Collision of Evil (38 page)

“That’s solid, Kommissar. As for the American side, Rebecca told me that our technical collection assets have been given this operation as a priority. Chalmers is plugged in with your emergency-response task force. Our hand of cards isn’t all that bad.”

“You know, Hirter, what these swine are planning isn’t just about murder; you know that, don’t you?”

Hirter looked over at the detective. “I know that. There’s a limit to how many people they can kill, even with Sarin. What they’re looking for is panic. Panic that reverberates and gets them publicity. And makes us look weak because we couldn’t stop them.”

“Right,” the detective agreed. “Fear is the key. They want to kill as many people as they can and spread waves of fear to people they can’t reach physically. They want to intimidate us with fear. God knows, they’ve found a good means to do it. My grandfather was a hunter. I remember an old Bavarian saying of his. ‘Not the flesh of the prey only, but fear is the sustenance of wolves.’ This is our pack of wolves, Hirter. Our pack of wolves.”

“And we are baiting their trap, Kommissar,” Hirter replied. “Your grandfather would understand that, too.”

Waldbaer engaged his left blinker and turned onto Schillerstrasse before reaching the train station, an undistinguished edifice from the 1960s. Schillerstrasse hosted sporadic traffic, making it easier for the men to survey passing pedestrians. Waldbaer noticed a tall, young Nigerian in a bright blue shirt and a disheveled young German engaged in a drug transaction, but drove on. They drove past the nondescript entrance to the Rote Adler Hotel, the brightly lit, empty lobby of which received a passing glance from Hirter. The two men drove on, merging into the urban anonymity of Munich.

At precisely the moment when the detective and the American drove in the street below, al-Assad had collected his compatriots in the confines of his hotel room. The mission was set for the next day. Al-Assad detected no nervousness from his associates. Only Sayyid seemed more reserved than usual, but al-Assad deemed that natural given the finality of their mission.

“We pay our bills at the front desk in the morning, one by one. We will not prepare for paradise while being indebted to anyone. We fast this evening to prepare ourselves. When we have accomplished our task, my friends, we will feast together with the Rightly-Guided Caliphs, served by the multitude of shy virgins who even now make ready our meal.”

Al-Assad moved to the scarred plywood dresser and opened the top drawer. “Brothers, I have a few items, to ensure that we deceive any infidel forces that might be watching for us. We are more prepared than they.”

He removed a plastic shopping bag from the drawer; it was emblazoned with the logo of the Schlecker discount drugstore chain. Reaching into the rustling plastic he retrieved two tubes that looked as if they might contain toothpaste. “It is good that we removed our beards. But there is more we can do to blend into the crowds tomorrow. Our hair, brothers. The infidel is looking for black-haired men. These gels are colored. This one is red and the other blond. Streak your hair with it. Trust me, it will make a difference.”

Jawad, the shortest and most rotund of the group was hunched against the doorframe and snickered. “We’ll look like those crazy
ones here in Europe. What are they called? Goths? But it will certainly change our looks. You’re right.”

Sayyid’s features creased into a frown. “Is this how we meet the Prophet? Is this how we will appear in paradise? With our hair painted like polytheist whores? How can we be proud of that? I don’t think we should defile our bodies on this jihad. We should conduct our martyrdom proudly, not lower ourselves to the depths of the enemy. I don’t want to do it. Shaving the beard I understand, but hair color goes too far. It’s not how I want my family to remember me.”

Al-Assad measured Sayyid’s state of mind and weighed an appropriate response. He knew that he could not afford discontent at this stage. Should he demonstrate his primacy within the group, or would he be better counseled to act with flexibility? He silently implored the Prophet for guidance.

“I understand your sentiments, Sayyid,” he spoke at last. “Of course you are uncomfortable. We all are. These are stratagems of war. They are permitted us. But I do not demand that you tint your hair, if you are uncomfortable with it, don’t do it.”

