The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (36 page)

He stood for a moment and listened. Faint sounds of rubbing branches and snapping twigs marked the woman’s path. He rushed into the woods to follow.

A few yards inside the woods he stopped. The sounds had ceased.

Jeannine’s hands were shaking as she gasped for breath. The bullets had splintered the tree near her, and one fragment had raked her arm. She stopped to listen. The sounds of pursuit were near. Evidently her pursuer was tenacious.

She looked to her left. A large white oak had fallen over the edge of a small ravine and formed a slim crawl space. She squeezed under it and lay still as the man approached.

She held her breath. The stalker passed and the sound of shuffling dry leaves grew faint. This was her chance. She climbed out from under the log and took off running as fast as she could towards the car.

Behind her, she heard heavy sounds of pursuit.

Key in hand and ready, she broke into the clearing and dashed to the car. She fumbled to open the door.

Malik stepped into the clearing. He saw the woman by the car. He had a clear shot, but did not wish to damage the vehicle. Only a defenseless woman stood between him and freedom.

He saw her open the door. Still he did not shoot, but held the AK-47 ready to fire at the first sound of a motor starting. But there was no such sound.

He reached the car and pointed his weapon inside. The woman was not there. The rear passenger door on the other side was open. She had crawled out on his blind side.

No matter, she could not escape There were no hiding places in the clearing.

But a sound from behind made him turn.

There stood the woman, next to the rear fender. She held a weapon.

Abduk-Malik swallowed.

A mere woman!

“Brroom.”

He flew backwards as the full-choke clump of buck shot rammed his chest. His finger tightened and squeezed off a burst.

“Br, Br, Br, Brup.”

But the AK-47 discharged harmlessly into the ground as he fell.

Jeannine pumped a second shell into the chamber.

“Brroom.”

It was only insurance. Abdul-Malik was already dead.

She dropped her gun. She trembled all over and started to retch.

My God I’ve killed him.

She did not know it, but the last of the jihadists lay at her feet.

Aileen Harris and Peter Zeleny watched as their marine helicopter landed outside the pavilion grounds. The National Guard had cut an opening in the south fence, away from the heavily contaminated main gate and right-front entrance. Aileen and Peter, clad in white Level-A Hazmat suits marked with U.S. Flags, approached the impromptu gate. They were followed by two assistants carrying cartons of syringes each pre-loaded with a single dose of Xolak.

Inside the gate, a National Guardsman, clad in similar gear but of drab color, greeted them.

“We’ve been waiting. We have victims still alive over here.”

He pointed to the left-front entrance where a number of gassed spectators lay stretched on blankets.

“These folks were gassed through the sprinkler system. They didn’t die right away like the others. We guess that the water mixture weakened the Novichok-H somehow.”

The guardsman pointed further to a row of bodies, uniformed police and Secret Service.

“They weren’t so lucky. They were gassed by the jihadist’s ‘fire-equipment’ spray. Death was instantaneous”

But Peter was already leaning over a survivor. He spoke over the woman’s gasps and moans.

“I’m Dr. Zeleny. I’m here to help you. There is no time. I’m going to inject you with antidote.”

Aileen exposed the woman’s shoulder to the needle. Peter emptied the syringe and discarded it into Aileen’s tote.

Almost immediately the woman’s diaphragm relaxed and her breaths came easier. But Peter had already gone to the next patient.

“I’m Dr. Zeleny. I’m here to help you. There is no time. I’m going to inject you with antidote.”

As quickly as possible they moved down the line. Behind them, the treated individuals lay, diaphragms moving up and down, their breathing difficult, but improved.

The Xolak was working.

Across from Peter, two National Guard Corpsmen administered Xolak to a second line of fallen spectators, with equally salutary effects.

Peter came to the last of the first row of victims. She was a young attractive blonde. A new wedding band shone from the third finger of her left hand. A Virginia Tech ring adorned the corresponding finger on her right hand.

Peter knelt next to her. The injection of Xolak acted immediately.

The young woman spoke through forced breaths.

“I’m Monica Wilson. My husband, Barry, was with me. Is he all right?”

Peter looked about. Not far away was the body of a young man with shaggy light hair. On his right hand was a Virginia Tech ring, like Monica’s. He was obviously her “Barry.”

