WASHINGTON, D.C.
Kurt Jenkins, the CIA Director of Operations, ushered his assistant into the study of his Georgetown home and quietly shut the French doors behind them. Jenkins’ wife had answered the door, and when she saw that it was work, had stormed off to the dining room to feed her two young children, while she screamed for her husband up the banister. It was another meal her husband would have to re-heat in the microwave.
Jenkins tried to keep his home life and Agency duties separate, but sometimes that was impossible. When he had shuffled down the stairs, he understood why his wife was so disturbed. With just the sight of his assistant, Bradley Stevens, in the foyer, he knew something was up. And it was probably not good news.
“What do you have, Brad?” Jenkins asked, pouring two glasses of whiskey straight up.
Stevens was a tall, slim man who walked like a stork. His thin face and crooked, long nose, were accented by tiny circular spectacles, identical to the ones his boss, Jenkins, wore. Stevens was a Princeton honors graduate in political science who had decided on law school at age ten, but had put it off to serve his country for a few years. A few years had turned into ten, with Stevens hopping from Defense to the State Department, and now the Agency. He was in his early thirties now with no intention of going back to school. He liked what he did. It was important work. And besides, he too had a wife and two children to support. He was Jenkins’ right hand man. His eyes and ears in an organization where paranoia was endemic.
Bradley Stevens took off his glasses, breathed on them, and then started wiping them clean with a special cloth he always carried in his pocket. “Not good, boss,” Stevens said, settling into a hard leather chair. He put his glasses back on, accepted the glass of whiskey, and held it in his unsteady hand.
“Don’t spill that, Brad. It’s older than your children.” Jenkins took a sip of whiskey. “Well?”
“Odessa. Tully O’Neill, the station chief, called secure about an hour ago. The woman who worked with Tvchenko, Petra Kovarik, has been murdered.”
“How? Did we get anything from her?”
Stevens shook his head. “We’re not a hundred percent certain. She was being watched by Jake Adams when at least two gunmen smashed through the safe house door and started firing.”
“Jake Adams?”
“Yes. He used to work for the old agency, and was a captain in Air Force intelligence before going private a few years back. He’s the one who saved Tully’s ass a few days ago. The director put him to work for us.”
“Yeah, yeah, go on.”
“Adams and Quinn Armstrong were watching the two women. Armstrong stepped out for a minute when the shooting took place. It appears that Adams escaped with the other woman, a friend of the scientist’s assistant.”
Jenkins took another drink of whiskey. “Where are they now?”
“Uncertain. The only blood in the room was from Petra Kovarik. Adams shot one of the shooters, but that guy’s not talking.”
“Who is it?”
“No name, no I.D., but Tully seems to think he’s either a Turk or a Kurd, maybe both.”
“Shit. Have we come up with a tie with the nerve gas theft from Johnston Atoll? What in the hell is going on in Texas?”
Stevens shifted in his chair and took his first drink of whiskey, nearly choking.
“Well?”
“I’m not sure. But Steve Nelsen has his theory.”
“President Bush. I know, I already heard that one. If he’s right, he’s a hero. If he’s wrong, then he’s pissed off a whole bunch of people.”
“It makes some sense.”
“That’s a hell of a memory on the part of the Kurds,” Jenkins said. “Why wait so long? It’s been years since the Gulf War.”
“The Kurds are a patient bunch, sir,” Stevens said. “They’ve been pushed and shoved for a long time. Maybe they’re sick of being bullied. But that’s not all. There was a businessman killed in Berlin a few days ago. Gerhard Kreuzberg.”
Jenkins’ eyes shot up. “Kreuzberg? The German foreign minister a few years back?”
“Yes, sir. Under Kohl. In fact, he was the foreign minister during the Gulf War.”
“And you think—”
“It’s too much of a coincidence not to think it.”
“What would they gain by killing Kreuzberg?”
“Legitimacy. Revenge. Kreuzberg wouldn’t allow Germany to get involved any more than they did.”
“But he had German law on his side,” Jenkins assured his assistant.
“True. But that’s never stopped the Germans before. It wasn’t only that. He stood by when Germans started killing Turks in Bonn, and Cologne, and Frankfurt. Many of those were Kurds. They set themselves on fire on the autobahns in protest, and Kreuzberg did nothing. He couldn’t. The average German was backing him, because Germans had lost their jobs to Turks, jobs they didn’t want to do until there were no others to be found. The country was combining with East Germany, with more labor problems. Kreuzberg had to make a strong stand. The Kurds felt betrayed.”
“So they kill him years later?” Jenkins asked.
“Maybe they’re finally unifying like the Palestinians did under Arafat.”
“That’s three operations in two weeks. That’s some great unity.” Jenkins paused to finish his whiskey and think. “This is all just a theory.”
“A pretty good one.”
“What do you recommend?”
Stevens straightened the tiny glasses on his nose. “Our German contacts say Kreuzberg was killed by a poisoned pellet. Probably Ricin.”
“Ricin? Who still uses that?”
Stevens shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s interesting. All those people on Johnston were poisoned. Tvchenko was probably killed by a Sarin-based formula, and now the German. Tvchenko developed some of the most deadly Sarin weapons, and then went far beyond that stage. Tully O’Neill said that Tvchenko was working on a new pesticide. Sarin is similar to commercial insecticides and pesticides. Maybe Tvchenko was trying to double dip. Make one version of the formula for commercial use, and the other for military use as a nerve gas.”
“Is that another theory?”
“Perhaps more than a theory,” Stevens said. “Tully said Tvchenko’s apartment smelled of isopropyl alcohol, a precursor for Sarin.”
“Isopropyl alcohol is used all the time by chemists.”
“True. But not in great quantities.”
Jenkins was thinking it over. There was still no logical reason the Kurds had started on this road of terrorism, but it was becoming clearer that they had. Stranger still is that the Kurds had not claimed responsibility for any of the acts. It was more or less an unwritten law that the guilty bastards with blood on their hands would be proud to extol praise on themselves to anyone who would listen, that it was they who had brought terror to the super countries. Yet, they had remained silent. “So, what will the Kurds do next?”
“We’ll have to research who’s pissed them off.”
Jenkins rubbed his temples. What was going on? He would have to trust his field officers, Nelsen and O’Neill. If Nelsen thought Bush was in danger, they’d better do everything within their power to safeguard him. And this Adams in Odessa. What was he up to? The Kurds were a problem that would not go away easily this time. Who had pissed them off? That was the problem. The list would be long.
“Fire off a call to Nelsen pronto,” Jenkins finally said. “Tell him I want a plan to keep Bush safe on my desk in the morning. He can use whatever means possible. Extreme prejudice.” Jenkins pointed his finger directly toward his assistant’s skinny nose. “Also...I want O’Neill to brief me on Adams. I want to know if Tvchenko’s assistant told him anything before she was killed. Brief O’Neill on the German and Nelsen’s theory in Texas.”
Stevens rose from his chair and started toward the door.
“Just a minute,” Jenkins muttered. “Talk with our people in Berlin. Brief them on what’s going on in Odessa and Texas. Explain what we think is a tie to Johnston Atoll.”
“Yes, sir.” Stevens let himself out.
Jenkins poured himself another whiskey and stared into it. This was perhaps the most important case he’d ever worked on. Certainly the most important since the new Agency was formed six months ago. When he was sworn in as Director, he had had this great feeling of pride. Yet, he had also felt apprehension, since he knew that so many people would depend on his judgment. He only hoped he was up to the task. He slowly put the glass to his lips and let the whiskey slide down, warming him all the way to his gut.