Sayyid’s features lightened and he was clearly relieved. To ensure harmony, al-Assad returned to the dresser and retrieved another item, tossing it across the room at Sayyid, who, surprised, retrieved it clumsily. It was a navy baseball cap bearing the image of a Ferris wheel and a mug of beer. Underneath these icons was embossed the word Oktoberfest in bright orange.

“This should cause you less displeasure than hair dye, Sayyid,” al-Assad intoned jovially to break the tension. “It’s our alternate solution to have you looking like a happy tourist.”

Al-Assad was pleased when the others laughed, including Sayyid. Crisis avoided, he concluded. “All right, friends, back to your rooms. We must prepare ourselves on this final night. Be back here at seven tomorrow morning. I will have some final instructions to ensure our success.”

Outside, the teams of police surveillants continued their search for memorized faces and suspicious shadows, but detected nothing.

An almost physical anticipation of festivity laced the Munich air as the Saturday dawn broke over the city. As night reluctantly withdrew its hand, surrendering its dominion in measured stages, the sky became fragile blue, contrasting with the solid brick towers of the Munich cathedral. Preparations for the Saturday events had been underway for weeks, and the waking inhabitants of the city were well aware of what would transpire. As every year, the opening of Oktoberfest had been heralded loudly and with promiscuous frequency on radio and television. The headlines of the Munich newspapers announced the pending celebration, providing street maps delineating the line of march for the brewery parade.

The parade, by long-established tradition, would wind a route through the narrow metropolitan streets and debouche onto the
Wies’n
, the meadow on which were encamped the long line of enormous beer tents, massive constructions of wood and canvas. The celebratory column of dray horses, flower-bedecked beer wagons, and brass bands would be followed at a short remove by the crowds, all intent on reaching the festival meadow and securing a place to sit and drink the specially brewed, strong and malty Oktoberfest beer.

The meadow was a meadow no more, of course, but a flat, paved plain in the center of the city, a physical pause in the crush of apartment buildings and businesses that constituted Munich in the twenty-first century. It had been a true meadow once, verdant and pastoral. Those days were long gone, however, the first Oktoberfest dating to 12 October 1810. In that year, the august occasion was a wedding celebration for now-forgotten royalty, the marriage of
Crown Prince Ludwig of Bavaria to Princess Theresa of Saxony. To win the acceptance of a suspicious populace for a non-Bavarian bride, the royal family had sponsored a festival and horse race on a pasture located at what were at the time the city limits. The celebration was a happy success and was subsequently repeated on an annual basis, supported by Munich’s brewers.

The annual Oktoberfest moved through the centuries with few interruptions. The tents gradually became more capacious, the price of a liter of beer less reasonable, but a Munich time traveler from the nineteenth century would have recognized the Oktoberfest, nonetheless.

As every year, many participants in the revelry chose to shorten the path to the festival grounds by taking the Munich underground trains, the
U-Bahn
. Although the press of celebrants made the subterranean ride uncomfortable, the journey to the
Wies’n
was short and direct. From the underground platform, visitors had only to step onto stainless steel escalators and be lifted to the festivities above, deposited at busy stands selling pretzels, sausage, smoked fish, and souvenirs behind the boulevard of tents bearing the emblems of the Augustiner, Paulaner, Löwenbräu, and other municipal breweries. The sky promised to deliver the crisp, sunny weather that Munich residents associated with the Oktoberfest.

Two blocks from the festival grounds, on a narrow residential street carpeted with burnished bronze leaves, Waldbaer leaned against an unmarked police van. A squad of surveillance team leaders was gathered tightly about him. Hirter was present as well, but to keep the group small and inconspicuous, Caroline O’Kendell and Allen Chalmers had been instructed to join them later in the morning.

“Gentlemen, the chances of finding our targets yesterday was a long shot. Today is the day that counts. Today these guys can’t conceal themselves. They have no choice but to move to the
Wies’n
. If we’re alert, we’ll get them. That’s my unshakeable conviction.” Waldbaer was conscious that he was sounding more optimistic than
he privately felt. “Some of your teams are deployed along the parade route. Schneider, where have you stationed your boys?”

