Desert Fire (26 page)

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Authors: David Hagberg

BOOK: Desert Fire
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THE SPRAWLING KWU parking lot had become the staging area for a military operation. Army trucks formed a semicircle in the middle of the lot opposite the blockhouse. A big communications truck with a dish antenna had been set up and army troops in combat gear formed a perimeter guard, blocking anyone from coming within a hundred meters of the R&D building.
Dozens of police cars and vans blocked the main gate, behind which scores of journalists from newspapers, wire services and television stations had set up their equipment.
Whalpol, Manning, Colonel Thomas Faulkner, who commanded the two companies of soldiers from the base at Wiesbaden, and Albert Trautman, who was the KwU chief engineer and plant supervisor, stood on the roof of the administration building. They had an unobstructed view of the blockhouse a kilometer to the east. A large section of its roof had been destroyed in the explosion.
Colonel Faulkner, a tall man with ramrod bearing, put down his field glasses. “We could drop a dozen of my people right on top of them with a chopper.”
“That would be suicide,” Whalpol snapped. They had gone over this a dozen times since the army had shown up. It took a call to Helmut Kohl's staff to convince the colonel that Whalpol was in charge of this operation.
“Then what the hell do you suggest, Major?”
“We'll play along with whatever they want for now. General Sherif's daughter should be here within the next few minutes.”
“You're not actually going to turn Roemer over to them, are you?” Manning asked.
“That's up to Roemer. But for the moment we can stall.”
They spread out engineering drawings behind one of the big air-conditioning units. Trautman, a scholarly looking man, studied the plans. “There's one possibility, but it would be dangerous.”
Whalpol hunched over the plans with the engineer. The long page was marked VENTING and showed the substructure beneath the blockhouse.
“There are six one-hundred-fifty-centimeter water lines in and out of there,” Trautman said. He tapped the plans with his pencil. “Three are intake lines, all the way up from the pumping station.”
“Cooling water for the storage pool?”
“Exactly,” Trautman said. “No way of accessing them. However, there are three outflows, only two of which are used under normal conditions. The third is used for an emergency standby.”
“Where do they lead?”
“They end up in our holding ponds down the hill across the tracks, just this side of the Autobahn. We could get to the outflow from a pond by lowering the water level. Shouldn't take more than half an hour to expose the pipe opening.”
“What about on the other end, inside the building?”
“They come up beneath the holding pool, into a pump room. Each line has a cleanout plate. Twenty-four bolts. The plate could be cut open with a torch. Tight quarters, but it could be done. So we could get a man in there.”
Trautman nodded. “There's only one problem, Major. Your people would have to wear radiation suits. Once they got out of the pipe and into the pump room, they'd have to go into the emergency decontamination stalls.”
“The pipe is radioactive?”
“Nothing serious if they can get in and out in a half hour. Providing they don't tear their suits. And they must get to the decontamination station before they trigger the in-plant radiation alarm system.”
Whalpol sat back on his haunches and studied the plans. “Where are the controls for the pipelines?”
“Everything is operated from the main control room above the reactor. The outflow pipes are reasonably dry now because the reactor is in standby mode. Only one of the outflows is circulating any water. But if those people in there find out what you're up to, they could easily divert pool water through the pipes. Your men wouldn't stand a chance.”
“Once they're in and decontaminated, we'll need a demolitions team to find and disarm whatever charges they may have placed.”
“If General Sherif's men are any good,” the engineer said, “I can tell you where they probably placed the explosives for maximum effectiveness. From there, the only way up to the control room unseen would be through the false ceiling from the floor above. It's a big space, with walkways and cable runs.”
“I have the demolitions people,” Colonel Faulkner said.
“What about exposure suits?” Whalpol asked.
“We have plenty in Engineering.”
Colonel Faulkner's walkie-talkie beeped. “Foxtrot One.”
Faulkner answered: “Here.”
“Major Whalpol is needed in the comms van on the double.”
Whalpol nodded.
“He's on his way,” the colonel said. They were on a different frequency from the one the Iraqis monitored.
Whalpol rubbed his chin. “If you start draining water from one holding pond into another so that the outflow pipe is exposed, will it show on gauges up in the control room?”
“We can short out the sensing unit in the pond.”
“Then do it,” Whalpol said. “If we need that route as a last resort, we'll have it ready.”
