The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (16 page)

“How did they manage that?”

“They labeled the two precursors as ‘Pesticide.’ But that’s not all. Vaclav says that in 2005, the conspirators moved all 95 tons to a Hus-Kinetika facility in another country. Vaclav thinks it’s in the United States.”

Aileen paled.

“So they want to use it on us!”

She caught her breath.

“But maybe Vaclav is a pathological liar? Maybe we shouldn’t believe him?”

“If he was a liar, he died for his lies.”

Aileen fell silent.

The coffee maker stopped dribbling. Jeannine poured two cups and handed one to Aileen who drank in silence.

Jeannine paced and sipped before resuming her account.

“Later, when site NNNK transferred its chemical weapons to the Russian Chemical Weapons Destruction Facility designated by the CWC, the transfer was 95 tons short because of the missing ‘Soman’ (Novichok-H.) Fortunately for the conspirators, 95 metric tons was a piddling amount compared to the total tonnage of all agents shipped for destruction.”

“So no one noticed the discrepancy?”

“No one, until 2009. Inspectors for the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, the OPCW, looked through some old Russian files and spotted the shortage of 95 tons.
”

“What happened then?”

“One member of the OPCW inspection team was from Hus-Kinetika. He told the conspirators that the inspectors had noticed the shortage. The conspirators concocted the story that even though the 95 tons of ‘Soman’ was not on the list, the error had been corrected immediately, and that records would prove that the stock was in the process of being destroyed. They fabricated destruction records for the missing tonnage and paid the team member from Hus-Kinetika to slip them into the files. The team discovered them and everyone was satisfied.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone at the OPCW. There were other discrepancies to resolve, and the inspectors are overworked.”

“If the case was closed, what can we do?”

“Vaclav had the conspirator’s destruction records. I constructed this table from his numbers. Look.”

Jeannine laid a printout with numbers on the table.

Aileen studied the numbers while Jeannine continued.

“These are the conspirators’ numbers for the Novichok-H (labeled as ‘Soman’) that they claim is in the process of being destroyed.

“Maybe these numbers are OK? Maybe Vaclav is all wrong?”

“I wish that was so, but these numbers are fraudulent, just as Vaclav claimed.”

Aleen stood stunned. Jeannine went on.

“The annual reports for the OPCW are on the Internet. Look at this table of the destruction of stocks of the nerve agent Sarin up to the year 2009.”

“But Jeannine, Sarin’s not a Novichok agent. It’s the gas that the Aum cultists used in the attack on the Tokyo subway.”

“Right. It just happens that Sarin is listed first in the OPCW tables of Schedule 1 Weapons”

“So you are not saying there’s a connection between Novichok-H and Sarin?”

“No.”

“Then why Sarin?”

“I wondered how conspirators would fabricate realistic destruction data to satisfy the inspectors. I guessed that the fakers would look at real data for ideas.”

Jeannine tossed the hair from her forehead.

“And that’s what they did. They looked at the data listed first by the OPCW. That’s Sarin. When I saw that no Sarin was destroyed in 2008, so the 2008 numbers were the same as those for 2007, I checked the Novichok-H numbers. They also were the same for 2007 and 2008 so I knew. And here’s the proof.”

She put another sheet of numbers on the table.

Aileen looked.

“The last two columns of numbers are the same!”

“Exactly, the Novichok-H values were manufactured using the Sarin numbers. The fakers divided the percentages for Sarin by 100, to yield numbers ranging from zero to one. Then they multiplied those numbers by 95, the total tons of Novichok-H. That gives the
fake
amounts
destroyed. That’s how they generated the Novichok-H Table.”

“Is there any chance the Novichok-H numbers are real?”

“None. The Sarin numbers are valid percentages. The Novichok-H numbers are supposed to be amounts in tons. There’s no physical reality to link the two sets. Also, the Sarin numbers are for all destruction facilities in all the nations in the Convention, including the USA. The numbers for the Novichok-H Agent are supposed to be for a single destruction facility in Russia.”

“Then Vaclav’s story is confirmed.”

“I’m afraid so.”

Aileen sat down, head in her hands.

“That means there are 95 tons of the most deadly nerve agent ever known stashed somewhere, probably here in the U. S.”

“And it could be anywhere. Hus-Kinetika is huge. In the states alone they have at least a dozen facilities from coast to coast.”

Aileen cringed.

“No matter where it is, they have enough stuff to wipe out New York and Washington both!”

In Namur, Belgium, Gustav Slavik looked out his window onto the rue de Bruxelles below. He was at home here. Almost twenty years ago, he had met with a Belgian terrorist and communist to discuss the resupply of his group with arms from the Socialist Republic of Czechoslovakia.

Shortly thereafter, the terrorist had been arrested while eating American-style hamburgers at the “Quik,” an imitation McDonald’s located across from the train station. To Gustav, that circumstance had been ironic to the point of bitterness. American hamburgers! Capitalism had corrosive effects, even on true believers!

In Berlin, the “Wall” had stood strong then.

