CHAPTER 1
DUSKY CLOUDS DRAPED modern Munich, hurriedly sweeping a bitter February evening. “It’s starting to snow,” he murmured to a deaf city as he stepped closer to the window, opening the curtains wide. He thought about opening the window too, but a fluttering snowflake caught his attention. With eyebrows raised he followed its dance, airborne in a pirouette for a moment before landing with a wet skid on the warm transparent stage, meandering to the sill in a blurry bow, the performer's final act. Applause came in the form of a smile, and then by his hand the curtains closed, end of show.
He thought himself as being on the grandest of stages, playing some important role he imagined, albeit a dangerous one, all the while postponing the same fate of the snowflake, and a final bow. That he was a character and performer, there was no doubt. And as a character, tonight he was playing someone new, a kind of journalist, and ironically a character for which although useful, he felt thorough disdain. Tonight he was Jürgen Kruger, the blogger from Hamburg. But he was also playing someone else, a dual role, someone very lethal, and most would believe a person without a soul. He was playing himself as a cameo.
Was he pigeonholed? Was this his calling, and was there to be nothing more? He’d asked those questions of himself twenty-two times before, and twenty-two times he came up with the same exact answers. The answers were no different on this night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes; searching for the kindred tribal spirits inside, the many frightened, grieving, and humiliated characters he sought in order to give him the strength to carry on. It was a ritual before performing, some séance with millions of disparaged, denigrated souls from a holocaust well before he was born. They were the only audience that he believed really mattered, and the reason, for their memory, that he would take the stage time after time, for as long as it took. It must never happen again. Their humiliation gave him justification to hate.
Was he pigeonholed? Was this his calling, and was there to be nothing more? He’d asked those questions of himself twenty-two times before, and twenty-two times he came up with the same exact answers. The answers were no different on this night. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he shut his eyes; searching for the kindred tribal spirits inside, the many frightened, grieving, and humiliated characters he sought in order to give him the strength to carry on. It was a ritual before performing, some séance with millions of disparaged, denigrated souls from a holocaust well before he was born. They were the only audience that he believed really mattered, and the reason, for their memory, that he would take the stage time after time, for as long as it took. It must never happen again. Their humiliation gave him justification to hate.
Jürgen Kruger’s identity had been painstakingly created out of cyberspace, partially forged, and partially faked. He had an apartment overlooking the Piaza of Schanzenviertel, a trendy quarter of Hamburg. He had a German birth certificate with a birth date of May twenty, nineteen seventy-five making him the backside of thirty-six, and a worn German passport, driver license, bank accounts, savings accounts, investments, and credit cards. He also had a carefully crafted cyber past stored in hacked and re-programmed centralized government medical computers, saved right along with the tens of millions of other medical records of real German citizens. His tonsils were removed at eight. He had a broken arm at twelve. And re-programmed in another exploited government computer were data files that verified Jürgen had been married, had two young children, and that his parents were deceased. All events were total fiction, as well an ancestral history completely web spawned. Any thorough background check would reveal a very complete academic record and work history, and that he was now self-employed as a blogger and software applications developer. Yet there wasn’t a single living person to verify a solitary fact first hand. Although all data was verifiable, it was verifiable only with more falsified data that had been stored in other compromised computers, all programmed binary code made up of zeros and ones. Nor was there anyone living that could literally stand up, raise their hand and say, “Yes, I have met Jürgen Kruger in the flesh.” His was a self-imposed insular existence, but not unusual for an introverted blogger or computer geek. It was the perfect cover, and as the ultimate cyber secret agent living in binary code, Jürgen joked that he was “double oh one - license to kill everyone."
No detail for Jürgen or his team had been left unchecked, right down to the pages on social network websites that linked four thousand nine hundred ninety-nine “friends,” and tens of thousands of followers to a mysterious conservative German blogger. The cyber press credentials gave him the cloak of credibility and entrée to that evening’s lavish set, a banquet at the former palace of Bavarian monarchs, Munich’s famed Residenz.
