The Prague Plot: The Cold War Meets the Jihad (Jeannine Ryan Series Book 3) (26 page)

At the Simek home in Chicago, the sound of the TV echoed through the hallway. Anne peered into the den. Her father, Havel, eyes shut, mouth open, dozed in his comfortable chair. The large-screen television blared from the opposite wall.

She slipped into the room and turned the sound lower. Havel did not move. His breathing remained deep and regular.

She was concerned. Her father had eaten little that evening and he needed rest. But there was nothing she could do. He was determined to watch the basketball game. The game would start in about an hour.

Tonight’s contest was important. His team, the Chicago Bulls were to play their division rivals, the Detroit Pistons. How he had become a fan of American basketball, she did not know, but he never missed a game. He spent his evenings in that chair.

Anne did not wake him.

Tonight she had reason to leave him be. Peter would arrive shortly, and she could protest to him that her father not be disturbed. The meeting she dreaded would be delayed until they returned from the restaurant.

She looked at her watch. It was time to freshen up before Peter came.

Peter waited in the hall while Anne put on her coat. She took his arm. They shut the door after them.

Havel slept in front of the television. The sound of the front door closing entered his subconscious.

The dream always started the same way. A door that opened and shut. A room with a garish pink ceiling under which ran exposed pipes. Lights that blinded and a voice, it had to be his own, that repeated over and over.

“
Nevim, Nevim, Nevim nic.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know anything.’”

And then the blows, many to the kidneys, to the shoulders, the repeated shrieks of pain, his shrieks, always followed by a welcome blackness that undulated to nothing, to an empty nothingness. Nothing at all.

At this point in the dream, half awake, Havel always wiped a wet forehead and loosened his sweat-drenched collar before drifting into darkness through which a voice cursed and pleaded. It was the voice of Johan Zeleny, his “friend,” Jan.

“Tell him, Havel! Tell him. For God’s sake, tell him.”

But what? Tell who what?

More blows to the back, pain, pain, pain, followed by darkness.

Then that final voice. Rasping tones that Havel did not recognize, barely human and surely evil. The voice of the unknown man who was the source of all Havel’s suffering.

At this point, as always, he would awake, arms clasped, body shaking.

Tonight was no exception. He stared blankly at his ceiling. It was white.

The television blared as the announcer introduced the Bulls.

The home crowd roared.

Havel shook himself awake. He forced his eyes wide as the game started.

The Bulls won the tipoff.

Near Warrenton, a thick growth of juniper branches entwined with thorny Smilax vines blocked the trail. Bill Hamm stopped and dismounted the ATV. He unsheathed his machete and hacked at the tangle. The overgrown vegetation was an irritant, but also a comfort. The trail had not been cleared this past summer. Bill’s approach route would not be guarded.

Bill shoved the machete in its sheath and remounted his machine. It was growing dark fast and he was still several miles from the plant.

The ATV rumbled and bumped along. A doe leapt across his path and disappeared between two junipers.

Bill shivered. With the sun gone, the air was cold.

Ahead and some distance to the north, a shotgun blast broke the silence of the mixed pine woods. Startled, Bill stopped the ATV and listened. Had he heard what he thought?

Yes. Moments later a second blast echoed from the distant woods.

Bill started forward, but proceeded slowly.

He thought of the deer he had spooked. It was dark now. If the shots were from some random individual, then a poacher was at work in the woods. On the other hand, if the shots were from one of Hrubec’s guards, Bill’s route was under surveillance.

Bill had no desire to encounter a trigger-happy poacher in the dark. He had even less desire to shoot his way through an alerted guard.

Bill thought for a moment before setting his jaw. He needed to scout this plant.

He weaved the ATV forward through the brush-invaded trail.

Hrubec had studied the layout of the W&C Fire Equipment Company of Warrenton, Virginia. He had hidden video cameras in the trees along the main entrance road. He knew the layout of the grounds.

He expected Hamm to approach along the main route.

But Hrubec was aware of the overgrown trail from the south. There the gate in the high fence had rusted hinges, was thoroughly chained, and overgrown with ivy. The entrance had not been used for years.

But he had underestimated Hamm once, he would not repeat that mistake. Hrubec decided to guard the gate.

For the task, he chose William Johnson. “Willy” was the least-capable (in Hrubec’s estimation) member of the North Carolina team. However “least” was relative. Willy not only was good with computers, but highly skilled with an AK-47. And he knew this area. The year before, he had hunted deer on the unfenced wooded tracts that belonged to the company.

Hrubec sat before the TV monitors in his makeshift office in the construction trailer. Where was Hamm? He should have appeared by now.

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He was tired. Much had happened in the few days since his arrival in the U. S.

His cell phone vibrated. It was Willy Johnson.

“Sir, someone fired a shotgun not far from here. Two shots. Could be a hunter, but maybe it’s your guy ‘Hamm.’”

“If it’s him, it might be a diversion. Hamm is smart.”

Willy waited. Hrubec decided.

“All right. When Hugo gets back I’ll send him to you. Hermann will stay here with me. Stay alert. Any more shots let me know right away.”

Hrubec scanned the monitors. An eighteen wheeler had stopped at the gate. He watched as Hermann checked the driver and verified that the van was empty.

Immediately after, the van backed to the dock and the loading began. The complex was bright with lights. Forklifts moved red tanks from the warehouse to the dock in rapid succession.

