of the runway. The Global 7000 was next.
Airport security jumped from their vehicles and ran toward the group of helicopters descending. Their faces were white. Clearly, they’d never experienced such an assault on their little airport before.
“Get that plane back to the hangar. On orders of NATO,” the admiral boomed across the tarmac, gesturing wildly at the Global 7000.
Frantically the security men shouted into their radios, trying to gain insight into what was happening.
In the distance, the plane ahead took off, leaving the runway clear for the Global 7000.
“Goddamnit.” The admiral watched as the plane moved to the end of the runway.
“Sir?” the helicopter pilot queried.
The admiral nodded.
Without warning, they were airborne again, rocking furiously until the pilot set the helicopter down between the runway and the Global 7000.
Chaos erupted on the radio as the tower began having to deal with all the planes in the queue behind it.
“Pull it to the hangar!” the admiral shouted into his headset like a rabid dog.
Airport security chased them out to the tarmac. The Global 7000 didn’t move. Other NATO helicopters set down behind it. A show of force.
Suddenly, without warning, the Global 7000 jerked right onto the grass next to the tarmac. It made another hard turn and, skirting the helicopter, rolled back onto the runway, gaining speed with every spin of the wheels.
“Go!” the admiral bellowed.
Stag fought the G-force as their helicopter took off and flew overhead of the speeding airplane. In the tilt-a-hurl, Stag was only vaguely aware that the other NATO helicopters were swooping in on the plane also, each like a small black cricket trying to take down a grasshopper. After they reached maximum forward speed, Stag looked down at the plane below them, screaming to get airborne.
“Land this motherfucker! Do it! Now!” the admiral shouted to the pilot.
Inching away from the plane, the helicopter sped to the end of the runway and planted like an Olympiad coming off the double bar.
Stag shut his eyes at the roaring plane bulleting toward them. He wasn’t a genius at math, but with momentum and forward speed, he saw no room to stop the plane before it hit them. His every nerve was on fire.
A scream of burning tires added to the cacophony of helicopter blades and screaming men. Its flaps up, the plane tried to turn away, but it was too late. The plane spun around and around but the forward momentum couldn’t be stopped. The Bombardier careened toward their helicopter like a spinning top of annihilation, carrying the prescient doom of fuel and sparking metal.
In a split second, the pilot threw the helicopter into violent ascent. Stag slammed against his harness and they were airborne, the helicopter’s rotors clawing at the air to get away. With barely inches to spare, the plane passed beneath them, skidding far into the grass next to the runaway. The helicopter lurched in the gale of wind as the Bombardier passed below.
Like a swarming bunch of predators, the NATO helicopters one by one landed next to the sliding plane, hopping around it until it finally came to a dead halt.
Sirens filled the air as fire trucks and police began streaming down the runway toward them. Stag looked over and Duffy was wearing his lunch all over the front of his suit. It had been a wild ride. Duffy lamely patted at himself with a handkerchief.
Stag barely could keep his own lunch down.
“Fuck,” was all he could whisper.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
WHEN STAG FINALLY had the consciousness to look around him again, they were drowning in a sea of police and fire vehicles. Two more NATO helicopters had arrived. All were focused on the plane.
But there was nothing. No movement, no opening doors, no white flag nor waving gun from the cockpit.
While the admiral was consumed by shouting into his radio, Duffy unlatched his safety harness and walked to the front of the helicopter to stare at the plane.
After a long assessment, Duffy said, “Admiral, I believe it’s safe to open the plane door. You’ll have to blow it open, I’m afraid.”
The admiral put down the cockpit radio. “You know, I’m not looking forward to using explosives on that particular plane.”
Duffy sighed. “Very prudent, but a controlled explosion is necessary. My guess is Portier used his Muscle Men for this flight. Just for this very scenario.”
The admiral gave him a long, pointed stare. Then, as if accepting Duffy’s logic, he barked into the radio, “Blow the door.”
Duffy went back and sat down. Stag looked at the plane. They were so close they could see the rivets in the tailpiece.
“I sure as hell hope those pilots don’t do anything stupid. If the bomb’s aboard, they can always make the case they were duped as to the payload.” Stag’s fingers dug into the already worn-out armrests.
“It’s Tarnhelm. They won’t be coming out.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because they have their own army. The muselmänner.”
“Muslims?” Stag asked, interpreting the German.