Munich was host to the forty-eighth Munich Security Conference. The scene that evening was the culmination of two and a half days of seminars; forums with expert panelists, and an auditorium filled each day with two hundred fifty attendees from forty countries. Many taking comfortable theater style seats for eight hours each day were high-ranking representatives of armed forces, or scientists, or invited members of the media, all pining to hear famous diplomats deliver informative keynote speeches regarding issues of international concerns. The final evening’s discussions and presentations were to focus on the nuclear global security assessment by the IAEA. IAEA stood for International Atomic Energy Agency. The agency’s tagline was “Atoms for Peace,” their mantra was to promote the peaceful use of nuclear energy while at the same time inhibit its potential destructive use for military purposes. To date the agency had not been very adept at either. A former United States Secretary of State was on the program as a speaker that evening, as well as an address by a former Director General of the IAEA and a keynote speech by the current head of the IAEA, Dr. Adam El-Masry, an Egyptian who’d come up through the rank and file of the United Nations, and had been a visiting professor in American universities for years. Jürgen Kruger was very interested in the latter IAEA official. The Egyptian was on his list.
Bald with a large mustache, and over-sized ears, IAEA’s swarthy Director General nodded at a guard as he briskly passed through the doorway of the Hotel Bayerisher Hof. Just lightly covered with snow after an hour of flurries, the breezy street and sidewalk however was dense with heavily armed civilian clad security, and close protection teams, former spec ops military highly skilled in observation, precision shooting, and of course, close quarter combat. The history of Germany being what it was, Munich was familiar with such teams, which seemed to increase or ebb with the temperament of the times. Again, times were tense.
At the curb waiting for El-Masry was a sleek black Mercedes sedan, queued in the middle of scores of others, a number short-tempered on the horn. “Good evening Dr. El-Masry,” the valet said with a thick German accent.
Pausing at the open car door as he finished buttoning his long coat and donned fur lined leather gloves, El-Masry looked at the valet and smiled, responding to the greeting with a voice emanating deep from the diaphragm “Guten Abend." Handing the valet twenty Euros, he winked and slid onto the seat, joining his Swedish predecessor at IAEA, Anders Olin, enjoying the music of Mozart inside the warm car.
Pausing at the open car door as he finished buttoning his long coat and donned fur lined leather gloves, El-Masry looked at the valet and smiled, responding to the greeting with a voice emanating deep from the diaphragm “Guten Abend." Handing the valet twenty Euros, he winked and slid onto the seat, joining his Swedish predecessor at IAEA, Anders Olin, enjoying the music of Mozart inside the warm car.
Secluded from the noise of the street with a shut of the soundproof door and surrounded with the march-tempo allegro of Eine Kleine Nacchtsmusik, Olin politely encouraged the chauffeur along with a soft tap of the shoulder. "Okay, then let’s go."
Standing on the sidewalk, absorbed in the middle of the strapping security was the frail, bundled figure of an octogenarian in the later part of that decade of life. He’d stepped outside to have a rare cigarette. Less of a habit, it was more of a convenience for the moment, since he was also keeping an eye on the Egyptian. Smoking, which had been banned from public buildings everywhere it seemed, was the best excuse to be outside in the harsh cold when there obviously was none other. As the car pulled away, the old man watched, putting a cigarette to his lips.
“Do you mind if I have one of those? I’m out,” the old man was asked by a stocky, square-jawed member of the security detail.
“Do you mind if I have one of those? I’m out,” the old man was asked by a stocky, square-jawed member of the security detail.
“Sure,” the old man said offering him the pack. “Need a light too?”
“Yeah, thank you sir.” The old man lit his own cigarette first, and handed the lighter to the security man, who while admiring the shiny steel case added, “You don’t see many of these anymore, now do you? It’s a Zippo, isn’t it?”
“Yep, that’s right,” the old man replied, taking his lighter while watching the taillights of the Mercedes narrow.
