The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (17 page)

Outside the train station in Namur, Bill remembered Ivana. He spoke into the phone.

“Jeannine, I have to go. I’ve been talking too much. Ivana’s waiting.”

“You mean she’s not with you?”

“She’s inside the station. I have to go. I’ll have to call you back. Love you.”

In Vienna, a CIA analyst had interpreted Gustav Slavik’s concern for Ivana, a woman young enough to be his daughter, to mean that he was no longer dangerous, but Jeannine’s account of the assault on Aileen proved that the analyst was way off base. Gustav was still the “Old Gustav,” and extremely dangerous. And Bill was to meet this man here in Namur, with no backup!

But first things first. He had to take Ivana to a secure location.
At least she’s too afraid to run
.

He dashed through the concourse to the counter where he had left her.

No attractive young woman with short black hair was in sight.

Ivana was not there.

She was gone.

Outside, Ivana had just finished her gaufre when her new friend spoke.

“Namur is the Capital of the French-speaking region of Belgium. Would you like to see the old Citadel, it overlooks the city and the Meuse?”

Ivana hesitated, but the young man did not wait for an answer. He put on a helmet and mounted a red 250 cc Kawasaki. Pulling her from the chair, he handed her the extra helmet, and beckoned her to sit behind.

“We’ll take my moto. Jump on back.”

Ivana was unsure. This man was a stranger. She did not wish to go with him, but he lifted her onto the rear seat and mounted the moto.

Still smiling, he spoke over his shoulder.

Sorry, I hope I didn’t hurt you, but you are too pretty to leave alone with all these students around. Then he added.

“
Tu vas aimer la Citadelle.
‘You’ll like the Citadel.’”

He gunned the motor and sped away.

She had no choice. She wrapped her arms around him to hang on.

No way could she jump off!

Bill Hamm knew he had screwed up, big-time.

The only comfort he felt after seeing that Ivana was gone, was that no trains had left the station in the last twenty minutes.

A single train, headed to Jemelles and Luxembourg, was about to leave. A few quick questions to porters and conductors indicated that no “Irma Neumann” or anyone answering her description had boarded it.

Bill’s inquiries outside the station produced better results.

The proprietor of a nearby Liège-waffles stand recounted to Bill how a young woman had enjoyed one of his waffles, evidently her first. She had left with a young man on his “moto,” a red Kawasaki, maybe a 250 cc.

The proprietor wasn’t sure of their destination, but he had heard the young man mention “La Citadelle.”

Bill thanked him and ran back to the train station.

He took the first cab in line.

“
La Citadelle, s’il vous plaît, vite
. ‘The Citadel, please, quick.’”

The driver recognized Bill’s American accent. He looked back.

“Are you sure, Monsieur? Nobody’s there. The concessions and information center are closed this time of year. And it’s cold and windy up top.”

Namur’s Citadel is spectacular. True, it lacks the architectural splendor of the Prague Castle that shines over the Vltava and dominates the “Old Town,” but the Citadel, located at the confluence of the Sambre and the Meuse rivers, dominates Namur with a massive display of impregnable rock, raw cliffs and tall trees.

From a distance, Ivana had been impressed by the sheer size of the former fortress, but now, on the other side of the Sambre, the upper reaches of the Citadel were lost to view. They were too close to the base to see the top.

They were alone on the Boulevard Frère Orban, alongside the Sambre River, when her companion stopped the Kawasaki and cut the motor. Ivana lifted the helmet from her head, and shook her short hair. The stiff wind penetrated her jacket. She shivered.

Her companion put his arm about her and gestured upwards across the river.

“You need a warmer jacket. The wind up there will be freezing. Forget the Citadel. The university social center is near here. Hop back on, we’ll go there and warm up.”

Ivana was relieved.
I’ll be safe, there will be lots of people. Maybe this guy is OK?

The “guy” flashed that winning smile.

“By the way, my name is ‘Hans,’ and yours?”

She remembered the new passport.

“Irma, Irma Neumann.”

He stared at her.

“Then you’re German. You must understand my Dutch.”

Ivana did not want to continue this exchange. She rubbed her arms to warm them.

“Can we get out of the cold? And I’m hungry too.”