“No. The term goes back to Auschwitz. The muselmann was the walking dead; those concentration camp inmates too skeletal, too sick to keep living, though beaten and compelled to walk till they expired on their feet. They were referred to as Muslims because of the way they would fall to their knees and crash forward as they died. Gallows humor. Portier employs an army of them.”
“I’m still not getting it—you mean those guys in the plane—”
“They are dead. Suicide. Probably the old reliable cyanide capsule. Portier acquires his ‘army’ by buying off the terminally ill to go on suicide missions. He calls them his Muscle Men. It’s his little Auschwitz joke, you see?”
Stag sat back, absorbing this new information. Every time he thought he understood this modern SD, he was thrown another curve. Another jacked-up, fucked-up, twisted, revolting curve.
Outside, the explosives unit drew back from the plane door. They ducked and covered, and with a loud boom, the plane door was open.
Duffy watched as the first men entered the plane, automatic weapons full bore. It didn’t take long to assess.
The admiral listened on his headset.
He pulled it off and looked at Duffy. “Muscle Men. As we suspected. All four are dead.” He looked at Stag. With unnecessary formality, he said, “Mr. Maguire. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me into that plane to identify the weapon?”
Portier stared down at the screen. He was better that evening. After his interferon treatment, he’d dressed in a suit and asked Angelika to meet him for dinner. She had a particularly beautiful black dress. The silk had “shattered” with random shredding that was unique to aging silk. But this dress had shattered in the most exquisite manner. Vintage Mainbocher, he thought. Really sublime. He’d requested she wear it and ordered his best bottle of Krug from the cellar.
All was looking up. Until the notice that the plane had been stopped.
It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t the fear of being caught. Of that, he was certain there was no risk. The legal churning of an accusation like that would take years to resolve itself. It would take more time than he had. So no worries.
But now, Sadler was relaxing in his Potomac estate, master of all he surveyed. The chaos he’d so deserved was held in check. Washington continued its slog through the swamp undeterred.
The news took the charm out of the day.
And that irritating flea, Maguire, was still underground and claiming there were two bombs.
His fuckery had unraveled into even more fuckery.
But Luc Portier was alive and feeling better. Perhaps the interferon was the magic bullet he needed. Perhaps it was just another sign that he had more to do, and now more days to do it.
A knock came at the door. Angelika was there, just as he imagined her, his own special beauty, gowned in b
lack silk rags.
He raised a champagne glass. “To a wonderful evening, my dear.”
He tried to imagine she looked pleased.
CHAPTER SIXTY
STAG WAS READY to go to Bali. When he finally dragged himself back to the apartment in the Sony Center, he checked his messages. There it was. Yes, indeed. Portier, Sadler, Rikhardsson, and Zellner were willing to buy first-class tickets on the Bali Singapore Airlines flight. Once in the sky, he would get his final payment, and cut a deal for the “second” bomb, assuring them of his secret knowledge with the pictures comparing the Todesrunes.
“Portier has said he will be there. With his prostate problems, I don’t think I should delay,” Stag told Duffy when he met him for coffee the next morning.
“I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this is—your having discussions with him. Let’s not kid ourselves. You’re poking the beast. We haven’t been able to trace a goddamned thing about this bomb back to Tarnhelm except for what you’ve told us. They’ll be happy to see you gone.”
Stag nodded. “I’ve made plans. I want to finish what I started.”
“All to write a series of articles that NATO will probably ban you from publishing?”
“I have my own grudge.”
Duffy rubbed his jaw. “Is there anything we can do?”
Stag studied him. Finally, he said, “No, but I think there’s something I can do for you.”
Portier looked down at the confidential report sent by courier. There it was in black and white, a full dossier of who was involved in Tarnhelm’s fail at Oberpfaffenhofen: NATO. Interpol. Maguire.
He crumpled the news and watched it burn. Deep inside he felt only a mild antipathy. Certainly, he had nothing to fear. Tracing any of the mess back to Tarnhelm would be near impossible with the Muscle Men involved. Plus, once the bomb was in NATO hands, it would be disassembled and rendered neutral. No surprises waking up to find he was breathing the fallout from Munich or Prague.
Of course, Tarnhelm would have to repay the money. But there was always more money. What there wasn’t was more time. Tick tock. Tick tock. It was driving him mad.