The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (15 page)

Aileen was still on the road in Virginia when her cell phone vibrated. She recognized the caller.

“Jeannine, I’m on the way back to Maryland.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on Route 64 between Hampton and Williamsburg.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Nobody, I’m by myself. Anne Simek and Peter Zeleny went back to Corolla. Peter’s father was arrested for a double murder. I don’t know the details and I don’t want to know. He and that Gustav are monsters.”

Jeannine took a moment before she spoke.

“After what you’ve been through, I’m just glad you are all right.

“Thanks, but why did you call?”

“First to check on you and then to tell you about Xolak and Larry Hodges.”

“I’m beat up and exhausted. Forget Hodges, tell me first about Bill Hamm.”

“It’s scary. I haven’t heard from him since you and I last talked.”

“Jeannine, I’m sorry, really sorry. All right, tell me about Hodges.”

“He’s a damned wimp. He left town on official travel. He finally called this morning. He wants the FDA to accept the Hus-Kinetika report.”

“What about Vaclav’s memo?”

“He hasn’t seen it. I think that’s why he extended his travel, so he wouldn’t see it.”

“What can we do?”

“I’ve done it. I threatened him. He didn’t like it, but he agreed to inform the members of the review panel. He’ll abide by the majority opinion. I’m satisfied. The members are not political. When they hear our results, they’ll tell him to reject the report.”

“So It will be the panel’s decision, not his.”

Jeannine laughed.

“That’s what he hopes, but I think his Chief is going to assign him a new office, the broom closet!”

“No sympathy here.”

At that point the phone went dead.

Aileen’s car was between towers.

In the countryside not far from the Prague airport, Bill Hamm and Ivana sat in the warm kitchen of a stone farm house. Ivana sat near an iron stove that was situated in a huge former hearth.

“But I don’t understand. Why are the Americans, I mean you, doing favors for Gustav?”

Bill looked out the window.

“Gustav has information for us, and apparently you do too. That’s why Karel Moravec wants to kill you both. You know too much about his operation. If Gustav hadn’t texted me, you’d be dead on that bus.”

Ivana shivered. She looked down.

“You mean if you hadn’t stopped that assassin.”

“Whatever.”

He returned to the window. A car was coming, his partner Tom Fletcher.

“Our ride is here. We have to go. Do you have any ID, or was it in your knapsack?”

Ivana produced a passport from a jacket pocket and tossed it to Bill.

Bill saw “Deutschland” and “Reisepass” on the cover. He looked inside, “Irma Neumann” was a German national.

“All right, ‘Irma,’ that works.”

He put a small sheaf of Euros on the table for the farmer who was in the barn, tending his stock.

Bill took Ivana’s hand and led her to the waiting car.

Tom drove. Bill Hamm sat in the passenger seat. Ivana was in back.

Bill spoke.

“What’s the situation at the airport?”

“They’re watching the flights to Vienna. The same guys have been checking the gates. This guy Moravec has high connections.”

“What do you suggest?”

Tom turned right onto a main road and then answered.

“We should leave the Czech Republic. I filled up the gas tank. We can cross into Germany at Dolni Poustevna, it’s about 150 kilometers, just under 100 miles, from here. From there we can drive to Dresden, under forty miles.”

“So we go north because they think we will go south to Austria?”

“That’s the idea.”

“And it’s a good one, but Dolni Poustevna is a small crossing out of the way. We can take the E55 autoroute. It’s faster, and if nobody is looking north it will be safe.”

“Whatever you say, but after Dresden where do we go?”

“We fly to Brussels. Lots of our people are there.”

Tom nodded agreement. He headed towards Route E55.

Bill continued.

“Tom, did you text Gustav that the ‘package’ is safe.”

“I did.”

Ivana cringed. She was a “package?” She had lost control of her own destiny.

For the first time since meeting Bill Hamm, she was afraid.

Who are these Americans?

In Corolla, North Carolina, the sun hung red and low in the West as Anne Simek steered her Focus into a space under the beach house. She parked next to Mila’s white SUV behind which was a Duck Police car with blue stripes.

The presence of Jim’s police car reminded her of her own difficulties. She would be questioned by local law enforcement about Vaclav Pokorny’s death.

She turned off the engine and glanced sideways. Peter was slumped in the passenger seat, his eyes closed.

“Peter, we’re back. Let’s go.”

She opened her door and stepped into the chilly air. She looked back. Peter had not moved.