Peter looked at Aileen. She nodded in silent agreement.

Peter turned back to the woman. He spoke slowly and clearly.

“Mrs. Wilson, you just relax and breathe. We haven’t listed the survivors yet. Get your strength. We’ll know more later.”

Nearby, two medics stood next to an ambulance. Peter waved them over and pointed.

“She needs immediate attention. Put her at the head of the list for Front Royal.”

They strapped Monica to the gurney and wheeled her away.

Peter looked at Barry’s body. He shook his head. Sometimes being a doctor was the pits.

Aileen nodded and looked down.

The moment he was out of the pavilion, Bill called Jeannine. She recognized his number and spoke.

“Bill, where are you. Are you all right? Were you poisoned?”

“I’m fine. I’m in a
Hazmat suit from the National Guard. We stopped the release of Novichok-H, thanks to a fireman-engineer named ‘Ted.’ But you? Are you OK.”

Jeannine shivered.

“Not really. My arm is scratched and I just killed a man.”

“What! How? Who?”

“A terrorist with an AK-47. I used the Marlin 12 gauge.”

“My God, I should have told you to leave. Did he hurt you?”

“He got off one burst. It kicked dirt on my new Adidas.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I think so. My God, I never killed anyone before.”

“You have to leave right away. Go back the way you came, don’t come closer to the pavilion. Go to Front Royal and get a room. I’ll meet you there.”

“And the dead man?”

“I’ll send the National Guard for him.”

“Maybe I should pick you up.”

“You can’t. They’re setting up portable showers. I’m waiting to be decontaminated.”

Jeannine got in the car and wound along the woodland road towards Front Royal.

Harry Thomas, the Secret Service Agent, found Bill Hamm waiting near the decontamination tents. He spoke in a low voice.

“They found Roger Dixon. The body was where you said. It’s heavily contaminated.”

He paused.

“Bill, I want to thank you. Without your warning, the president would be dead. I’ll think better of you CIA spooks from now on. Thank you.”

“Harry, the country and the President owe you big time, whether they know it or not.”

“It’s my job.”

“I know that, but they still owe you, and Roger Dixon. He gave his life for the president.”

Harry started away, but Bill called him back.

“Wait, one more thing. If you’re handing out medals, look up that National Guardsman. His first name is ‘Ted.’ Without that guy we would be in trouble. He’s a fireman and engineer in real life. Used to work for a company called ‘NoFlame.’”

Bill continued.

“He knew where to shut down the sprinkler system, and then he knew where the fire suppression tanks for the kitchen were located. Those tanks are charged with nerve gas that’s not mixed with water. They would have been deadly.”

“I don’t know about any medals, but I’ll make damned sure he gets the credit.”

“Thanks Harry.”

Bill Hamm waited in line on the south side of the pavilion. The showers were almost set up. He called Jeannine.

“How’s your arm? Are you in Front Royal yet?”

“It’s fine, and almost. When can I come back and pick you up?”

Bill studied the waiting line. The first individuals were in the showers.”

“It’s hard to say. Maybe two hours, maybe more.”

“What should I bring to eat.”

“A burger and fries will do. We can eat something else later.”

Jeannine signed off. Bill looked ahead.

The line had slowed to a halt.

Bill sat and leaned against the thin trunk of a Crepe Myrtle. His chin dropped onto his chest.

Moments later he was asleep, sitting up.

At the safe house near Middleburg, Virginia, Tom Fletcher picked up the phone. It was his Chief who wasted no time.

“Where is Hamm?”

“He’s in Front Royal. He was getting checked at the hospital there.”

“Tell him he’s booked on a United flight from Dulles to Amsterdam this afternoon. He’ll connect there to Vienna. I have seats for that ‘Goldfinch’ and Elena Krkova too. Get them out of the country, now.”

Before Tom could reply, the Chief continued.

“The FBI is seriously pissed at the director. They want to know who authorized the CIA to conduct a domestic investigation in the States. It’s better if Bill and Elena are back in Vienna with me.”

“But it was the FBI that ran the raid on the W&C Fire Equipment Company in Warrenton!”

“I know that. It’s a turf war. Bill did a hell of a job, but they don’t want him to have the credit. Even so, my director is preparing an award for him. Meanwhile it’s better for him to be back here. The director wants to avoid any suggestion that our operation was a domestic one.”