“Sure. The social center is in an old Arsenal built by Vauban, Louis XIV’s military engineer. It has several restaurants. We’ll go to La Cafet. I’ll buy you a ‘Croque Monsieur.’”

“A ‘what?’”

“A grilled cheese sandwich.”

Ivana relaxed. Hans had a winning way about him and besides, soon they would no longer be alone and she would be warm. The Kawasaki turned onto rue Bruno.

Bill Hamm sat in the rear seat of the Cab. He was disgusted with himself. His poor judgment in trusting Ivana would likely end his employment with the Agency, and deservedly so. He had thought that he had developed a bond of trust with Ivana. He had been sure that she would not bolt, if for no other reason than her fear of Karel Moravec.

How wrong he had been, and stupid!

He had to find her or his career was over.

He punched the number of a secure line to an office in Brussels. His partner, Tom, answered.

“Bill, when do you see Gustav?”

“I’m to call him in an hour, but there’s a problem. I’ve been really dumb.”

He told Tom of Ivana’s flight.

“Now I’m in a cab driving around Namur looking for a red Kawasaki with a brunette riding on the rear seat.”

He took a breath. What more could he say?

Tom broke the silence.

“Bill, this guy sounds like a student. Drive around the university. If it’s as cold there as it is here in Brussels, they will be somewhere indoors. Check the social center, it’s called the ‘Arsenal.’ It’s a long shot, but better than nothing.”

“Thanks, Tom. You’re right about the cold. We went to the Citadel. There was nothing at the summit except a vicious wind and a few parked cars.”

Bill touched the cab driver’s shoulder.

“Are we near the University? Or the Arsenal?”

“Straight ahead. For the Arsenal, we turn left on rue Joseph Grafé.”

“Do it!”

Inside the Arsenal, La Cafet was not crowded. Many of the FUNDP students commuted from other towns in Belgium, and Fridays often saw a mass exodus from the “Fac.”

Hans chose a table near a window. He watched Ivana eat her grilled cheese sandwich. She displayed none of the reserve required at Prague’s elegant La Platina restaurant. A large morsel of the crunchy toast distended her cheek as she munched with enthusiasm.

Hans did not eat. He leaned back and watched her with an ever-present smile. She was too hungry to notice his occasional glances at the street outside.

Ivana gulped and her distended cheek flattened to its normal attractive shape. She reached for a can of Coca-Cola Light and took a long swallow.

She looked up at Hans. He was staring out the window. A dark VW sedan had just stopped at the curb. She spoke.

“Hans, why didn’t you order a sandwich too? This is good.”

He ignored her. A balding man stepped out of the VW. Hans turned back to Ivana, and put his arm around her as if in affection. But his smile vanished as he whispered in her ear.

“I’m not hungry. Besides, ‘Irma,’ or should I say ‘Ivana,’ I have a message for you. Your friend Karel Moravec wants to see you. He insists.”

Bill Hamm spotted the red Kawasaki motorcycle chained at a stand near the Arsenal. He tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“Stop here.”

Bill jumped out. He ran to a student standing by the door.

“You understand English.”

“Some.”

Bill pointed.

“That red Kawasaki. The guy and the girl who came on it. Are they inside?”

“No. They left.”

“They didn’t take the moto?”

The student shrugged. He waved at the empty curb.

“They left with another guy in a VW, a big one, a Passat. ‘
La copine’
was not happy.”

“
La copine?
”

“The girlfriend. They had to push her into the car.”

In North Carolina, Jim Harrigan and Peter Zeleny waited outside the Currituck County Sheriff’s building. Peter looked at his watch.

“Mr. Harrigan, how much longer will it take. It’s been over an hour.”

“First, I’m not going to call you ‘Doctor,’ so I’ll be ‘Jim’ and you’ll be ‘Peter,’ OK?”

“Second, Anne Simek is a witness to the assault on Vaclav Pokorny, and possibly even his murder. She’s was late coming forward. She’s at least a material witness and maybe a suspect. The sheriff has a lot of options here.”

“But Mr. Har ..., sorry, Jim, she came here voluntarily.”