The Mercedes drove west down the street in the midst of a steady procession of sedans, limousines, and black SUVs, all bound for the same downtown destination, the Munich Residenz, a short one kilometer drive from the hotel consisting simply of two right turns. Earlier El-Masry had frowned at the organizers for arranging limousine service rather than shuttle busses. "It would be more efficient," he'd written in a text to an organizer. He actually believed they would have been better off walking and had said he intended to do so when informed of the evening’s travel plan, but security would have none of that, and for his safety he was overruled. With more automobiles than necessary a bottleneck was sure to occur El-Masry predicted, "And increase the security risk, not lower it," he argued to no avail in the text. His would prediction prove to be accurate.
Their sedan braked hard suddenly, coming to a choked halt at the first congested street corner. “My god, just as I said,” El-Masry blurted as he and Olin were both lurched forward.
“I think we’re turning here,” Olin said peering past the head of their driver. What he saw were dozens of red taillights, blurred by the sedan’s intermittent wipers as they swept a heated wet windshield. Looking through the front passenger window, he saw more red lights arcing about the right turn down Maximilians Platz as far as he could see, his picture softened by schools of tiny, flying snowflakes.
“I tell you, it would have been preferable to simply walk,” El-Masry said with a furrowed brow. He glanced at his watch. It was nineteen hundred hours on the nose and the bar had to be serving by now, he calculated Although a practicing Muslim by perception, he was by no means devout, and the idea of sneaking a vodka martini before anyone arrived to witness seemed warmly appealing. “We have to turn up here and drive for two blocks and then turn again. But it’s only just two or three city blocks the other way,” he added looking over his shoulder back at the hotel. A thought crossed his mind.
“I can’t seem to see exactly what the hold up is,” Olin said, craning for a better view.
“I’ll tell you what the hold up is my friend – it is this conference,” Dr. El-Masry huffed with an attitude reserved for those closest to him. Being gruff was his private manner, and admired by his subordinates, personality shared only with his inner circle. Tact in public persona was his forte. Although considered scary smart academically, he was the master of the universe when it came to diplomacy and the politics of power. Without a hitch in his career, at sixty years of age he’d reached nearly the top, confident in knowing not only how to get there, but how to hold on, and go higher. “Maybe the top UN job,” it was predicted by Anders Olin.
Olin sat back in his seat and relaxed, bobbing his heavy, blond-gray head to the catchy Mozart tune. With an extended smile he offered, “I can’t say I don’t disagree with you Adam.” He was used to the hard charging Egyptian’s legendary impatience, having been a fatherly mentor to El-Masry for the many years before his successor took control. And as the learned father, he often provoked. “I’m sure that’s not the real thing irritating you though,” Olin added.
“No, of course it’s not. Although these conferences are important, but honestly, what do we really get accomplished here Anders? This is simply a political show that doesn’t have much of a bearing on what’s really going on out there,” El-Masry said, pointing out the window.
“You don’t believe Iran one bit - do you?” Olin asked.
“Ha - for civil purposes only? Not in the least, and why should I, or anyone believe them? In fact my good friend, I would do it too if I were in their shoes. And here is but just one reason my friend - the Ayatollah has no idea when another madman is going to suddenly surface next door to him.”
“Or the madman sitting on the Ayatollah's lap,” Olin interrupted with a chuckle. “I must say that it is getting rather irritating that each announcement for the groundbreaking of a new enrichment site has to start with the little shit saying, ‘God willing, we may now start the new construction.’ As if God has anything to do with the Ambassador of Death.”
“Quite. Then of course there are the Israelis. We can never forget the instigators of our Middle East nuclear chase, now can we? But I’m not an Iranian - so taking their side is not really my job, nor was it yours Anders. Israel and Egypt made their peace many years ago when we were younger men. We both must therefore be impartial observers, although I am sympathetic of the facts. No matter what the Iranians are or are not developing, we must prevent…”
Olin interjected again, “Yes – prevent more air strikes on Iran’s nuclear plants.”
