The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (21 page)

William M. Jones was born thirty years ago in Fairfax, Virginia. He was baptized a Christian for cultural reasons, but religion was not a factor in his upbringing. The agnostic tendencies of his mother and father failed to stimulate any reaction, much less belief, in their son.

William was a natural athlete, but in High School, he disappointed his father by disdaining organized sports. He eschewed discipline unless imposed by himself on himself.

He was no nerd. He kept physically fit by pumping iron and running. With his friends Barry Wilson and Monica Barrett, he partied, slept late, and mostly ignored his studies
.
He did not do drugs, he valued his trim muscular form.

At his high school graduation, the name on his diploma was William Morris Jones, “Morris,” after his maternal grandfather.

Then, during his third year at university, William’s political science professor encouraged him to examine the tenets of Islam. William eagerly immersed himself in the abundant internet offerings of radical Muslims.

Faced with the emptiness of his life, William realized that his eternal destiny was to serve Allah. He became William “Masoud” Jones, joined the Muslim Student Association, and a year later, as a senior, headed a study group on “Militant Islam.” He abandoned alcohol and studied long hours. He could not make up completely for his lazy years, but he managed to graduate with a degree in civil engineering.

Masoud attended a local mosque. Filled with fervor, he vowed to serve Allah, and only Him. He impressed his spiritual advisors who told him to avoid public displays of his religion, and that he must no longer frequent the Mosque. He would be a warrior but only in Allah’s time.

When he received a wedding invitation from his former friends, Monica Barrett and Barry Wilson, he sent a present, but did not attend the Christian ceremony.

He himself did not marry, but moved to a small town in Virginia where he joined the Volunteer Fire Department. He became a local hero when he carried the daughter of a prominent farmer to safety moments before the ceiling of her bedroom collapsed.

Masoud enjoyed the fame, but he felt rejected. He should be a warrior for Allah. Surely that was his destiny! And he was tired of keeping the name “Jones,” no matter how important his mentors thought the deception was needed
But William Masoud Jones, domestic terrorist, was obedient.

He waited.

And Masoud’s patience had been rewarded this past September, when he received several electronic communications.

First, there was the money. A new account established in his name contained more money than he could ever have thought existed.

Then there were the instructions. He was to move immediately to Dethorens, Virginia, to form a Volunteer Fire Department. An anonymous benefactor had given a large amount of money to the town specifically for that purpose.

The benefactor’s only stipulation to the authorities was that Masoud be appointed Fire Chief. They voted on the gift in a special session, and William “M.” Jones the “hero of Marshall” was unanimously approved.

Already the benefactor had started the erection of a steel frame building in the town’s sole commercial area. The target for completion was early October, at which time the latest in fire equipment, a modern tanker-pumper, an ambulance, and yes, special Hazmat equipment, was to arrive.

Masoud also received a list of “volunteers” to interview. From it he was to choose three shifts for the volunteer fire department, but he must accept everyone on the list whether or not they were assigned to a shift. He was to house everyone in a multi-million dollar mansion located on over sixty acres that the benefactor had rented.

And he was to train everyone in Hazmat procedures endorsed by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA) as well as in the use of his own special equipment.

Head down on his prayer mat, William Masoud Jones had thanked Allah.

The waiting was over.

In Belgium, Josef Hrubec had postponed making this call for 24 hours. He could wait no longer. He was not afraid of Karel, far from it, but Hrubec was proud. He hated failure. This call would confirm the failure at Malèves to himself, as well as to that pompous ass, Karel.

He picked up his phone, paused, and punched the number. The voice that answered was familiar.

“Fiala, let me speak to the Chief.”

“
On není tady
. ‘He’s not here.’”

Hrubec started to hang up, but Fiala continued.

“He told me to ask you two things. ‘Where is the package?’ and ‘Where is Gustav?’”

Josef Hrubec swallowed. To have to answer to this blond idiot was a major punishment. Evidently, the delay had proved to Karel that the news was bad.

He contained his distaste for the secretary, took a deep breath, and recounted to Fiala the ‘mishaps’ of the Belgian operation.

Then he provided her with the latest from his informants.

The Americans had placed Gustav Slavik on a military flight to the U. S. He was to be treated at a hospital in the DC area, probably Naval Medical in Bethesda, Maryland.

A CIA hack named Hamm, stationed in Vienna, had flown with Ivana to the U. S. in a private charter. The two of them were likely at a safe house somewhere in Virginia.

Hrubec was deliberately brief in his account. He omitted all details of how Bill Hamm and Gustav had thwarted his abduction of Ivana, particularly the casualties his group had sustained.

By the time he hung up, Hrubec was smoldering. He would not forget Karel’s snub. He was sure that Karel had listened to his entire conversation with Fiala.

He was right.

Almost instantly, his cell phone buzzed. It was Fiala again.

“Karel wants you to fly to America immediately. Your flight is arranged. Pick up the tickets in Brussels. A member of the Maryland team will meet you at Baltimore-Washington Airport when you arrive. He will have instructions for you.”

“Click.”

Hrubec ground his teeth. Another demotion. Instructions from one of the Maryland lackeys?

Karel, be careful, I too have limits.

In Maryland, in a Hus-Kinetika laboratory not far from Aberdeen, Michal Pacak retrieved a remote printout with the High Performance Liquid Chromatography (HPLC) results. The high performance chromatograph, and the samples it measured, were located in a specially sealed and isolated area where robotic arms and other devices performed their programmed tasks under the watchful eyes of a multitude of television cameras.