“Peter, she should have come to the sheriff right away. It’s been a week. You can’t blame the sheriff for thinking Anne has something to hide. If it weren’t for Mila I’d be damned suspicious of her myself. Maybe I’m still am. This could be a long wait.”

“Jim, Anne says that Vaclav was shot only once that night. She has medical training. She would have confirmed a single wound when she patched him up at that bed and breakfast in Wanchese.”

“Did you see him yourself?”

“No, he was gone when I got there. There was only that note. Someone had taken him away.”

“How did you know he was there?”

“He was there all right. There was blood all over the bed, and bloody clothing in the bathroom.”

“So what’s your point about only one bullet wound?”

“You told me there were at least four bullets in his body when they dragged it from Currituck Sound. That means someone else shot him three times after Anne last saw him. That person is the killer.”

“That’s probable, but can you say for sure that Anne wasn’t there when that happened?”

“Damn it, she was with me. She was trying to save Vaclav!”

Jim thought of Mila’s lustrous eyes and her total faith in Anne.

“I know that, and personally I’m sure she was, but my opinion does not count. The sheriff needs proof.”

“Then check the ballistics. You said several of the slugs were 7.62 mm rounds, like from an AK-47. The handgun slug would be 9 mm.”

“Normally you’d be right. Lots of handguns use 9 mm rounds. Unfortunately, the CZ-52 uses 7.62 mm ammo, like the AK-47.”

“Then check the striations. Surely you can tell if more than one slug came from the CZ-52.”

“The State lab says that two of the slugs are in bad shape, just fragments. They must have ricocheted off something. They could be from the CZ-52. They’re not sure. The other slugs do appear to be from another weapon.”

Jim put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Peter, you and I trust Anne. We believe her story. The sheriff can’t do that. It’s only Anne who says there was just one wound. We found one gun, true, but there could have been another there that night. Everything depends on her story.”

Peter fell quiet. Then his eyes lit again.

“What about the slugs from those two bodies found on the wildlife refuge? The men they say my father killed.”

“Those slugs are nine mm. They’re the wrong caliber.”

Jim Harrigan took a breath.
Damn it, the Park Service seized two AK-47’s in that arrest. Had the Currituck sheriff asked the state lab to compare them with the slugs in Vaclav’s body?
If one of these weapons matched the slugs, Peter’s father could be in more trouble, but Anne Simek was worth more than 100 Johan Zelenys.

Jim, the cop, knew that those slugs should be checked.

“Peter, you may have something. Wait here, I’m going inside to talk to a friend in the Sheriff’s office.”

He went up the steps and disappeared inside.

Peter waited by the car. All he could think of was Anne’s smile when she had left him and climbed those same steps.

She’s only there because she drove me back here. I’ve got to help her!

At the Best Western in Rockville, Maryland, Jeannine jumped up as Aileen entered with two sandwiches.

“Which, Jeannine? Ham and Swiss on Rye or Ham and Swiss on Whole Wheat?”

“On Rye, thanks.”

Aileen handed her the sandwich.

“What is Bill doing overseas?”

“He’s protecting someone, a source, for the CIA.”

Jeannine did not add that the “source” was a woman named “Ivana.” She added.

“Get this, the source worked at Hus-Kinetika.”

“Our Hus-Kinetika?”

“Exactly, there’s a CEO at Hus-Kinetika named Karel Moravec. He ordered the killing of Vaclav Pokorny, and the man who led the CIA to Bill’s source is the assassin who assaulted you at the office. His name is Gustav. He’s to meet Bill somewhere over there.”

Aileen shuddered. Her voice shook.

“I remember his eyes. He’s a killer. Bill has to be careful.”

“That’s what I told him. He assured me he’d be OK.”

“What about Vaclav’s files from Hus-Kinetika, and their weapon of mass destruction, Novichok-H?

“I told Bill that we had proof the stockpile wasn’t destroyed. Gustav claims to have information about where it is. He’s holding back, to trade with the CIA.”

Jeannine frowned. Her voice lowered.

“Aileen, this ‘Karel’ has other goons here in America. Gustav told Bill there was a team of Karel’s men watching our office when he went to search it.”

Aileen winced. “
Search” as in “Search and Destroy!’’

Jeannine continued.