“Air strikes?” El-Masry laughed deeply. “Please Andres, I wish as God is my witness that the sum of my worries were airstrikes ordered by Israel. That would certainly be somewhat of a less troublesome worry, now wouldn’t it? Something such as that in fact, could happen every few years or so, just as it happened only two years ago - and well, yes – it’s agreed that such action would be much less worrisome. Problematic certainly, but much less worrisome.”
“Ah, I see that we are stuck again on this recurring subject of Israel and Iran,” Olin said with a smirk.
“Yes, the recurring bad subject. Iran could spin their centrifuges like a carousel on the schoolyard, making as much of the weapons grade uranium as they care too, and doing so above ground, or underground for that matter - and then every few years just when they had enough for a warhead, bring uranium to the surface, announce ‘Voilà l'uranium, here it is for you Israel’ – and then Israel launches a strike and destroys the facility, just like tearing down the spider’s web in the afternoon and leaving the spider alive to build the web again during the night. Only problem is that the uranium destroyed is not the weapons grade uranium and the centrifuges are still spinning underground, now more like tops. Two years later everything is repeated once again. That would be fine but not what I am speaking of. The concern, and what we should be very concerned about here is - Israel getting very angry – very angry, and very impatient in fact, and untethered as they are - going over the edge, provoked to the point of no return by a man of very questionable sanity – maybe mad as you say, but resulting in the launching of their Jericho at all of Iran’s nuclear facilities, and possibly Tehran as well, or perhaps the entire Middle East,” El-Masry monologued his predecessor while shaking his head, something Olin was accustomed to, and expected. He also knew the frustration.
El-Masry, as Olin before him, was frustrated with what he believed was the preferential treatment afforded Israel over other Middle East countries. In fact, as it stood, any country in the world that was engaged in nuclear energy development would be forced by the threat of sanctions, unless they complied with mandatory inspections of their nuclear facilities. There would never be any such inspections of Israel’s facilities, at least by the IAEA. Officially, Israel’s nuclear program, which was at least forty-five years old, didn’t even exist, a circumstance known as Nuclear Ambiguity. Everything the tiny country did with regards to nuclear activity was undeclared and out of bounds, off limits. No inspectors would ever set foot in Israel’s underground nuclear weapons factory at Dimona. And it was no secret that it upset both El-Masry and Olin that the United States had never officially given approval or encouraged Israel for its own nuclear weapons program, and even worse in El-Masry’s opinion, the United Sates had also refused to do anything to ever discourage Israel from developing nuclear weapons. "Not the case of Muslim countries in the Middle East, however," El-Masry had complained to several American delegations.
El-Masry was certain that Israel had at a minimum of one hundred fifty, perhaps as many as four hundred nuclear weapons stockpiled. The weapons included bombs for fighters such as Israeli F-fifteen’s, and other tactical nuclear weapons, but most importantly, and most dangerous were the thermonuclear warheads for mobile Jericho One, Jericho Two, and Jericho Three missile systems. Jericho targeted all of Israel’s possible enemies within seven thousand miles and could effectively counter any large-scale coordinated attack by her traditional enemies, assuring their total annihilation. Even if Israel was also obliterated during first strikes, they could still launch a second wave from Dolphin submarines. Such a massive retaliatory strategy of last resort by Israel was known as the Samson Option. A nothing to lose scenario, it was so named for the biblical Israelite hero who after being blinded and enslaved, pulled the pillars he was chained to down, causing the roof of the temple Dagon to collapse, killing more Philistines than he’d ever killed before. Samson unfortunately also killed himself in the process, which was his option.
“That would certainly put an abrupt end to an escalating Middle East situation on the brink,” Olin said with a halfhearted sarcastic laugh.
“Would it? Well, maybe I suppose so – and with the ultimate terrible price I’m afraid - but that’s something we’re not going to solve here in this traffic,” El-Masry said, finally losing all patience. He looked at his Blackberry as he announced, “I’m going on foot.”