But later, in that fateful month of November, 1989, Gustav’s way of life changed forever. The Berlin Wall was opened on November 9, and the Czechoslovak Communist Party relinquished its exclusive power on November 29, thanks to the Czech “Velvet Revolution.” After that Gustav’s life was never the same.

And the town of Namur had changed too since he was last here.

Then, the Iran-Iraq war had raged, and the rue de Bruxelles had featured political posters of Iranians, horribly maimed and burned by Saddam Hussein’s mustard gas. (Many Iranian victims had come to Belgium whose physicians had access to medical records from the German’s use of mustard gas at Ypres in 1917.)
Now World War II was a remote event, much less World War I. November 1989 was but a memory and the Iran-Iraq war was long over, and more recently, Saddam Hussein had been executed. The rue de Bruxelles now featured posters of Lady Gaga.

At the local level, the rue-de-Bruxelles eatery that had served the best “Frites” (deep fried in “blanc de boeuf”) was gone. Like others, Gustav had dipped the fries in mayonnaise.

Additionally, the nearby shop that made his favorite sub sandwiches called “Dagoberts,” had disappeared. While sometimes light on meat, the fresh-baked baguettes had made them always tasty.

And Gustav had changed too. He no longer had the strength or endurance he had enjoyed then. Now he was old, but he hoped, still strong enough. Perhaps his accumulated experience would trump the loss of physical abilities. His intuition had improved greatly since those earlier days!

One thing was the same. Belgians still smoked. At that happy thought, he reached into his jacket, and drew out a pack of Petra cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled. It was pure delight.

After arriving at the Brussels airport, Gustav had bought a new Subscriber Identity Module
(
SIM card) for his mobile phone. Then he had made two calls. The first was to a former Communist, a contact from years ago. For him he left a message.

The second call had been to the U. S. Embassy in Vienna. They instructed him to go to Namur and wait for Bill Hamm to contact him. The train station was located under the Brussels airport, and the trip by rail south to Namur had been easy and quick.

Now Gustav lay on the bed fully dressed, ready to move out quickly. His left arm hung off the bed, cigarette dangling. His eyes were closed, but his mind raced.

Ivana are you in Namur? I hope so. After twenty years, the town may be different but this is still my turf. And what is this Bill Hamm like? He must have some skill. He got you away from Moravec. How much of a problem will he pose? How will I free you from him?

His fingers felt heat. He rolled towards the end table, and stubbed the Petra into the ashtray. Then he fell back, exhausted.

The jet lag took its toll. Heavy eyelids closed. He slept.

In Prague, Karel Moravec
s
at at his massive desk. Two lights on the phone blinked simultaneously. He picked up the leftmost. The call was from the U. S. A., from Maryland.

“Yes?”

“Gustav Slavik flew to Belgium from Kennedy Airport yesterday.”

“So Slavik is back. I’ll handle him. What about Ryan Associates?”

“We are watching for them, but they have not been back to the office. They are only two women, Jeannine Ryan and an Aileen Harris. Ryan is a mathematician, a statistician, and Harris is a physiologist.”

“No chemists?”

“None, but Harris must know organic chemistry and some molecular biology. Her training is in physiology.”

Karel snorted.

“Pinhead female academics!”

“Not exactly, the Israelis credit them with helping the Mossad foil a plot to assassinate their prime minister.”

“
Sakra!
‘Hell!’ So maybe they are dangerous. The more reason to destroy them and whatever Vaclav gave them.”

Karel did not wait for a response. He ground his teeth and switched to the other blinking line.

“What?”

“Josef Hrubec, here. I’m in Brussels. Ivana is in Belgium, we think Namur. She’s traveling under a German passport as ‘Irma Neumann.’ She’s with a CIA operative named Hamm. Apparently they knew we were watching Ruzyne Airport, so they drove north to Dresden and flew to Brussels from there.”

“Find her and bring her to me, untouched! And watch out for Gustav. He’s in Belgium too, and he’s cooperating with the CIA.”

“Gustav with the Americans? Never! That can’t be true.”

Karel was silent. Hrubec retreated. He spoke to someone in the background before continuing.

“We just got confirmation on Ivana. We were right. She
is
in Namur.”

Karel ground his teeth.
Gustav, Ivana, and now these “Ryan” women. Damn them.

He hammered the buttons on the phone.

The lit lines went dark.

Bill Hamm stood in the train station of Namur, Belgium. He was tired and vexed. The loss of his secure phone in Prague had hampered his communications with Vienna. And he needed to hear Jeannine’s voice. He had been unable to reach her. There was no answer at the Bethesda office, and her cell number was on the lost phone.

And Ivana required attention. He had sat next to her on the flight from Dresden to Brussels. She was vulnerable in her current distress. On the plane, he had tried to comfort her, but she had pulled away. She was out of her element, afraid and leery of Americans.

Once in the “gare,” surrounded by scattered groups speaking mostly French, but also a mix of Flemish and English, she appeared calmer. Bill studied her demeanor as she stood silent. While she was no longer the self-assured assistant to Karel Moravec, she had regained some composure, and she was still attractive. There was no doubt about that. She turned to Bill with a quizzical smile.