“Come on Peter. It’s cold out here.”

Peter opened his door. He stepped to Anne’s side. His voice was low.

“Anne, thank you. I am grateful.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s go and check in with Mila.”

She guided him up the wooden steps to the living level.

It was two in the morning in Prague. Fiala slept soundly. Karel Moravec left the bed and went to the window. Across the river, the lit walls of the Castle glowed a warm yellow in marked contrast to the cold dark waters of the Vltava.

He stared at his phone. Its screen was blank.

He had not heard from his first team. And the second team, still in Maryland, knew nothing except that the first team was in North Carolina. There was no good news from either group.

Worse, apparently Gustav was still alive!

Karel ground his teeth. Ivana had slipped through his net. Damn that woman. Still he missed her. It was truly a pity that she had to die. The second night with Fiala had lost the enthusiasm of the first.

Karel would never admit failure, but he was troubled. The stranger who had saved Ivana was an American from Vienna, and certainly with the CIA. What did they know? Had Ivana tipped them?

Fortunately, she did not know everything. He took some relief in that.

He turned from the window. It was 8:00 pm in Maryland. The second team was awaiting his instructions. What was the name of that company?

He had it.

Karel punched a message on his phone. It was simple.

“Eliminate Ryan Associates!”

A weary Aileen Harris steered her car along Bradley Boulevard in Bethesda, Maryland. Homes were set well back from the roadway and hidden among large trees whose branches obscured the street lights. In the poor lighting the beams of oncoming cars made her squint.

Her house was dark except for a lone light upstairs.

She fumbled with the key and opened the door. The light went on the hallway. Aileen’s mother stood by the switch. She pulled her bathrobe about her.

“Aileen?”

“Sorry, Mom. I didn’t want to wake you. I drove straight through. Is Mary Catherine asleep?”

A squeal from the top of the stairs answered that question.

“Mommy!”

Moments later, Aileen was smothered by a warm bundle of tangled blonde hair, squeezing arms and the flowing folds of a flannel nightgown.

In Bethesda, the early morning sun shone bright. A sleepy Aileen sat at the breakfast table. Mrs. Harris stood by the door.

“Aileen, Mary Catherine will be late for school.”

Aileen tightened the collar of Mary Catherine’s jacket, and handed her a brown lunch bag.

“Be a good girl and listen to Granny, She’ll pick you up after school. Now give me a kiss.”

A final hug, and Mary Catherine left with Mrs. Harris.

Aileen poured herself a cup of coffee After everything, it was good to be home. She was sipping coffee, when the phone rang. It was Jeannine

“Aileen, you made it home. Are you feeling better.”

“Much. Mary Catherine just left for school. Where are you?”

“I don’t want to say. I’m where we met last month about the Israeli contract. Meet me here. Don’t go to the office. It’s not safe. Did you bring the item?”

On the table in front of Aileen was the chip that Vaclav had left in Anne Simek’s computer.

“I’m looking at it right now.”

“Bring it as soon as you can. We have work to do.”

“I’m on my way.”

Aileen put a small bag of Cheetos on the kitchen table and wrote a note.

Mary Catherine, just a little treat for a big girl,

Love, Mommy.

She pocketed the memory chip and left.

Gustav Slavik awoke to the noise of the passing traffic on the Delaware Turnpike. His neck was sore, and his back ached. He had slept in the back seat of the car. It was early morning, but the parking lot of the turnpike rest stop was filling rapidly.

Gustav’s route from North Carolina was different from Aileen’s. From the wildlife refuge, he had taken Highway 64 west to Interstate 95, north. Rush hour traffic on the Beltways around Washington, DC and Baltimore slowed his progress, but still he had reached the rest stop in Delaware before exhaustion forced him to stop and sleep.

He sat up as his cell phone buzzed. A text had arrived.

The message was brief.

“The package is safe.”

The Americans had Ivana, but was she really “safe?” Gustav bit his lip. No one with those corrupt capitalists could be safe. Still the CIA had worked fast. By now Ivana was in Belgium.

Gustav needed to free Ivana from the Americans without, in turn, revealing what he knew about Moravec’s plan. He could never help the greedy yanks. And he must not wait until Ivana was brought to the U. S. It would be far easier to dupe the Americans in Belgium than in their own country.

Gustav knew Belgium. In the mid Eighty’s he had funneled weapons from Czechoslovakia to the Cellules Communistes Combattantes, a group led by a Belgian terrorist who was finally apprehended in Namur.