“In front of the Tannenbaum restaurant, Herr Kommissar. They have a perfect view there and can blend in with the onlookers,” answered a tall, redheaded undercover officer in a checked shirt and brown lederhosen.

“Good. We cover the route to the festival ground. That said, ladies and gentlemen, I believe our best chance is on the
Wies’n
itself. I’ve ordered most of the teams to deploy there. I know we have to cope with an enormous number of people storming the place. We have to stay alert, but we can handle it. We have teams at the main entrances to the grounds and scattered along the boulevard in front of the tents. We have a separate cordon of officers at each tent, disguised as crowd control employees. Perfect cover. It gives them a reason to get eyes on everybody who tries to enter a tent and a chance to inspect backpacks. Remember, our targets have to be carrying canisters. Most likely, they’ll be carrying backpacks to conceal the devices. Holz, what are the procedures if someone discovers a suspicious canister?”

A short, broad-shouldered officer spoke as if from a memorized text. “Immediately separate the backpack from the owner with force, alert other colleagues nearby, and apprehend the suspect.”

Waldbaer nodded agreement. “And if the suspect resists apprehension or attempts to use the canister?”

“Shoot to kill. First shot to his center of mass, second shot to the cranium.”

Waldbaer studied the sidewalk. He felt Hirter’s eyes on him. “Right. Bam, bam, dead, if there is the slightest resistance. Now, let’s be honest, it’s one thing to say that. Doing it can be altogether different. Most of us here have never shot anyone. It would be natural to hesitate, understandable not to want to kill. Understandable but not justifiable. We can’t take chances with Sarin. I will take personal responsibility for your actions. If you have a canister and a terrorist, you cannot hesitate. Is everything clear?”

A hushed murmur of agreement drifted down the street. Hirter took in the proceedings but had no real sense of how ready the undercover officers were to shoot without warning. He touched the compact nine-millimeter parabellum concealed under his shirt. He, at least, was ready to kill if required. But would he hesitate a second, perhaps providing a terrorist with a wink of time to wreak bloody havoc? It was something he could not know.

“Another thing,” Waldbaer continued. “Atropine. Are you all comfortable with how to use it? You have your injectors? All you need to do is to administer or have a comrade administer one shot. Then we’ll get you to the Ministry of Health doctors in this van.” Waldbaer rapped the metal side of the vehicle lightly with his fist. “They’re trained and ready for the Sarin threat. You just need to administer initial aid. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Questions?”

Holz shot up a stubby hand. “Kommissar, we’re wired, what’s the communications protocol?”

Waldbaer glanced at the thick chestnut tree limbs above him and sighed. “Simple answer: with the noise level from those crowds, we’re going to have trouble hearing clearly. It’s a disadvantage we have to live with. Identify yourself and your location when you transmit. Speak slowly. Communicate discreetly. Remember, we’re dealing with fanatics. I don’t want them spotting an earpiece or microphone.” The detective paused and thought for a moment. “This will work out. Not everything about it is optimal, but it will work out. Other questions?”

There were none.

“Okay. Go walk around. You have time before you need to move to the
Wies’n
. Good luck to all of you.” The cluster broke up and the men shuffled slowly away, their movements betraying restrained tension.

Waldbaer turned to Hirter. “So, Hirter, what do you think?”

Hirter stretched his arms. “Kommissar, this is your show. You’ve done everything that can be done. It’s like an espionage operation: the planning is everything. There comes a point where fate deals its hand. There’s nothing more you can do.”

“You believe we’ll get them?”

Hirter considered. “They have to go to the
Wies’n
and try to get into the tents, you’re right about that. I think we have a good chance of spotting them. Can we stop them before they do damage? I don’t know. But there’s nothing we can change at this stage. We stick with the program and hope for the best.”