“You can’t be serious. It’s debilitating out there,” the seventy-five year old Swede stated thinking it was far too cold even for Viking blood.
El-Masry smiled and patted Olin on the leg. “I’ll be fine Anders. Stay put, and stay warm. Just call me if something happens that I need know about. And if I get lost and need a lift, I’ll call you.” With that El-Masry then double wrapped his wool Hermès scarf, opened the door and jumped out.
His shoes making hard, crunching noise on the frozen pavement, El-Masry backtracked east on Pacellistraße, which had been closed for security reasons to eastbound traffic, along with all streets for two blocks east from the hotel to the Residenz. To avoid being recognized and then possibly bothered with an explanation for his unescorted solo romp, he opted to cross the street to a tree-lined grassy medium, staying under the cover of dark shadows from the pines trees paralleling cable car tracks. He passed the front entrance of the hotel, busy still, but the armed security had thinned. He noticed that the old man was gone, looking twice to be sure.
The wind blowing straight into his face felt much colder to El-Masry than the advertised twenty degrees Fahrenheit, which was certainly cold enough. He’d wished he’d taken a hat. After only a minute he was feeling the biting numbness on his large ears and hummed Mozart to blank the freeze out. The cadence of the melody hastening his pace, he moved deeper into the shadows, eventually stopping at the street corner to get his bearings. Summoning up the GPS on his cell phone, he confirmed the quickest path was an immediate left turn, followed by a short walk two blocks, a right for one block, another left for one slightly longer block, and then he would be there at the main entrance of the Residenz. His navigation plan was abruptly interrupted by a call from Olin.
“Adam it appears that what’s happened is that there’s been a minor fender bender between limos. The police have stopped the procession. I can see a uniformed motorcycle officer from here. It looks as though they’re going to redirect the queue sooner or later, but I’m afraid we’re at a dead standstill,” Olin reported.
“Good thing I decided to walk then - I’ll beat you to the bar for certain,” El-Masry replied.
“I’m quite sure,” Olin said with a laugh, admiring El-Masry’s tenacious spirit.
“See you there,” El-Masry said disconnecting the call as he noticed someone wearing a hat approaching from the opposite corner.
“Hallo - Guten Abend,” a tall man in a large brim fedora said, greeting El-Masry from the middle of the street. The stranger’s presence in the dancing flurries of snow was surreal, if not ghostly. The man’s exhale, along with the shadow of his hat cast by the streetlight, conjured up an unearthly image, yet one that eerily intrigued. The man waved at El-Masry before slipping gloved hands into the pockets of a long, heavy overcoat.
“Oh, yes. Guten Abend,” El-Masry responded apprehensively. The stranger was alone and quickly approached him on the corner of Pacellistraße and Faulhaberstraße. The man’s gate was long and graceful, almost panther-like.
“Oh – I’m sorry. I thought you were a friend of mine. Are you an American?” the stranger asked as he arrived at the curb.
“No I am not,” El-Masry answered, unconscious of the fact he seemed somehow to be waiting for the stranger’s arrival to his side, sucked in as if by curiosity. He was looking squarely at the man, who he figured to be at least six feet, if not an inch or so more. His angular features were partially obscured by the darkness and shadow of the hat, but El-Masry could see he was much younger, early thirties he reasoned. "A poster boy Arian," he thought.
"Entschuldigen sie bitte. It was your accent."
"Yes of course." It was a common mistake. Adam El-Masry was in fact half Egyptian, his mother being an English diplomat and father from Cairo. El-Masry’s English had the pitch of an American though. The twenty years he'd spent in the domain of American academia, and at the UN re-enforced the Yankee twang. As for the stranger, El-Masry thought his accent and usage belied a perfect knowledge of English, but the man was most certainly German, he was sure. Very German.
"Entschuldigen sie bitte. It was your accent."