He would fly to Brussels immediately.

He must hurry to New York and JFK Airport.

The sooner he arrived in Belgium, the better.

Aileen drove north to Rockville on I-270. Her destination was the Best Western Hotel at the Route 28 exit. The former Ramada was no stranger to intrigue. In 1985 John A. Walker was arrested there after spying for the Soviet Union for eighteen years.

Jeannine’s room was on the sixth floor. She was standing by her door when Aileen got off the elevator.

“Come in, you look better than I thought you would. How’s the eye?”

“I’m really tired, but the eye is fine, at least I can see.”

“So Peter went back to North Carolina to see his father?”

“Yes, he went back. Anne Simek drove him.”

“And Vaclav’s chip?”

“Right here. You need a password.”

Jeannine took the small green drive.

Aileen frowned.

“Sorry, but my head’s spinning. I need to lie down.”

Jeannine took her arm.

“Take this chair over here. I’ll get you a pillow.”

Aileen settled in and shut her eyes.

Jeannine stood a moment. Then she turned and plugged Vaclav’s chip into the USB port of her laptop.

The chip was indeed password-protected.

Damn.
What now, Jeannine?

She needed that password!

Jeannine spread the newspapers from Vaclav’s package on the dresser. She muttered to herself.

“Damn it. Vaclav wanted Peter Zeleny to read this drive, he must have hidden clues in these papers. And Peter is no computernik, so the password can’t be too hard to find.”

She thought again.

Or can it? If it’s in Czech I won’t have a clue!”

She looked at the Cyrillic newspaper. If there was anything there, she would never know it. She stared blankly.

Come on Jeannine, try!

At least the Prague Post was in English. In it, Vaclav had marked several words and phrases, but only one word was circled rather than underlined, “green.”

No words were circled in the Cyrillic paper. She looked at the Czech papers. Among the many words underlined, only two were encircled.

The first circled word, was “Petr.” Surely that meant “Peter.” Perhaps Vaclav had telegraphed his method.

The phrase was “Svatý Petr,” but only “Petr” was circled. Using Google Translate, she saw that “Svatý Petr” meant “Saint Peter.”

The other circled word was “svobodný.” Where had she heard that word before?

Of course! Peter Zeleny had said that he was “svobodný,” that is, “single” or “free.”

There remained only the word “green.” Jeannine typed it into the translator. The answer was immediate.

“Green” in Czech was “Zelený!”

Both Vaclav and Peter were Czech. Of course the password would be in their language. After some trial and error with Google Translate, she wrote down her most likely candidate, “singlePeterZeleny.”

svobodnýPetrZeleny.

She tried the password. The drive remained locked. She added the verb “is,” “PeterZeleny
is
single.”

PetrZelenyjesvobodný.

Still locked! She grimaced.

Damn. This is the easiest permutation and Vaclav wanted Peter to read these files.

Wait! In America, Peter had dropped the accent from “Zeleny.” In Google, Zelený appeared with an accent on the “y.” It was a masculine adjective form, like svobodný.

Jeannine tapped the letters again. This time with the accented “ý.”

PetrZelenýjesvobodný.

Bingo! She was in.

She chuckled and rubbed her hands together.

In the corner chair, Aileen still slept soundly.

In Corolla, North Carolina, Peter Zeleny, stood shivering on the beach. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt tight about his head. To no avail, the cold wind penetrated the light cotton. He bent against the wind, and trudged away from the beach house.

Thanks to the last week’s storm, the beach was narrow. Peter stepped carefully. The tide was coming in. The encroaching waves strove to reach the white dunes, only to fall short and retreat back into the ocean.

Peter was thinking of his father, securely locked in jail when a voice, muted by the wind, called from behind him.

“Peter, what are you doing out here. It’s cold. Come back to the house.”

He turned and saw Anne Simek, some steps behind. Her hood was pulled tight. The wind pushed her pullover against her body revealing an attractive form.

Peter looked down.

“I had to be alone. I didn’t want to talk to anybody.”

“But it’s miserable out here. And it’s starting to rain.”

He looked at the sand. Tiny craters appeared where large rain drops splattered the surface.

“Peter, I’m sorry your father refuses to see you.”

He looked into her eyes. Those soft moist pupils
were
sorry.

“Anne, I have no illusions about him or his life. It’s just that I want closure with my father. I needed to talk to him.”

