“The New York Times ran a story that both our analysis and Scotland Yard’s came out positive for Semtex,” Fuentes said.
“Before you came down here this morning, I checked with a buddy in Defense Intelligence who knows a little more about Semtex. Both it and C are made of pretty much the same stuff-PETN and RDX-but the yield is really going to depend on the formulas. He couldn’t give me any blast-yield conversions, but he said it varies a lot with Semtex. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the usual slipshod commie quality control or because they have different types for different purposes, but-”
“They do have different types. Semtex-H is a terrorist favorite. The Libyans bought a ton and a half of it from the Czechs a couple of years ago. That story’s also been in the Times.”
“My point being, just because we’re able to demonstrate eight ounces of C-4 were enough to do the job doesn’t mean that eight ounces of Semtex-H-or whatever designation-would do the same amount of damage. Unless this is taken into account, we’ve just wasted our time. Not that blowing things up is ever really a waste of time.” He smiled, revealing his perfectly straight white teeth. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy you brought us the containers. Blowing up luggage is a nice change of pace from old ordnance.”
“I want a few more tests with four, six and ten ounces.”
“You got it.”
A Dodge Ram screeched to a halt in front of the commander and a yeoman jumped out. “Sir, I received a phone call for you about five minutes ago. It was a civilian. She said it was a family emergency. She’d call back in an hour.”
“She say who she was?”
“No, sir, we got cut off. One thing, though, the connection was bad. There was kind of a delay, the kind like I used to get when I was stationed at Subic Bay and I’d talk to my wife stateside.”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
The yeoman sped off, leaving a dust cloud behind.
“You should also note another difference that really shouldn’t have much bearing on your investigation, but it’s worth mentioning,” Summer said.
“If you have to go, I understand.”
“I will in a minute, but let’s finish up here. My chief can supervise any additional tests you need. But as I was saying, you might also note we’re using a simple radio detonation device to set it off. Unless it was some kind of a wacko suicide bomber, they wouldn’t have done that. They’d probably use a delayed arming timer and a barometric triggering device set to explode when the air pressure dropped to a designated level. That way they could’ve sent it on some other flight to London, where it was transferred onto 103.”
“We know. We think they used at least two of them and sent the bag from Malta to Frankfurt, where it was loaded onto 103.”
“I bet that was in the Times.”
“No, the Frankfurter Allgemeine.”
Chief Rashid approached them. “We’ve completed removal of the container fragments. What would you like us to do with the, uh, collateral debris? A lot of it’s not hurt. I saw a rather nice leather jacket, some Ray•Bans, Nikes. The men were asking…”
“You need this stuff for additional analysis?” Lieutenant Commander Summer said.
“The pictures are enough.”
“Anything that’s not part of the radio or container, they can dispose of at their individual discretion. I have some other matters to attend to. You’re now in charge. Assist Special Agent Fuentes with anything she needs. Tell the boys happy hunting.” He turned toward the FBI agent. “It’s been nice catching up on the papers with you. But I do want to know one thing. Where did you find all this luggage?”
“The airlines. They have tons of lost baggage. I can get you some to practice with, if you want.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHECKPOINT CHARLIE, WEST BERLIN
FRIDAY, APRIL 28
You are now leaving the American Sector. Faith read the multilingual sign at Checkpoint Charlie a couple of dozen times while waiting as the Stasi’s note had instructed. Per their request, she set a leather satchel at her feet each time she stopped for precisely seven minutes at one of the viewing platforms along the Wall. She ignored the stream of tourists climbing the wooden stand to sneak a glimpse of Berlin beyond the Wall and spent seven long minutes thinking about her father. Who would still want to cover up whatever happened to him thirty years ago?
A border guard raised the red and white striped metal barrier and allowed a tiny East German Trabant to exit to the West. The Trabi wound its way through the maze of concrete barriers. The gray hair of the driver suggested another retiree had come to enjoy his thirty allotted days in the West, but the East German guards took no chances. They followed the grandpa with their binoculars, guns at their sides.
She glanced at her watch. It was 10:15 in the morning and time to move on, as the note had instructed. Why did the Stasi want to deliver the package in one of the most highly watched areas of Berlin? They must want someone in the East to see her receive the drop in the West. Any less touristy section might have drawn attention. She climbed down the viewing platform. Each step jarred her sore rib cage. Two American soldiers sat in a white guard shack, studying her more than the Trabi as it rolled toward the West.
She intentionally walked two feet to the right of the white line painted on the cobblestones marking the beginning of GDR territory, where not too long ago President Reagan had taunted communist authorities by sticking his foot across the line and through the Iron Curtain. She strolled along the Wall, pacing herself as she pretended to admire the graffiti on the ugly cement structure. Kurdish and Albanian political slogans were scrawled beside an elaborate painting of a view into the East as if the Wall had been knocked away. She glanced back toward the checkpoint. Nothing.
A few hundred yards later, she stopped and looked down into collapsing ceramic tiled chambers dug into the ground. They were filled with water from the recent rains. When she recognized them as the recently unearthed basement of Gestapo headquarters, her breath became shallow. She felt numb with pain, but wasn’t sure if it were her own. She had read about the recent discovery, but had avoided going to see it. Even before the torture chambers were located, she had always hastened her pace along this section of the Wall. Faith had no doubt Berlin was haunted, but she refused to believe in ghosts. She zipped up her leather jacket. She blinked back tears when she peered in the torture chambers. She took a deep breath and for an instant felt water fill her lungs. She coughed. Tourists gawked at her. A camera clicked.
The rubble screamed at her. Unable to tune out the cries, she marched along the Wall two minutes ahead of schedule. With each step into the soft earth, she pushed down her fears and concentrated on the job.
An overgrown lot was fenced off from the public. Rusting signs on it warned it was GDR territory and hadn’t yet been cleared of ordnance. They needed a good explosives guy; she knew she did. She had no doubt the package would be booby trapped. She looked at her watch and adjusted her pace. When she came upon another platform a few feet from the Wall, she climbed it and set the attaché case at her feet.
Seagulls flew into the no-man’s-land of Potsdamer Platz, the former bustling downtown square, now a vacant field surrounded by the Wall and high steel fencing. The emptiness swallowed her.