“Bill thinks we need protection. I asked him how. There wasn’t time to talk and he said he’d think about it. Short term, he says to go to North Carolina, to the Outer Banks.”

“Why the Banks?”

“Bill’s former mentor at the CIA, Jim Harrigan, lives there. You and Peter met him. He retired from the Agency. He’s a policeman now. Bill says there’s no better person to watch out for us.”

“Do you think we should go?”

“I do.”

“But I don’t have my laptop. It’s at the office.”

“You can’t go there. Karel’s men will be watching. Ryan Associates will buy you a new one. Most of the files you need were shared with mine. And here, you keep Vaclav’s chip, I’ve copied it.”

“All right, I’ll go, but I have to make arrangements for Mary Catherine.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s going to visit my aunt in Pennsylvania this afternoon because she didn’t go at Thanksgiving. I’ll ask her to take Mary Catherine. She’ll have to miss some school next week, but she should be safe.”

“Then it’s done. I’ll call Harrigan. You call your mother.”

Jeannine drove her car. Aileen sat in the front seat, eyes closed.

At the Beltway, Jeannine turned away from the American Legion Bridge, the normal crossing of the Potomac south from Bethesda or Rockville. Instead she turned towards Annapolis. She would follow the Beltway where it dips south towards Clinton, MD.

She planned to cross the Potomac at Route 301, near Dahlgren, Virginia. This route was longer, but prudent. Any watchers waiting for her to travel to the Outer Banks would likely station themselves on the heavily-traveled I-95 to Richmond.

Over an hour later, Aileen rubbed her eyes.

“You must be tired. Where are we?”

“I’m not, and we’re about to cross the Potomac into Virginia.

Aileen now was wide awake.

“I’m really puzzled. What connection could there be between Xolak and Novichok-H. Why would Hus-Kinetika fake the Xolak data? Did Bill know about Xolak?”

“He’d never heard of it, but you’re the physiologist. Tell me what you think.”

“I don’t know what to think. I haven’t a clue.”

She paused.

“But Jeannine, there just has to be a connection!”

In Corolla, North Carolina, Jim Harrigan and Peter Zeleny ascended the steps to the beach house. Mila met them at the door.

“Where’s Anne?”

Peter looked down. Jim responded.

“The sheriff is holding her overnight as a material witness. He says she’s a flight risk.”

Mila’s eyes flashed
.
She turned away from Jim.

“Peter, I know this is hard for you. Come get something to eat. I have macaroni and cheese baking in the oven.”

She led Peter to the kitchen, but her thoughts were of Jim Harrigan. She muttered under her breath.

“I knew it.
š
patné policie,
‘Bad police’ ... The same everywhere. You can never trust them.”

She served Peter. Jim had to wait.

Dr. Lawrence Harold Hodges, “Larry,” Senior Administrator at the Food and Drug Administration, sat at his desk in the Parklawn Building in Rockville, Maryland. It was late. It was Friday. The staff was long gone. He yawned.

There. He initialed the memo rejecting Hus-Kinetika’s Xolak report.

That done, he frowned.

This will satisfy that stubborn Dr. Ryan. Now maybe she’ll have lunch with me?

An image of the shapely redhead flashed before him.

He picked up the brown envelope addressed to his Chief. He was about to seal it when he heard footsteps. He looked up. A man stood before his desk. Larry spoke

“You’re a half hour early.”

The man shrugged and moved behind the desk. He wore Latex gloves and held an odd-shaped pen. He touched it to the back of Larry’s wrist. Larry started.

“What? ... ”

The words stopped. His pupils shrank to pin points.
No air, no air.
He gasped and clutched his throat. At least he tried to, but his arms did not respond. He slumped forward. His head struck the desk. In only seconds, he was dead.

The visitor removed Larry’s memo from the envelope. He inserted another that was identical except that Hus-Kinetika’s report was accepted. Its initials were identical to Larry’s. He dropped it into the “Out” box.

Larry’s memo he stuffed in his pocket. Then he studied the corpse. There was no lesion where his “pen” had touched the skin, nothing, a simple case of Cardiac Arrest.

He smiled. Even if performed, tests for the usual nerve agents would reveal nothing.

He switched the lights off and left.