"Yes of course." It was a common mistake. Adam El-Masry was in fact half Egyptian, his mother being an English diplomat and father from Cairo. El-Masry’s English had the pitch of an American though. The twenty years he'd spent in the domain of American academia, and at the UN re-enforced the Yankee twang. As for the stranger, El-Masry thought his accent and usage belied a perfect knowledge of English, but the man was most certainly German, he was sure. Very German.
“My apologies. You must be in need of directions somewhere,” the stranger said, pointing at El-Masry’s Blackberry, still brightly displaying the GPS Map of Munich.
“Well, yes in fact – I suppose I am. Hmm, I’m on my way to Residenz, but I think…”
Cutting short El-Masry’s response, “Oh, then you are attending the conference dinner as well. It’s just up here, you can walk with me – I’ll show you the way,” the stranger offered courteously, pointing down the ghostly vacant street.
Noticing the words “security conference” on the partially exposed red ribbon hanging around the man’s neck, presumably attached to a conference badge under his scarf, El-Masry nodded agreeably. The stranger seemed friendly enough, certainly refined, and probably smart too, and anyway, El-Masry enjoyed meeting new people. A little intelligent conversation on the short walk would be pleasant enough, and keep his mind off the cold.
“Thank you, perhaps I can use some directions. And nice to meet you,” the Director General said in German extending his hand.
“Sprechen Sie deutsch?” the stranger asked motioning again in the direction they needed to walk before receiving the handshake with dominance.
“Ja, ich bin immer noch Deutsch lernen - I’m still learning German, so if you don’t mind,” El-Masry said, thinking the man had more of a northern German accent, but definitely not from Munich or the south. His accent was harsher than the softer delivery of a Bavarian. El-Masry, who was fluent in several languages - his native Arabic, English, and French, as well as at ease with Spanish and Italian, struggled with German. The words that jumbled in his mouth were a torment, and a few came to mind that were ridiculously long compared to its English counterpart. The German word for speed limit was Geschwindigkeitsbegrenzung, and another he detested more than any was the German word for C.P.R., Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung. The literal translation of the procession of the alphabet to English worked out to be "heart-circle-run-again-enlivenment," which was simplified to C.P.R., just three letters, not twenty-six, making it almost nine times longer to spell or say in German. In a time of emergency the utterance needed to be very short and sweet - "CPR." He mused that surely the afflicted person needing the life-saving treatment would slip beyond the point of no return before the stream of German could leave the attending Emergency Medical Tech's mouth. Nevertheless, he practiced on.
“No I don’t mind – not at all. Pleased to meet you,” the stranger continued on speaking in German while shaking firmly. “Ich bin – wait, you are Dr. Adam El-Masry, the Director General of the IAEA” the stranger suddenly announced.
“Yes, this is me in the flesh all right,” El-Masry peacocked, trying in earnest to return a firm shake of his own, but to no avail, his grip being late.
“This is a fantastic honor,” the stranger said slowly, still gripping El-Masry’s hand, now using both of his own, the second hand on the wrist, doubling the intimidation.
“I don’t know how fantastic it really is, but I thank you nonetheless,” El-Masry answered graciously, his voice deepening. To El-Masry's relief, the stranger let go of his hand, but felt a slight, yet sharp, momentary pain that shot up his wrist and forearm. The man’s grip had been strong, he thought and must have pinched a nerve. Stereotypical aggressive behavior of Germans, he concluded.
“So, you are on the speaking list tonight,” the man stated.
“Ja, I’m afraid I am. The former Director General of the IAEA is speaking, along with a former American Secretary of State and lastly, myself.”
“Oh, I see. And can you tell me some things of the topic? A preview perhaps?”
“I’m sure sir, you will hear a little bit about everything tonight,” El-Masry said leaning forward slightly as they walked, eyeing for a glimpse of the German’s badge, and a name. “Certainly IAEA’s role in the use of nuclear power for developing countries.” It was a vague preview at best. The intent of his veiled prepared remarks that evening was to castigate Israel unsparingly for their insolence regarding the IAEA, a slap in the face of their authority since the body’s inception. He was simply going to reference Israel without a name as “… the belligerent denial of just one spoiled country in the Middle East.”
