Collision of Evil (18 page)

Mohammed al-Assad had drawn the compact Walther pistol from his waistband and slipped off the safety, placing a finger carefully inside the trigger guard. Sayyid was behind him, a large, serrated-blade
kitchen knife gripped in his fist. Soundlessly, Mohammed eased open the door to the storage area, just sufficient to permit a view into the room.

He saw a man. Mohammed noted with satisfaction that he was facing the intruder’s back. The man swayed slightly as he replaced the fallen boxes, clearly oblivious to the presence of others. Al-Assad’s mind assessed the situation. The uninvited visitor was no police official. Even at a distance it was evident that his thick hair was matted and uncombed, betraying the greasy veneer of the long-term unwashed. The man appeared to be in his fifties and was dressed in a shapeless, stained cotton long coat torn at the collar and missing some buttons.

Al-Assad nodded in comprehension. A common drunk. The type of inveterate alcoholic to be found throughout Germany, al-Assad reflected with a shiver of disgust at life in the Western world. He knew the type, had sometimes been forced to serve them a Doener kebab at his shop when they showed up with a handful of smeared euros. Al-Assad judged that he was observing a homeless drinker who had broken into the warehouse for some fitful sleep before another foray with the bottle.

But there would be no future foray, al-Assad knew. The drunkard might decide to explore farther in the warehouse and discover them. That could not be permitted. With this type of human flotsam it was unlikely that a missing person notice would even be filed.

Al-Assad signaled his partner to hold the door open as he silently approached the distracted man from behind. From a step away and with adrenalin-driven force he slammed the metal stock of his pistol into the back of the man’s head, feeling the shivering connection of metal with bone.

Andreas Niedermeier dropped wordlessly to his knees, which cracked loudly against the concrete. He lurched forward full on his face, once again upsetting the boxes he had moments ago so carefully arranged.

Al-Assad turned and signaled his compatriot to enter the room. Sayyid, kitchen knife at the ready, stood above Niedermeier’s pros
trate form and pushed at it roughly with his foot. There was no response. “He’s dead. Now what?”

Al-Assad had already worked it out like a mathematical problem. “I’ll tell the others what happened and clarify that there is nothing to be concerned about.”

Al-Assad noted uncertainty in his comrade’s eyes. “Don’t worry, brother, this changes nothing. For him maybe,” he wagged his chin at Niedermeier, “but not for us. We just have to do some cleanup work.”

“Cleanup work?” Al-Assad noted the slight tremor in Sayyid’s voice.

“Yes, Sayyid. You have a knife, and we’ll put it to good use. Slaughter him as infidels should be slaughtered, in the manner that Al-Zarqawi, peace be upon him, slaughtered many of our enemies. Then pack him up and toss his filthy remains into the empty freezer at the other end of the building.”

Sayyid nodded and tugged at his beard. He seemed uneasy, but al-Assad decided that such a reaction to an unexpected situation was permissible.

“The manner of al-Zarqawi. You mean the head?”

“Yes. A proper slaughter; cut off his filthy, canine head. If he’s still alive, he won’t be when you’ve finished. If his neck sprays, it means he’s still pumping blood. When everything is done, find some garbage bags and fit him into the freezer. Make him fit, I don’t care how. When you’re done, we can get back to our work.”

He stopped and considered. “It’s almost like this is a message for us. To demonstrate that we live surrounded by danger but are nonetheless protected. This worthless type could have discovered us and reported us to the police. But that was not permitted to happen. What you will do to him now is ordained. Rejoice, Sayyid, rejoice, and send him off to hell.”

Sayyid nodded firmly, with renewed determination in his eyes.