On the warehouse floor, scattered white lights blazed as numerous welders worked hard on tomorrow’s shipment.

Hrubec smiled.

All right, Erik, so you made these guys work! But you know too much. One more load tomorrow night and we won’t need you anymore.

Hrubec returned to the monitors.

Willy Johnson was nervous.

He was on the safe side of an overgrown gate rusted shut and not opened for years, and he had his AK-47 with a 50 round magazine ready to fire, along with two 30 round magazines in his pack. Moreover he had heard no more shotguns, probably just a good old boy sneaking some extra venison for the freezer.

But still he shook and shuffled his feet. He wished Hugo were here with him.

Where was Hugo? Hrubec had said that he would send Hugo to Willy when he came back. Why would Hrubec weaken his security by sending Hugo away? Even with Hugo they were short-handed.

It was dark now and his post was too well illuminated.

He was a sitting duck for an intruder who could eliminate him with a single well-placed shot.

Willy looked about. Not far from the lit perimeter was a tall oak, its trunk thick enough to shelter a man. In the shadows behind it he could watch the gate and be safely out of sight.

Willy lifted his pack by the straps and went to the tree. He took up his position next to the oak.

In Chicago, Peter Zeleny and Anne Simek returned to the Simek household. From within, the sounds of a basketball game echoed through the hallway to the outside door. It was late, but the game was in overtime.

They embraced.

“Anne, can I come in? Maybe we could talk to your father now?”

“Peter, the game is still on. He won’t like being interrupted. Besides it’s best if we give him more time.”

“Anne, I don’t want to wait. He has to know about us sometime. And my father is dead. What can be the problem?”

“I’m worried, that’s all. Please, for me, wait until tomorrow.”

Peter seized her and kissed her full force. A voice came from inside the house.

“Anna, shut the door. Is Chicago, not Carolina. The draft is freezing me. I’m watching the game.”

Anne looked up at Peter. The tone of her father’s voice confirmed that this was not the time to talk.

Peter smiled and kissed her forehead.

“Good night,
Anne
.”

He left.

At the Hampton Inn in Gainesville, Jeannine lay fully clothed on the bed. Her cell was at her side, ready for Bill’s call. She tried to stay awake, but she was tired from the lack of sleep the night before.

Her eyes closed and she dozed.

At the southern gate, an unhappy Willy Johnson stood in the shadows of the white oak tree. He was still alone. His reinforcement, Hugo, had not arrived.

Hurry up, Hugo. It’s spooky here
.

A twig snapped behind him.

Willy wheeled about and peered into the darkness where the perimeter lights were ineffective. He pointed his weapon in the direction of the sound.

He strained to distinguish individual forms in the blackness.

Nothing moved.

Josef Hrubec surveyed the bank of monitors. The eighteen wheeler was loaded and on its way. His cameras followed the truck’s progress towards Lee Highway. He was relieved. Hamm had not stopped the shipment, and tomorrow night would see the last delivery from this plant.

His phone vibrated. It was Hugo, not Willy.

“Sir, you were right. Hamm’s Accord was a Hertz rental. I waited at their Gainesville office like you said. The woman who turned it in rented a Fiesta instead. I followed her to the Hampton Inn in Gainesville. She’s there for the night.”

“Her face matches my photo?”

“It does. And she has a great shape.”

“Her name is Ryan. This is what I want you to do.”

Jeannine’s sleep was interrupted by the buzzing of the phone on the end table. She picked up. It was the night clerk.

“Ms. Ryan, I’m sorry to bother you, but the Hertz rental office just called. There’s a problem with the insurance form for your rental. They forgot to give it to you to sign.”

“It’s late. Isn’t the office closed? And how did they know I was here?”

“It is closed and we’re the fourth hotel in the area they called. But it was their mistake and they want you covered and don’t want any problems with their insurance company. One of their agents is here with the form. May I give him your room number. He’ll bring it up for you to sign.”

“No. Don’t do that. I’ll come down.”

She slid off the bed, and slipped into her sneakers. The elevator was only two rooms down the hall. She punched the down button and waited. The doors opened and she stepped in.

Out of the side of her eye she saw the form of a man. She tried to back out, but too late. An arm wrapped around her neck. She smelled the strong odor of chloroform.

The elevator doors closed as she slumped to her knees.

Then all was black.

Josef Hrubec was still watching the TV monitors, when his cell phone vibrated anew.

“Sir, I have Ryan. I chloroformed her. She’s in the van.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“I had to talk to the night clerk, but he never saw Ryan, or us together. I trapped her in the elevator.”

“Good work, Hugo. That woman is my answer to Hamm. Get her here as fast as you can.”

Hrubec sat and rubbed his hands together, but his satisfaction ended quickly.

Automatic weapons’ fire resounded from the direction of Willy’s gate.

At his station by the rusted gate, Willy Johnson fired a second burst into the darkness behind the oak tree.

Again, nothing. No sounds, no rustling leaves. No cries, animal or otherwise, from the deep shadows. Nothing.

He moved towards the fence. The lit area stopped at the rusted gate. Beyond that the fence stretched back towards the warehouse complex.

Willy stepped carefully, to avoid cracking the dry branches that littered the “fire-break” alongside the fence.

All was quiet.

He hefted his weapon. The extra magazines were in his pack at the oak tree, but he was not worried. He had discharged maybe 20 rounds, but it was a 50 round magazine. Still plenty of firepower.