“Your role for nuclear power for developing countries? I see. That’s a very interesting notion when one considers Iran,” the stranger said.
“’Interesting’ is not the word I would use,” El-Masry said. He wondered if the German was a reporter. And he wasn't fond of reporters, especially western journalists who tended to criticize the IAEA mercilessly, citing his supposed lenient treatment of Iran, if not his outright favoritism. He took it personally.
“Perhaps I was a bit understated,” the German said politely.
“Not at all, in fact I pride myself in carefully selecting words before expressing opinions, especially when speaking with strangers - and what exactly brings you to the conference with such an enquiring mind, Herr...?”
“Bitte, My apologies – I am…”
“Dr. El-Masry,” a voice called out loudly before the German could finish.
El-Masry looked to see what appeared to be Anders Olin thirty yards ahead, standing at the next corner, bundled up and waving at him. It certainly sounded like the Swede. El-Masry raised his hand in return, assuming his bald pate made him an easy spot.
“I decided not to wait either – there’s no telling when the traffic will ease. The entrance to the Residenz is very close. We are almost there,” Olin yelled to him.
El-Masry looked to see what appeared to be Anders Olin thirty yards ahead, standing at the next corner, bundled up and waving at him. It certainly sounded like the Swede. El-Masry raised his hand in return, assuming his bald pate made him an easy spot.
“I decided not to wait either – there’s no telling when the traffic will ease. The entrance to the Residenz is very close. We are almost there,” Olin yelled to him.
“I believe that the gentleman over there wants to join us,” El-Masry said to the stranger.
“And how fortunate I am then.”
“How’s that?” El-Masry chuckled.
“Well, to have the opportunity to meet not only you, but also your predecessor – here on this lonely street – the two of you. That is Herr Olin, isn't it?"
“Remarkably, you’re correct. You have very keen eyesight - that is Anders Olin, but let’s just keep that between us. We aren't supposed to be out here wandering the streets alone. This is very verboten.”
“Ja, I am sure.”
“But speaking of meeting – I still haven’t learned your name yet.”
“Entschuldigen Sie bitte! Please excuse my rudeness…”
El-Masry paused their chilly walk as he interrupted again, frowning slightly, “Oh, by the way, before you answer, I do know exactly where you are from – I am absolutely sure of this.”
“Is that so? And where would that be?” the stranger asked with a raised brow and a jut of his jaw.
“Hamburg,” El-Masry blurted, smiling.
“Das ist sehr gut, Herr Doctor – very good indeed. How did you know - you can tell this from just my accent?”
“I knew I was right, and I’m not finished yet - I’ll also wager you a hundred Euros that I can guess your name as well,” El-Masry declared.
“That is amazing indeed if you can, although I might add the wager is very rich for me, a poor blogger."
“Jürgen Kruger from Hamburg,” El-Masry said smiling wider and pointing at the now exposed conference badge dangling from the red ribbon.
“Ah ha – you certainly got me,” Jürgen Kruger admitted with a loud laugh and slow, dull clap of his gloves.
“And what is it that you do Herr Kruger that makes you a man of so many question?” El-Masry asked with a congenial pat on Kruger’s back.
“Oh yes of course, my apologies once again – I am a journalist, a blogger. A conservative blogger,” Kruger said with a wink.
“A blogger you say? That explains everything, now doesn’t it?” El-Masry summed up while removing the glove from his right hand. He stretched the hand. It was cramped.
“Ja with all of my questions – I suppose it does at that, Herr Doctor,” Kruger said with a wry smile. “Is there something wrong?” he asked pointing at El-Masry’s bare hand.
“I don’t think so, just a cramp from the cold perhaps.”
“Ja, from the cold.”