After al-Assad left the storage room, he grabbed a handful of Niedermeier’s greasy hair and pulled the man’s head back, exposing the neck. Niedermeier’s features were slack, eyes closed. The man
was either dead already or unconscious and uncomprehending of what was about to happen. Sayyid placed the metal blade along the curve of neck, directly against a visible artery. He began to carve at the flesh as he would at a thick piece of meat. Immediately a spray of blood shot forth like a geyser followed by a strong convulsion of Niedermeier’s torso. Sayyid kept working the blade the way he had studied in Internet videos of al-Zarqawi in Iraq.

Niedermeier made no sound other than a wheezing rush of air from his windpipe as it was severed. A moment later the head of the alcoholic had been separated from the body and Sayyid lifted it triumphantly like a trophy. He let the knife fall from his grip, the blade a thick, viscous blanket of red, flecked with dangling pieces of tissue.

“
Allah Akbar
,” he cried out, as the severed head secreted thick streams of dark blood onto the bare concrete floor.

The trace results had been assembled into a cable classified “secret” and sent to Caroline O’Kendell for transmission overseas. Since the contents were intended to be shared with German authorities, the details in the message were presented in a manner to protect the sources of the information.

Caroline read the cable one last time, one hand absently toying with the collar of her business suit. She found the substance of the message troubling. It was five p.m. by the time she had edited the cable into final shape. The radio on her desk announced that afternoon rush hour traffic was building on the beltway. The sky was slate gray and rain was expected, guaranteed to make the traffic worse.

After a final review of the text, Caroline clicked the “release” box on the cable template that sent the message across the building to the communications center where it would be encrypted and transmitted in unbreakable form to a CIA facility in Vienna. Given the time difference, Caroline knew—it was now eleven p.m. in Vienna—there would be no one present at this hour to read the message. The CIA cable would be automatically decrypted and sit in the Vienna inbox, waiting for the case officer named Andrew when he arrived the following morning.

At seven in the evening August Sedlmeyer sat on a wrought-iron park bench and thought of something he had not recalled in decades. The thought had come unsummoned, as thoughts seemed to do increasingly as he aged. Perhaps, he mused, it had to do with not having many opportunities for conversation. Most of his friends
had died in the last several years; those who had survived the war. It seemed as if the last years had been one long marathon funeral attendance. The ranks of the living known to him diminished relentlessly.

Sedlmeyer understood that he had outlived not only his companions, but his time. How long remained to him he did not know. A few years perhaps? A few weeks? He nodded at the wisdom of the biblical injunction about not knowing the day or the hour. After a long journey, there was rightness about death. Sedlmeyer pushed away these reflections and concentrated on what had occurred to him moments before. He did not know why he remembered this thing now, after so many years.

Kaltenberg. That was the name he now recalled, the name he had for so long forgotten. The first name he did not know, had never known. He had known the man only by his last name and his rank, the rank by which Kaltenberg had been addressed.
Stuermbannfuehrer
Kaltenberg. The Waffen-SS officer who had commanded that convoy on its harried sojourn from ruined Berlin to the unwounded Austrian meadows. Kaltenberg—the stern officer who had unflinchingly gunned down Fehlmann. Stuermbannfuehrer Kaltenberg, the SS officer with one arm in a sling who had vanished into the Austrian night just before the Americans in their jeeps arrived to take them prisoner.

Sedlmeyer recalled a few other snippets of information as well. Rumors really, postwar gossip from old comrades, whispered furtively during rare, quiet SS reunions in smoky Bavarian beer halls. Talk that Kaltenberg had fled to Switzerland and adopted a new identity. A remark made in the 1960s that Kaltenberg had established himself as an international salesman with lucrative connections in the Middle East. Maybe all of it was true. Or perhaps some of it was true, or possibly none of it at all. Old soldiers liked to talk as much as old women; the veracity of what was said was a secondary consideration. If Kaltenberg were still alive, he would be a few years older than Sedlmeyer. Dead or alive, Kaltenberg inhabited the past.