She took his hand. Peter shivered, but not from the wind.

“Peter, you are not your father. I’ve been hard on you. I’m sorry, but believe me, don’t ever think that you are like him. I’ve only known you a little while, but I know you could never do the things he has done.”

“Like what he did to your father?”

“Like what he did to my father. Times are different, we are different. Our lives are ahead of us. The past is the past. Maybe, we can help each other dispel our ghosts.”

She lowered her voice.

“And Peter, Hus-Kinetika never paid me. Professor Pokorny did proposition me. I would never lie about that.”

He squeezed her hand. He knew she was right. He spoke, but a whistling gust swept his words down the beach. She looked up at him.

“Peter, maybe, just maybe, things can be very different for the two of us.”

As she realized what she had said, her gaze fell on the seaweed at her feet.

Peter blushed. His voice failed. He put his arm about her shoulders. She leaned against him. They stood in silence, unaware of the waves that lapped over their shoes.

Finally he spoke.

“Anne, thanks, really, for bringing me back to Corolla. I’m grateful. I like you, a lot. I’m not sure what else to say.”

The rain began to fall in earnest. Massive drops pelted their shoulders. Still holding hands, they turned and dashed for the house. By the time they reached the deck, they were soaked.

Neither cared.

At the Best Western Hotel in Rockville, Jeannine filled the coffee maker anew and groaned. She had worked for over two hours.

Aileen, eyes shut, was still in the chair. The bruises on her face were less apparent and her breathing was regular.

“Aileen, wake up. I’ve accessed Vaclav’s disk and read his notes. They confirm your worries about nerve gas. It’s deadly and there’s lots of it!”

Aileen sat up.

“What’s this about nerve gas?”

“Vaclav wrote his notes in English for his trip here. You told me about the Novichok Agents developed by the Soviets in the 70’s and 80’s, but there’s more. Vaclav reports that a Czech scientist was instrumental in the development of the deadliest of these nerve gases. He named it ‘Novichok-H,’ for the Czech hero, Johan Hus.”

She continued.

“Vaclav says that before 1990, when the Soviets realized that the USSR would dissolve, they moved all their stockpiles from Uzbekistan to a holding facility, code-named ‘NNNK,’ in Russia. They could not leave those agents under the control of a soon-to-be independent Republic of Uzbekistan. When Russia, the U. S., and other nations signed the Chemical Weapons Convention in 1993, the Russians agreed to destroy all stockpiles of nerve agents and to allow inspections, but the Novichok agents were not included as ‘Schedule 1 Weapons,’ like Sarin and Soman whose stocks were to be destroyed.”

Aileen jumped erect.

“That’s right. Novichok Agents would not be covered by the treaty. Prior nerve agents like Sarin and Soman possess a carbon-phosphorus bond and are banned by the convention, but a number of the Novichok agents don’t have a C-P bond and would not be banned.”

Jeannine grimaced.

“I’ll take your word for the chemistry. Vaclav says that the Russians claimed that Novichok agents were a non-issue for the treaty. They asserted that only experimental quantities of Novichok agents ever existed and that those had been destroyed, so that the CWC did not need to be changed.”

Now Aileen was fully engaged.

“OK, but it’s impossible to ban all chemical weapons. Many, like Sarin, can be stored as two separate and harmless precursors that must be mixed in proper proportions and at the right temperature to produce the lethal product. Treaties need to identify chemicals that have
no other use
except as steps to a final deadly product, or have
no peaceful use
in large quantities. Novichok agents have particularly innocuous precursors that occur normally in fertilizer production or in the manufacture of pesticides.”

She paused and frowned.

“But what is Hus-Kinetika’s connection with all this? What’s Vaclav’s point?”

“The Russians lied when they said they had no stockpiled Novichok-H. They still had 95 metric tons in the form of its two precursors. In 1990, this was shipped to NNNK from Uzbekistan along with thousands of metric tons of Sarin and Soman. Later, when the West found about the ‘Newcomer’ Agents, the Russians labeled the Novichok-H ‘A-255’ (Soman) and hid it among the Sarin and Soman stocks at NNNK.”

Jeannine took a breath.

“When the CWC treaty was signed. All stockpiles of Sarin and Soman at NNNK were designated for destruction. In 1994 a group of hard-core Czech ex-communists diverted the Novichok-H (labeled as Soman)
to a former chemical weapons facility near Brno in the Czech Republic, a facility that now belongs to Hus-Kinetika.”