Jürgen Kruger had just played and won a brilliant game of cat and mouse using favorable odds. Manufactured circumstances and human nature were the keys. As in a poker hand, closely studying others in the game and predicting their behavior using mathematical odds more often than not derived the best possible outcomes. The “tell” of those holding power was their Achilles’ heel, and those with the prerequisite commanding personality to attain power all displayed it in some form or other, El-Masry more than most. An aloof, poker-faced enigma would never attain such towering heights of authority, too solitary. Better for playing the cat. And under the right circumstance the powerful made for easy targets, similar the mouse. A disruption to the choreographed flow of limos from point A to point B created unplanned confusion. Impatience led to an odds-on favored decision by El-Masry that he would go the short distance on foot in spite of the cold. That Anders Olin would follow was coincidental and unplanned for, but nevertheless effectively dealt with, however unfavorable for him. It was nearly the exact circumstances that Kruger desired and designed to win the hand and the deadly game. The weather, which Kruger satirized he could not always control, yet certainly use in his favor, only made things easier.
With a signal on a cell phone, the German motorcycle cop stopped the redirection of traffic and abruptly left the scene of the minor collision. The two vehicles involved began moving also, turning left at the next street instead of making the necessary right to the Residenz. Within twenty-four hours the sedans and motorcycle would disappear, chopped into spare parts and sold away by a local Munich gang. The team’s pre-paid international cell phones were bought in cash, all calls untraceable and discarded SIM cards worthless. The sole evidence that would remain of the troupe and Kruger’s actual existence would be brief, unrecognizable images of expertly disguised characters captured by a few security cameras. Kruger’s true identity would be impossible to trace. Absent a computer hard drive for authorities to search or browsing history to track, the manifested Hamburg blogger remained as an avatar in the hosted world of cyberspace, never to be embodied again. Poof, Jürgen Kruger, “double oh one,” would simply vanish, his scythe in hand.
Inside the ornate, baroque Residenz palace and ninety minutes into the dinner of fish, green peas, and assorted mashed potatoes, the distinguished Anders Olin was at the podium delivering his speech to the respected crowd of two hundred, many of them dignitaries, some heads of state, when the fatal tetrodotoxins of the white-spotted puffer fish Arothron hispidus really began their onslaught in earnest. Becoming unexpectedly tongue-tied, a typical symptom, he hurriedly finished his remarks to puzzled looks, and rejoined those seated at the head table, taking his seat next to a heavily perspiring Dr. Adam El-Masry. Bewildered somewhat over his shortness of breath and the tingling sensation emanating throughout his limbs, he loosened his tie as the neurotoxins with no known antidote suddenly accelerated the numbness and paralysis from a creep to mad dash.
Before the former American Secretary of State could get passed failed jokes and into the heart of his pithy comments, both El-Masry and Olin collapsed, heads clanging into their plates of food, each with eyes wide, and mouths gaped open. However, suffering a sadistic, cruel and prolonged meeting with the Grim Reaper, neither was dead, not yet. Instead, they were completely paralyzed, and very much alert, with the mutual disbelief, but wretched certainty that they were both being assassinated, one man unknowingly being an unlucky collateral casualty. Staring at each other oddly, sad clown faces frozen in macabre, grotesque horror, speckled with the main course, both men could clearly hear the gasps of shocked diners and the loud cacophony of scooting chairs, banging tables, and clattering cutlery on china, yet both were incapable of telling a single soul who their assassin was.
And then in one final callous twist of fate, El-Masry heard a word yelled by someone he couldn't see, a word blurted with perfect clarity and correct pronunciation the way the eight syllables should be, and the way that he would never master, the hated German word that would be the last he would ever hear, "Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung."
And then in one final callous twist of fate, El-Masry heard a word yelled by someone he couldn't see, a word blurted with perfect clarity and correct pronunciation the way the eight syllables should be, and the way that he would never master, the hated German word that would be the last he would ever hear, "Herzkreislaufwiederbelebung."