Michal was a Czech chemist, a graduate of the Technical University of Brno. He was young, his entire education was after the Velvet Revolution. All he knew of Communism, was the bitter old men who sat at street-side cafes to share stories while they soaked in beer or stronger spirits. Their archaic notions bored him.

Michal was no ideologue, but he was gifted. At the Technical University his professor of chemistry had recognized Michal’s intelligence and abstract lack of moral sense. The combination made him a natural recruit for Hus-Kinetika’s “special project.”

Michal’s professor had been a protégé of a well-known Czech Colonel who conducted research on nerve agents at an institute in Brno. With the dissolution of the Czechoslovak Socialist Republic, the records and equipment of the institute had been purchased by Hus-Kinetika. At the university nearby, Michal’s professor had introduced him to the world of organophosphate and carbamate pesticides.

After an internship with Hus-Kinetika and the subsequent completion of his studies, Michal, seduced by an absurdly high salary with multiple benefits, was sent to the laboratory in Maryland, in the United States of America.

Now he had a key role in the conspirators’ plans.

Michal Pacak hunched over his lab bench to study the output. There were no windows on this floor, and his eyes strained under the fluttering fluorescent lights that flooded the work area. To his right, an array of over twenty TV’s served as monitors of various robotic activities taking place in a “sealed” laboratory area.

Michal focused on the latest printout from the Varian chromatograph. The peaks were clearly defined and occurred precisely above the correct points on the axis. This was the signature of Novichok-H.

Meanwhile, “peaks” from both precursors all were nearly flat, at most two per cent of those chemicals remained. At this temperature and mix, the reaction had yielded the lethal product with an efficiency of 98 per cent.

Michal thrust his fist in the air with a silent cheer. This was the last of the containers to be tested, After years of shipment and storage, the chemical precursors had not deteriorated. Tons of Novichok-H were available for whatever plan his superiors had in mind.

Whatever the plan was, it required a large volume delivery. Michal’s next requirement was to scale up the reaction volume to a 320 liter tank. This had problems beyond those for the small volumes already tested. He would need a “stirring” device inside the tank to ensure rapid mixing and reactivity of the precursors.

A footstep sounded behind him.

Michal turned and recognized a coworker, Elena Krkova. Like Michal, she was in her mid-twenties. She was clad in a long rubber apron and her hair was concealed in a protective wrap which she loosened to let long brown tresses tumble free.

She tapped her finger on a pack of American cigarettes.

“Michal, come take a break with me. I need a smoke.”

Elena was a new arrival from the Czech Republic. The dire warnings of the United States Surgeon General had not yet intimidated her.

Michal stood quickly. Elena was a “Dish.”

“Why not, I just found good news. There’s no deterioration in that shipment of pesticides.”

He said no more. He did not know what Elena knew about his real work. She may have been assigned to watch him, or maybe she was simply friendly. In either case she was attractive. He would enjoy her company
They took an elevator to the ground floor. This was the United States. She had to leave the building to smoke.

The air outside was cold and the wind was brisk. Elena stood in the open while Michal stayed in the shelter of the doorway. It was not possible to wander. A high fence topped with razor wire barred access into the nearby tulip poplars, now bare except for small dry cuplike clusters of seeds, that dominated the surrounding woods.

Elena lit up and inhaled. Only then did she hold out the pack to Michal.

“Would you like one?”

“No thanks.”

Elena was relieved. At today’s taxes, each cigarette was precious.

“What pesticide are you working on, Michal?”

Michal replied with a question of his own.

“Where are you from, Elena? And where did you attend university?”

“From Kladno, near Prague, and Charles University, of course.”

Michal was not sure if her reply was a put-down. Graduates of Charles University often acknowledged no other institution but theirs, but Michal was not offended. The Technical University of Brno was world-class. He continued.

“Why did you come to Maryland? Why the States?”

Elena inhaled and lit a second cigarette from the first. She smiled. She too could be evasive.

“This is my first time in the States and I need to see some sights. Maybe you could take me to Baltimore tonight. We could eat at the harbor.”

She turned in his direction. She possessed an ample chest under the drab rubber apron. Michal could not say no. He didn’t.

“That would be great. You’re off at six, yes? I’ll meet you at the main gate. We’ll take my car. It’s a brown Audi.”

Elena noted with satisfaction that he knew her schedule.
So he is interested
. She not only knew the make and color of his car, its license plate was committed to her memory, along with his cell number and address. She had her assignment and she would complete it.
But what a nerd!

“Thanks, Michal.”

She stubbed out her cigarette.

They returned to the third floor.

Once on the third floor, Michal went directly to his lab bench.

Elena re-wrapped her hair and resumed her task of monitoring the robotic manipulation of lab vessels on closed circuit TV.

Next to the battery of TV’s, a large panel exhibited rows of green lights. Elena checked them periodically, a blinking red light would signal a leak from one of the sealed hoods. If that occurred, the cubicle (itself sealed) that contained the leaking hood would have to be flushed and decontaminated.

A third layer of protection was indicated by a row of large lights, likewise green. Each light represented a major “Zone” that contained multiple modules. The zones were graded by degree of risk. Zone A contained the hoods where the most toxic reagents were handled.