“I'll get my people on it immediately,” the colonel said.
Down from the roof, Manning walked with Whalpol to the communications van.
“What about the news media?” Manning asked. “What do you want me to tell them?”
“Not a damned thing. But certainly nothing about General Sherif, or the reactor.”
“What's left?”
“Have them pick two pool reporters, one from print and one from television. Tell them that an unknown terrorist group is holding hostages in the R&D facility. So far they have not made their demands known.”
“What about the explosion?”
“An accident. A steam pipe not associated with the nuclear processing system burst when struck by a stray bullet.”
“What if they've been monitoring the radio transmissions with General Sherif's side?”
“Isolate them immediately.”
BASSAM ABU ZWAITER, chief of Mukhabarat activities from the Iraqi Embassy in Bonn, was waiting in front of the communications truck.
“Hello, Bassam,” Whalpol said. They shook hands.
“I'd like to speak with General Sherif, but your people won't let me use your communications facility.”
“I suppose it would be futile to ask if you knew of the weapons and explosives he brought with him, or the nature of his troops,” Whalpol said.
“Of course not! This project means more to us than to you.”
“Well, the cat is out of the bag, as they say.”
The blockhouse was bathed in spotlights. The sounds of portable generators were mixed with the babble of voices and the crackle of communications radios.
“Have you any idea what they want?” Zwaiter looked frazzled; his voice was ragged. “Walther Roemer seems to think the general killed two women here in Bonn.”
“He did. And there's more. Roemer dug up records
from the Mossad and the CIA. We know your general has been the suspect in a number of murders, and possibly some hijackings. It was thought at one time he might be the terrorist Michael.”
Zwaiter shook his head slowly. “You Germans have always had a fantastic imagination. His name has been cleared.”
Whalpol shrugged. “Do you know that he is threatening to blow up the reactor in there? Terrorism, if you ask me. And they've made their first demand. They want Walther Roemer and his father. Dead or alive. They won't let me speak with Sherif directly. But we have Roemer and Fräulein Kahled on the way up here now.”
Zwaiter's eyes narrowed.
“We know the entire story, Bassam. We know about Dr. Azziza. But don't look so surprised, this is my backyard.”
Zwaiter studied the blockhouse. “I don't understand. He has everything going for him. The entire country loves him. He is a national hero. President Hussein treats him like a brother.”
“Azziza is dead. So is Roemer's father.”
“So, the doctor was successful.”
“No,” Whalpol said. “The old man's sergeant killed him. Your assassin killed the sergeant. Leila got Azziza.”
“Incredible!” Zwaiter closed his eyes.
“General Sherif is unhinged, of course. We hope his daughter can talk him out of there.”
“Roemer telephoned one of our homicide investigators, Jacob Wadud. He served with the general. He's on his way here. Maybe he can help. But now let me try to talk to General Sherif.”
They climbed up into the communications truck. A technician handed Whalpol the microphone.
“Basra Brigade, this is Abel One.”
“Have Roemer and his father arrived yet?” the voice came from the speaker.
“No, but they'll be coming by helicopter, so don't get
nervous when it approaches. Someone here would like to speak with you.”
Whalpol handed the microphone to Zwaiter. “Habash, this is Bassam Zwaiter. I would like to speak with the general.”
There was no answer.
“I recognize your voice, Mahmud. I know that you recognize mine.”
“I'm sorry, Bassam. Perhaps later.”
“By the grace of Allah, this is crazy! You've got half of Germany out here ready to pounce on you.”
“We are willing to die for our general, Bassam, to right the wrong done to him.”
“What are you talking about?”
The technician looked up.
“Mahmud?”
Nothing.
Zwaiter handed back the microphone. He glanced at his watch. Jacob Wadud should be touching down at the airport. “Before you let Leila speak with her father, I would like to talk to her and Wadud and you. I hope we can figure out what Colonel Habash meant just now.”
“You want to get the general out of there and take him home?”
“Yes. He's a sick man.”
“He's raped and murdered. His fanatics have killed three of my men and two police officers. No guarantees, Bassam.”
A telephone softly burred from one of the monitors. An automatic tape recorder started. The technician at that console looked over. “It's an incoming telephone call to the reactor-control room, sir.”
The telephone rang a half dozen times before it was answered. “Yes?” Colonel Habash's voice came from the speaker. The caller spoke in Arabic.
