Housek had no record with Interpol, Europol or the BKA's INPOL or SIS criminal database systems, but the FBI knew a little about him from the high-rolling days of BMCI, the criminally bent Bank of Mercantile Commerce International. Housek had then been a minor bagman for BMCI's sprawling Bonn headquarters, used as a go-between in arms transfer deals. With the collapse of BMCI in the early 2000s, Housek had taken a job in the accounting department of Iran Airlines and had led a mostly clean life. Until now, that is.
A tail team had followed Al-Kaukji in the company of Housek to various destinations around town, most of which were to make purchases at a miscellaneous assortment of shops. At a large department store, Al-Kaukji inspected a number of alarm clocks, and bought four of them. At a computer dealer, Al-Kaukji came out with a laptop and was found to have ordered a desktop PC for delivery to the grocer's for the following day. Other items included a pair of stereo jam boxes, batteries, wire, a portable drill of Japanese manufacture and an assortment of screws, tools and other miscellaneous odds and ends.
Housek not only chauffeured Al-Kaukji around Berlin, but also brought the bomb-maker to other stops where they met with groups of other men, all of them of Middle Eastern nationality, and all but one of them with known links to fundamentalist and Islamist terrorist organizations.
In the gray Toyota van parked a half block down the street from Housek's apartment building in the more prestigious Gneisenau section of Berlin, the stakeout team had just started on the first round of coffee and danishes. The van was linked by spread spectrum cell communication and secure radio to each other and to the BKA's headquarters at 24 Leipsigerstrasse. Max Winternitz had just taken a call from Gerhardt Fromm, leader of the stakeout team.
Today was an important day. Winternitz had been about to give the order for the teams to move in and make arrests when a tap on Al-Kaukji's phone at the grocer's revealed that Abu Jihad himself, Dr. Jubaird Dalkimoni, was expected to personally supervise operations in Berlin.
Dalkimoni had entered the country under an official government passport issued by the Iranian Ministry of Religious Affairs, but had been identified by a sharp-eyed BfV (Bundesampt für Verfussungsschutz or Office for the Protection of the Constitution) internal security watcher who scanned the daily biometric detection take from the airport's overt and covert cameras and sensors.
The phone tap had yielded a reference to the "cakes" that had arrived and how important it was to "bake them just right." Winternitz decided to postpone the bust until Jihad was in the area.
Winternitz answered the call to hear Fromm on the other end of the line.
"Blower just arrived in a cab."
"Blower" was the code name Winternitz's teams used to refer to Dalkimoni. "He's just paid the driver. Now heading up the walk and entering the building."
"Keep him in sight. Don't lose him," Winternitz instructed his men. "I'll be right over."
Winternitz grabbed his jacket and dropped the cell phone into his coat pocket. It was not usual for the Chief of Counter-terrorist Operations to be in on an impending bust, but this was different.
For one thing, Winternitz had a personal score to settle with Abu Jihad. He wanted to be in on the bust when it went down. In fact, he intended to collar Dalkimoni himself. It was a promise he'd pledged to keep five years before.
The black Mercedes S-Coupe pulled up to the curb with a screech of tires. Winternitz was out the door even before the driver had shifted into park. He looked once at the entrance to the apartment building on Marksbergerstrasse and then toward the van.
Inspector Buckholz, Fromm's second in command, had crossed the street toward the big boss.
"Are Blower and Oyster" — the latter their name for Farid Housek — "still inside?"
"Affirmative," Buckholz answered. "We have a laser detector on the window. We're listening to them in Oyster's living room right now."
Winternitz turned to one of the two men from the S-Class vehicle's back seat.
"Go around the back, make sure there are no other ways out of the place. Find the superintendent if necessary," Winternitz told them, adding, "I don't want any slip-ups, understood?"
"Don't worry, boss, there won't be any," said Rudy, the shorter of the two, and he motioned for the other man to join him. Winternitz watched the two raincoat-clad figures cross the street to the building's entranceway.
To Buckholz, he said, "Take three men from your team and cover the front of the building. Hans and I are going in the front as soon as Rudy and Rolf secure their end."
Buckholz nodded. Turning his back to the front of the building and pulling his police radio from his pocket, he began walking across the street. Winternitz leaned against the Mercedes and lit a cigaret. He'd been trying to quit for weeks but this was one occasion when he desperately needed a smoke.
Housek looked at the bullpup automatic rifle propped against the wall like it was something from another planet. Dalkimoni caught the look that told him what Housek didn't dare voice to the bomb-maker: that he was not a man accustomed to using the weapons he occasionally dabbled in selling, and that the realization that he was in way over his head had suddenly dawned on him like thunder.
"Don't crap out on me, Housek," Dalkimoni advised the other man with icy disdain, not failing to notice the beads of sweat standing on his forehead. "If necessary, you will use that to cover my escape."
He nodded toward the weapon.
"Don't worry. I'm okay," Housek assured him.
Dalkimoni doubted this seriously. But he had no other choice than to depend on the coward for backup.
They had made the cops staking out the building earlier that morning. They knew a bust was coming down. While the cops' laser bug monitored a laptop recording that Dalkimoni had made earlier, showing casual conversation inside the safe house Housek kept, the shooters had broken out their guns.
Dalkimoni cocked the bolt action on the AK-47 assault rifle he cradled, jacking a 7.62 millimeter round into the firing chamber. It was almost show time. He looked toward the rear window and licked his lips.
Winternitz stole a glance at his wristwatch. He'd given his three stakeout teams watching Al-Kaukji's friends in other neighborhoods enough time to get into position. Enough. He picked up the Philips short wave commo unit and hit the squelch.
"This is Winternitz to all teams. Team One, ready?"
A moment later two hi-lo tones came from the handheld's speaker followed by Hutch's voice.
"Ready to go, chief."
"Team Two, what is your situation?"
"We're in position outside Canker's — Al Kaukji's — apartment block," the cop named Bermann reported. "We're ready as soon as the girl with big tits walks by and Helmut shoves his eyeballs back in their sockets."
"This is not a party," Winternitz told the cop on the other end. "You're not being paid to fuck around. Get in position."
"Sorry, chief," Bermann said sheepishly. "Don't worry. Alles ist in ordnung — Everything's in order."
"It had better be."
Winternitz said no more. He was in no mood to be trifled with. His men knew very well that their usually easygoing chief was keyed up on this bust. Each had to admit that in Winternitz's position, their nerves would also have been on edge.