Damn! I can’t figure what she’s thinking.

Bill cleared his thoughts.

“Ivana, do you speak French?”

“
Oui, un peu.
‘Yes, a little.’”

"Good.”

He decided to trust her. He pointed to a kiosk just outside the station entrance. Nearby, several cabs were discharging passengers and luggage.

“I’m going outside. You wait here. If anyone speaks to you, answer them in French, not in German, and surely not in Czech, understood?”

Ivana managed a slight smile.

“Not English?”

“No English, only French. Remember, you are just another Belgian waiting for someone. Just wait here. Can I trust you to do that? I’ll be right back.”

Bill walked away.

I’ll be right back. She’s afraid of Karel. She won’t run.

Ivana watched Bill disappear outside the station. She looked about as she smoothed her jeans against her hips. She smiled. She may have lost her high heels and long hair, but she still had her feminine charms.

For the first time in 48 hours, she was alone. Lips pouting, she spoke under her breath in a defiant English.

“No one tells me what to do
.
I wait for no man.”

She was in control of her own destiny once more!

At the kiosk outside the station, Bill purchased a prepaid phone. His first call was to Aileen’s mother, Mrs. Harris, in Bethesda, Maryland.

“Mrs. Harris, this is Bill Hamm. I’m trying to reach Jeannine. I lost my phone with her cell number, and no one is answering at the office. Do you have Aileen’s cell number?”

“Bill, where are you? There’s static.”

“I can’t say. Do you have her number?”

“Just a minute, I’ll get it for you.”

Bill fidgeted. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. Finally, Mrs. Harris came back on the line. She repeated the numbers slowly.

“Thanks Mrs. Harris, thanks a lot. I appreciate it.”

Bill did not wait. He punched Aileen’s number right away. When she answered, he sighed with relief.

“Aileen, this is Bill. Do you know where Jeannine is?”

“Bill! Hang on, Jeannine is right next to me.”

Jeannine grabbed the phone.

“Bill, thank God you are all right. You are, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine, I mean it. I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner. Are you OK?”

“I am, and Aileen too. There’s so much to tell you.”

The conversation encompassed important events such as Vaclav Pokorny’s death, Anne Simek’s discovery of Vaclav’s notes, Gustav’s wrecking the office of Ryan Associates and his vicious attack on Aileen, and the connection of Novichok-H with Hus-Kinetika.

At the reference to Hus-Kinetika, Bill broke in to recount his experience in delivering the “Goldfinch” from that company’s Karel Moravec. Jeannine listened patiently as Bill told her of his attractive charge and her escape from Moravec’s agents. After that, their conversation turned purely personal.

Ivana stood dutifully waiting where Bill Hamm had told her. But some minutes after he disappeared from sight, a crowd of students descended upon the station. Namur was home to a university, the
Facultés Universitaires Notre-Dame de la Paix
, and the boisterous group, freed from the “
Fac
” for the weekend, jammed the concourse filling it with the sounds of youthful exuberance.

Ivana’s eyes moistened. Once she had laughed like that. Why not again?

She hesitated, but only for a moment. She turned towards the station’s side exit.

Outside on the sidewalk, she edged along the building and peered around the corner. Bill Hamm, his back turned in her direction, stood near the main entrance, speaking on the phone.

Ivana ducked backwards and collided with a man behind her.

She started to speak in Czech, but remembered to use French.

“
Promiňte, ... Pardonnez-moi.
‘Excuse me.’”

The man was young, casually dressed, and good looking. He was more than willing to excuse this eye-pleasing woman. He spoke first in French before switching to English.

“
Pas de problème, mais vous avez un accent.
‘No problem, but you have an accent.’”

He smiled at her and continued.

“I’m Flemish. I speak French, but my English is better. Can you understand my English?”

She nodded affirmatively. His smile broadened.

“Do you know Belgium?”

She shook her head negatively. He smiled and touched her arm.

“Then let me introduce you to a Belgian treat, one of my favorites, Liège Waffles.”

She looked about. The street was crowded. Surely she was safe here with all these people.

She let him guide her down the block to a shiny steel stand. On it, irregularly-shaped hot waffles were arranged in a row. A hand-printed cardboard sign said
“GAUFRES DE LIÈGE.”

He paid for two and handed one to Ivana.

“These aren’t ‘Brussels Waffles.’ These don’t need syrup or fruit toppings. Some put Nutella on them, but they’re good by themselves. You can eat them hot, like this.”

He took a bite of the warm sticky treat. Ivana did likewise. The “gaufre” was sweet and crunchy.

“This is good, is very good.”

She licked her fingers, a definite “no-no” in Prague’s Platina Restaurant.

That done, she examined her new “friend.” He was dressed like a university student, but was, perhaps, older. He had broad shoulders and an infectious smile.

Ivana took stock of herself. Her jeans clasped a slim figure, and her loose sweater, jacket and sneakers, completed a youthful look.

She relaxed.

“Could I try another waffle?”

Her new friend bought two more and gave her one.

They sat at a sidewalk table to eat. She laughed and licked her fingers.