Zwaiter stiffened. “Bashir Kahair. He demands to speak to the general.”
The line was silent for several seconds, and then
Whalpol recognized the voice of General Sherif.
“Speak in German, Bashir. This call is being monitored, no doubt.”
“Josef, for the love of our Prophet, stand down. I can guarantee your safe passage home.”
“We need a few more hours, Bashir.”
“What do you hope to accomplish? Have you spoken with Leila?”
“Old friend, I must go now.”
“Josef!”
Sherif said something softly in Arabic; then the line went dead.
Zwaiter rubbed his eyes. “He asked Kahair not to be terribly disappointed in him when he found out.”
LEILA, STRAPPED IN her seat across the helicopter's passenger bay from Roemer, stared out the window at the lights below as they churned steadily north toward Bonn.
She had taken the news exactly as Roemer had thought she would. First disbelief, then anger and finally quiet resignation. They hadn't spoken since they'd lifted off from the Munich airport after refueling.
Roemer closed his eyes. His father was finally dead, but the relief he had hoped for had not come. Where there had been guilt, now was emptiness. He had hoped to go away when this was over, but he'd merely be running away from himself, which he had been trying in vain to do all his life. Alone, he was incomplete. With Kata he'd looked for respectability. With Gretchen, warmth. Neither had been able to fill his void, but he knew now that the trouble had been in his own closed lonesomeness.
He opened his eyes. Leila was looking at him. She had been crying. Roemer wanted to go to her, hold her, but it was impossible. The entire thing was impossible. Dr. Azziza had merely been taunting him, trying to throw him off his guard.
“Why won't they let us use the radio?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the big transport helicopter's engine.
“I don't know.”
Even in his weary eyes, she was beautiful. He moved closer to her so that they could hear each other.
“I think they mean to return your father to Baghdad. Chancellor Kohl was going to speak to your ambassador.”
“He'll never go back like that. It's just the kind of fight a Palestinian loves. He'll be fighting the
jihad
all over again. A hero of Iraq can't return in defeat.”
They didn't speak for several minutes. “What was he like in the old days?”
“Gone most of the time. There was always a lot of fighting to do. But when he came home he always brought presents.”
“And later?”
She managed a slight smile. “He was proud of me when I finished school with my degree, but he didn't say much when I went to work for the Mukhabarat. I think he was disappointed. When I graduated from college he told me that it was good to have a woman in the family who'd taken off the veil. He said it balanced the equation.”
Roemer wondered why he was interested in the human side of her father. Sherif was a murderer; he had always been a murderer.
“I hate you,” Leila said. “I'll always hate you even though you were just doing your job.”
And he loved her. With a sudden, strange clarity, he could point to the exact moment it had happened: when he looked into her eyes at the sanatorium outside Bern.
He had seen her soul. He had been drawn in against his will.
Roemer's already confused world had been turned upside down, made unreal.
Leila stared out the window. “Oh … my God!”
The helicopter's rotors changed pitch as they began to descend. At first all he could make out below was a confused jumble of lights, moving vehicles and a large building bathed in spotlights.
Suddenly he saw that they were landing on the KwU parking lot.
Whalpol awaited them when the helicopter's side door clanked open. He helped Leila down. Roemer jumped down behind her.
Amid the noise of the helicopter's engine, Whalpol motioned for them to follow him into the administration building.
The sudden quiet in the broad lobby made their voices loud.
Leila avoided looking at Roemer. “What is going on here, Major?” she demanded of Whalpol.
“I'll give it to you straight, Fräulein Kahled. Your father, his chief of staff and twelve combat troops have barricaded themselves in the research and development building. They have seven hostages in there, and they have placed explosives around the nuclear reactor.”
“Get all those people away from here and he'll leave,” Leila insisted. “He wants only to return to Baghdad, where he might get a fair trial.”
“He's been offered that. He wants you, Walther. And your father, dead or alive.”
Roemer wasn't surprised. “What else?”
“Then he wants to speak with Chancellor Kohl.”
“Any hints what he's up to?”
“None.”
“Let me talk to him.” Leila was more subdued now.
“Understand that I'm not simply going to allow Walther to walk over there. Your father will kill him.”
Leila was struggling with her composure. “I'll talk to him.”