Tom turned to Ivana who was on the couch, reading.

“Ivana, you’d better pack. You’re going back to Europe this afternoon.”

Then he called Elena Krkova and gave her the same message.

At a table in a small restaurant in Front Royal, Virginia, Bill Hamm and Jeannine Ryan sat across from Aileen Harris and Peter Zeleny. In front of them were freshly prepared hamburgers accompanied by frozen custard shakes, a house specialty.

Jeannine took a bite of her burger. Delicious. She looked at Aileen.

“What are your plans for today?”

“I’m flying to Pennsylvania, Johnstown, from Dulles this afternoon to pick up Mary Catherine. We’ll drive back to Bethesda this weekend. I’ll be at the office Monday.”

Jeannine answered.

“I probably won’t be there. Bill and I are spending the weekend on the Outer Banks. I called Mila. Anne Simek has a room for us in the house at Corolla.”

Jeannine glanced at Peter Zeleny. He did not react to the mention of Anne.

“What about you Peter? What are your plans?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know. Probably go back to Chicago.”

All had experienced enough action the past two weeks. Each turned to his or her burger and shake in silence. The lull was welcome.

Bill Hamm’s phone vibrated. He rose from the table and stood in a corner. When he came back his face was grim. He looked at Jeannine and shrugged his shoulders in dismay.

“I have to fly to Vienna this afternoon. I have to leave now. I can’t go to the Banks. I’m sorry.”

Jeannine was speechless, not so Aileen.

“Is that blond woman going with you?”

Bill nodded. He hesitated before continuing.

“Orders. I have to escort her back.”

“Damn it Bill, what about Jeannine?”

Bill fell silent. Jeannine swallowed and spoke.

“You do what you have to do, but I don’t know about this. Your job is too damned demanding.”

A car horn sounded outside.

His brow furrowed, Bill spoke to the table in general.

“I’m sorry. That’s Tom Fletcher, my ride is here.”

He handed the keys of the rental to Jeannine.

“They have an imprint of my credit card. Put all the charges on it.”

She rose from her seat and they briefly embraced.

Bill left.

Jeannine slumped into her seat. She took a bite of her burger, but it had lost its flavor.

They ate without talking.

Jeannine finished her meal and broke the awkward silence.

“Damn it, I’m sticking with my plans. I’m going to Corolla. I need a place to think. What about you, Peter.”

“I need some place to think too, but I doubt I’m welcome at Anne’s. I’ll probably rent a car and drive back, to Chicago, real slow.”

He muttered under his breath.

“
To je život a život je pes.
”

Both Aileen and Jeannine exclaimed.

“What?”

He answered.

“‘That’s life, and life is a Dog!’ In other words, ‘Life is the pits.’”

Jeannine reached over and hugged Peter. She kissed him on the cheek.

“This day has been horrific for all of us. We all need to recoup. Aileen’s car is at the Manassas Regional Airport. I’m dropping her there before I head south to North Carolina. Why not change your mind and come to Carolina too.”

He shook his head. She added.

“Anyway, maybe we’ll see you in Chicago some day.”

Aileen arose and likewise hugged Peter.

“Peter, thanks for everything. You saved many lives yesterday. And without you and poor Vaclav Pokorny, we would not have known about the Prague plot.”

Peter looked up.

“Thanks, but it was really you and Jeannine.”

He hesitated and added.

“And Anne Simek too.”

Peter slumped in his seat.

Jeannine and Aileen left.

Ivana Novotna had never been to the town of Front Royal, Virginia, and she knew none of its restaurants. She was unaware of the glum mood around a certain table in one of them. Had she known, however, she would not have cared.

Ivana was happy.

She was returning to Europe. She was sick of Virginia.

And Bill Hamm was her escort, not that dull Tom Fletcher. She liked Bill and was grateful to him. Surely he would take care of her.

She needed to escape this prison that the CIA called a “safe house.” And she would no longer be a “package.” Once in Europe, on her own turf, she hoped to restore herself. She would prove to Bill that she was still desirable.

She hummed as she packed her things.

Alone in his office, a Homeland Security Official fed the shredder from a stack of memos and documents that implicated him as a “friend” to the Czech pharmaceutical giant, Hus-Kinetika. Thanks to the generosity of that company, his retirement was well provided for.