Still, perhaps the SS officer was not entirely a creature of the
past; perhaps he had one booted foot solidly in the present. Perhaps Kaltenberg—or more precisely what Kaltenberg knew—would be of interest to Robert Hirter. Kaltenberg surely knew the contents of the convoy consignment; he knew the provenance of the sealed crates that had been so carefully transported to a remote corner of the Alps.

Sedlmeyer considered, observing the sun descend behind distant peaks. Should he let the past slumber? Wasn’t it prudent to forget that he had recalled Kaltenberg’s name? Or should he pass along this detail to the young American? He was unsure. The matter unresolved, he watched a flock of mallards cross the darkening sky, calling confidently to one another on their way to some tranquil lake and the promise of nocturnal rest.

The center of Munich was vibrant, the streets of the city filled with throngs of tourists and businessmen. A parking space proving difficult to locate, Hirter left his car in the underground garage below the Bavarian opera, a ten minute walk from the restaurant where he was to meet his clandestine colleague, Andrew. The weather was overcast, but there was a fresh breeze in the air, edged with a distinct scent of hops from the nearby Paulaner Brewery.

Hirter moved with the crowds, taking in the displays in the storefronts of the street called Im Tal. He made use of the show windows of various shops. Feigning an interest in the products displayed, he checked the reflections in the glass to unobtrusively determine whether he was under surveillance. He noted nothing alerting. Another three minutes walk and Hirter found himself at the Torbraeu Hotel and Café, located across from one of the ancient city gates of Munich, its mass of stone painted rich ochre.

With a final glance for surveillance, Hirter entered the small, tasteful lobby of the hotel and followed a sign to the coffee shop located up the stairs on the second floor. He quickly spotted Andrew. By design, Andrew had seated himself at a table on the balcony permitting an unobstructed view of the street below.

“Greetings, Robert,” Andrew intoned jovially, the remains of a cappuccino and a largely devoured chocolate croissant on the table in front of him. As Hirter pulled up a chair, his host whispered, “No one on your tail. I’d have been surprised if there were.”

Hirter nodded agreement. “I haven’t seen a thing, and I had a good countersurveillance route.” Hirter took in the surroundings.
The restaurant was airy and bright; a few pastel oil scenes decorated the walls. There were few customers, mostly elderly women klatching over coffee, all of them out of earshot.

“I have something from our friends back home,” Andrew interjected. From the folds of the
Muenchner Merkur
newspaper he withdrew a manila envelope and slid it across the table.

Hirter tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his cotton windbreaker. “It’s nice to have something to read.”

Andrew sipped his cappuccino. “Yes, for your reading pleasure. And for your police friend, the content has been cleared for passage. It was waiting in the office for me yesterday. I knew you’d want it as soon as possible.”

“I appreciate your traveling here. I know you must have other stuff on the front burner. Anything interesting in your view?”

Andrew leaned back in his chair and looked down at the bustling street below, the ebb and flow of Teutons and tourists. “You don’t want me to spoil your reading, do you? I’m sure you’ll find the contents interesting.”

“Good. I’ll read it before I hand it over. What’s the gist?” A young waitress appeared, and Hirter ordered a latte.

Andrew considered, a shadow of concentration settling in his features. “The trace results are positive for those guys. There’s enough stuff there to suggest that you folks have stumbled onto some bad characters. Two names turned up a connection to a third name, also living in Germany; it’s all in there. One of them is a Turk and one an Egyptian. The Turk is ethnically half-Lebanese, it would appear.”

“Criminal backgrounds?” Hirter asked.

“Yes. One with garden-variety petty crime and a case of assault in Istanbul; you’ll see the details. Still, it’s the other stuff headquarters found that worries me.”

Hirter said nothing, waiting for his companion to continue. The waitress returned like an apparition, and Hirter’s latte appeared on the table in front of him.

“The link analysis turned up something. These guys have nasty
connections. The information suggests that they might be more into extremism than run-of-the-mill offenses. I know this is a murder investigation, but I have to tell you, these gents strike me as pursuing other interests.”