“First, Zwaiter would like a word with you. He's here with your ambassador and several others from the embassy—all of them Mukhabarat. Explain to them that interference will not help in this situation. Fräulein Kahled, I suggest we get started.”
On the third floor Bassam Zwaiter waited with Jacob Wadud and a number of other Iraqis Roemer didn't recognize. They all looked spent. Wadud nodded at Roemer.
“Have your conference, Bassam,” Whalpol told Zwaiter, “but be quick about it.” He steered Roemer into the conference room.
The technicians from the communications van had set up their equipment at one end of the room. They listened with headphones. A soldier brought Roemer a mug of coffee.
Manning was at the long table studying the blueprints with Colonel Faulkner and Trautman, the plant engineer.
“We're going in after them,” Whalpol said.
“You don't think Leila can talk him out of there?” Roemer asked.
“No.”
“What the hell does he want, other than me?”
“Something about righting a terrible wrong.”
“The killings of his parents and his wife. Both mother and wife were career women. They'd taken off their veils.”
“Are you saying the man is going after women who remind him of his mother and his wife?”
“He's crazy.”
They hunched over the blueprints and the BND major explained that one pond had already been drained, the sensors shorted out, and so far there had been no recognition from General Sherif's side. Colonel Faulkner's demolitions experts were standing by with the
radiation suits, and the torch man was ready with his equipment to go in and cut the access plate in the pump room.
“We think there'll be a main firing line from the explosives to the control room,” Whalpol said. “We'll attempt to find it and cut it.”
“It might be radio-controlled,” Colonel Faulkner said.
“That's our second option,” Whalpol said. “We'll put two people into the crawl space above the control room. They should be able to see down through the suspended light fixtures.”
“Well enough to pick off whoever is at the firing mechanism?” Roemer asked.
Whalpol nodded. “And keep anyone else from getting to it.”
“For communications, we'll use ordinary police-frequency walkie-talkies. We'll keep it short and in code.”
A radioman turned around. “They're asking for you again, Major.”
“Any questions, Walther?”
“I'm going in through the water pipe.”
“I don't think so.”
“I started this, I'll finish it.”
“Put on the loudspeaker.” Whalpol went over to the communications gear. “Get Fräulein Kahled in here on the double. And no one tells the Iraqis with us what we're up to.”
He took the microphone. “Basra Brigade, this is Abel One.”
“Where's Roemer?” the speaker blared.
“Roemer's father is dead; Investigator Roemer is wounded and is receiving medical attention. As soon as he is able to move, we'll bring him over. Give me General Sherif.”
“Request denied. We're giving you ten minutes. We want both of them at the outside gate. We are counting.”
Leila and the other Iraqis came into the conference room. Whalpol motioned her over. She was pale. Whalpol handed her the microphone. “If your father and his people are willing to stand down, we'll guarantee their safe passage to Baghdad.”
Leila closed her eyes. “Colonel Habash, this is Leila. I want to speak to my father.”
The loudspeaker was silent.
Whalpol edged away from the communications table to Colonel Faulkner and Roemer. “Send your people through now,” he whispered. “The torch man first, then your demolitions people. Roemer and I will take the control room ceiling.”
“Stay out of this, Leila,” Habash radioed.
Colonel Faulkner picked up his walkie-talkie. “Situation One,” he said. “Situation One.”
“Roger,” the reply came.
“Father, if you can hear me, I want to talk to you,” Leila persisted.
General Sherif's voice came over the speaker. “What are you doing here, little bird?”
“I've come to take you home. Jacob Wadud and I.”
“Go home, Leila.”
Jacob Wadud, his right hand in his pocket, blocked the doorway. Roemer stepped around the end of the table and confronted the Iraqi detective. He looked into Wadud's eyes. “Are you going to shoot us all, Jacob?”
“Whatever it takes. This is our project, remember?”
“I'm coming over there, Father,” Leila said. “And then we're going home together. There is a plane at the airport waiting for us, and for your men.”
“We want Roemer,” Colonel Habash's voice boomed from the speaker. “Roemer!”
The radioman turned down the volume.
“What if they kill the hostages, Jacob?” Roemer asked.
“It's a chance we'll have to—”
Roemer grabbed his gun hand by the wrist, shoving the Iraqi out into the corridor.
Whalpol, Manning and Colonel Faulkner started toward the doorway at the same moment Bassam Zwaiter and the other Mukhabarat operatives drew their guns.

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