But it was only a matter of days, maybe hours, before his role in approving the work order for Erik Holub at the Pavilion of National Unity became known to his superiors.

His days as a bureaucrat in the United States Government were over.

These were his last hours at the office. His plane ticket and passport were in his pocket, and his bank account was emptied and shifted to a bank in the Turks and Caicos Islands. He fed the last of the stack into the shredder.

He knew that investigators would locate copies of what he destroyed, but at least, he would not facilitate their search.

Behind him, the special FAX machine beeped. He looked at the originating number in surprise. He had cautioned his contacts that he would be unavailable for a “few” days. (They would learn of his departure soon enough.)
He punched a code and the message came through. It was a single sheet. He decided to provide one last service to his Czech sponsors.

He dialed the safe house in Virginia Beach, Virginia and faxed the message under his code name, “Smetana.”

Then he fed the sheet into the shredder and left.

A Gulfstream aircraft was waiting to fly him to the Caribbean.

It was noon in Corolla, North Carolina. Anne Simek sat at the kitchen table and looked to the west. She hunched over her laptop and tried to concentrate on her thesis, but thoughts of Peter, and worse, Aileen Harris, refused to leave her.

In the other half of the “great room,” Anne’s father was engrossed in the large-screen TV.

Anne looked up.

A talking head commented.

The camera panned over some two hundred individuals collapsed on rows of army blankets, evidently awaiting evacuation. It came to rest on a man and a woman standing with the reporter.

Anne gasped.
Peter! Aileen!

The camera zoomed in on Peter.

The camera switched back to the newsman behind his desk.

The camera switched to a commercial.

Havel Simek jumped up before Anne could say a word.

“Anne, did you see that? Was that your young man with that woman doctor?”

Anne could not speak. She nodded.

“You should go to him.”

“No father, he’s busy. I’ll call him later.”

“Make sure you do.”

Anne swallowed and stared at the TV.

Monica Wilson sat upright in her hospital bed. The doctor had just told her about her husband, Barry. She was a widow at twenty six. She wanted to cry, but no tears came.

She clicked on the TV.

A picture of a bearded Masoud flashed on the screen. Monica gaped. Beard or not, she knew that man.

“Billy! My God, it’s you. You killed Barry! How could you?”

This time the tears flowed freely. She buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

It was evening in Prague when Karel Moravec’s phone buzzed. He frowned at the calling number. It was the long overdue Josef Hrubec.

“Josef, where are you? What happened?”

“You’ve talked to Erik Holub. You know damned well what happened.”

“I know you failed. You got Hermann killed and Hugo and William Johnson arrested. Holub completed the mission without you. Why do you call me? What do you want?”

Josef bit his lip.

“I need help. I need money and a passport. Do not forget the years I served you.”

Silence.

Hrubec could not wait.

“I ask you to help me.”

Hrubec begging?
Karel felt a surge of power. He would be magnanimous!

“All right, Josef, where are you?”

“Manassas, Virginia.”

“The company has a safe house in Virginia Beach, Virginia. The code is ‘768904,’ you know how to look it up. You’ll find a passport there for you, and money. There are passports there for Hermann and Hugo too. Destroy them.”

Josef Hrubec did not push his luck. He hung up and headed for Virginia Beach.

Several hours later he arrived at the safe house in Virginia Beach where he found the fake passports as Karel had described. Hermann’s he destroyed but Hugo’s he kept. He and Hugo were of similar looks. A careless immigration officer might accept Hugo’s photograph as Hrubec’s.

He pocketed all the money, his own as well as Hermann’s and Hugo’s. They had no need of those funds now.

Then he found a metal case with a Belgian-made Browning. His luck was changing. This was his favorite weapon.

Hrubec knew he had to leave the U. S., but not right away. He had a vendetta to settle first.

Bill Hamm!

He was sipping a Pilsner Urquell when he noticed the FAX in the tray.

He read the bureaucrat’s final message.

Hamm is not going to North Carolina today. He is flying with Ivana Novotna to Amsterdam and Vienna leaving Dulles (DIA) this afternoon. It is possible Miss Ryan will go to Corolla without him.

Smetana

He looked at his watch. It was just after five.
Damn!
Hamm already had boarded the flight for Amsterdam. The prey had escaped him once more.