“Rashid, hen ak
In the darkness, Bogner moved cautiously up the hall, prodding Matba ahead of him. The door to the Rashids’ bedroom was open, and Bogner was able to make out two figures in the bed. He stepped into the room, moved to the side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and carefully nuzzled the muzzle of the automatic against Rashid’s throat. That was all it took. Zilka Rashid slowly began clawing his way out of his sleep just as Bogner had expected him to. Rashid’s first impulse was to try to brush away the annoyance with his hand; that was when the realization hit him. He opened his eyes, stared up at Bogner, and started to protest, only to have Bogner clamp his hand over his mouth.
Bogner’s voice was little more than a whisper.
“This time I don’t have to ask. Doctor. I already know you understand English. Now, nice and easy, get out of bed, stand up, and fold your hands on top of your head. You and I have lots of work to do.”
Zilka Rashid, like Matba, was a slight man. He needed thick prescription glasses to compensate for his failing eyesight. Bogner would have guessed the man’s age at somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties. In the darkness Rashid fumbled on the nightstand for his glasses and struggled to gain his composure.
“What is this?” he demanded. As he picked up his glasses he turned on the small lamp beside his bed and saw Bogner for the first time.
“You — you are the American.
How did you get in here?”
Bogner ignored the question, glanced at the ill-at-ease Matba standing by the door, and ordered him to stand next to the doctor.
“Just in case, I need an interpreter,” he growled. Matba complied.
By then Rashid’s wife was awake. She sat up in bed and started to protest, but Bogner waved the automatic in her face and it was enough to quiet her.
“What do you want?” Rashid asked.
Bogner backed away until he could see all three of his hostages without turning his head.
“First of all, Doctor, tell your wife that as long as she keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t do anything foolish, about the only thing that’s going to happen to her is she’s going to be tied up for a while. On the other hand, if she decides to give me some grief, I won’t hesitate to use this thing.” He made certain both Rashid and his wife got a good look at the Mk 2.
Rashid turned to his wife and repeated Bogner’s instructions in Arabic. Then he looked at Bogner again.
“I demand to know what you want,” he repeated.
“It isn’t a case of what I want. Dr. Rashid. It’s a case of what you’re going to do, and you are going to find a way to get me inside the Nasrat complex.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then you. Doctor, are going to be the second to die, and you’ll be second only because I intend to shoot your wife first. Under the circumstances you may want to reconsider.”
Josef Solkov had landed at Sheremetyevo Airport, was questioned at length by a Russian customs t official because that was the nature of current Russian-Turkish relations, and finally found his way to a taxi.
“Seventeen Traxelkov Street,” he told the driver, and settled back for the ride into the central part of the city. Along the way Solkov could not help but note the changes; there were more cars, more neon signs, and despite the bitter cold weather, more people on the platforms at the train stations. The posters and banners exhorting the people to embrace the idealism of the Party, however, were gone, the economy was in ruins, and the strength of the Party in shambles. Solkov counted back and realized he had been away from his beloved Moscow for more than ten years; the changes were too numerous, and most of them, he felt, were for the worse. Soon, however, with what was happening in Ammash, he was convinced that things would improve.
The meeting he was scheduled to attend had been called by former Colonel General Drachev, the man most responsible for overseeing Sergi Doronkin’s training and identifying Taj Ozal as the man Doronkin would replace — the man whose assignment it would be to assassinate Salih Baddour. Now that had been accomplished, and as far as Solkov was concerned it had come off exactly as planned, with the exception of the last-minute involvement of the Americans masquerading as Jade representatives. Baddour was dead, Fahid was in charge, and the scene was set — soon the Party would have access to Rashid’s weapons.
Drachev’s plan, in Josef Solkov’s estimation, had been brilliantly executed.
He climbed the wide marble stairway to the old opera theater and headed to the mezzanine where the offices were located. He entered Drachev’s office and was confronted with the one thing he had not anticipated, a conclave of many of the still-active Party power brokers. He immediately recognized Moshe Milstein, Gorge Miktin, Gennadi Beppaev, and the former GRU director, Arvo Kanican.
In addition there were several others he did not know. A frowning Drachev, instead of greeting him, motioned Solkov to take a seat.
In the far corner of the room, two younger men were monitoring a broadcast on a shortwave radio.
All in all, Solkov decided, it appeared to be neither the setting or the kind of gathering where he would be rewarded for his participation in the long-developing plan.
Drachev looked at Solkov and scowled.
“You bring with you the latest news from Ammash?” he asked.
Solkov probed the legion of stern faces around the table before he answered.
“Only the reports out of Amman, Comrade. They are claiming the—” Drachev cut him off.
“We know what the reports from Amman are telling us, Comrade Solkov. The question is, has Colonel Fahid been in contact with you since he informed you of General Baddour’s death?”
“Nyet,” Solkov said, “I have heard nothing further.”
It was obvious now that Drachev was angry.
“Are you aware, Comrade Solkov, that our sources tell us the President of the United States is prepared to disavow any involvement in what has transpired in Ammash? We are further being told that there soon will be an announcement forthcoming.”
Solkov was caught completely off guard. He had been en route to Moscow for the last several hours and he knew nothing of what Drachev was telling him.
“In deviating from our plan. Comrade Fahid has bungled the situation,” Drachev thundered.
“He is jeopardizing everything we have worked for these last two years. By allowing the American to escape he has created a melodrama that all of the world is now following.”
Solkov’s voice was reduced to timidity.
“I am not sure what the Colonel General means when he says, ‘allowing the American to escape.”
“Do not be a fool, Josef. The council has discussed this matter at length prior to your arrival.
We realize, even if you do not, what Fahid is doing.
He has allowed the man he accuses of assassinating General Baddour to escape in the belief that when he is caught and killed by NIMF guards, Fahid will avoid the otherwise inevitable scrutiny and subsequent revelations about Rashid’s chemical weapons program.
“From the outset, we agreed to supply NIMF with the necessary hardware and supplies to conduct a successful campaign against the government in Baghdad in return for access to the work of Dr. Rashid — a campaign, I might add, that General Baddour seemed reluctant to wage. When the Americans stumbled into the picture, the success of such a venture was virtually assured. While the world, and particularly the United States, was distracted with what everyone would have considered a most volatile situation in Iraqi, we would have the opportunity to restore the Party to its former glory.”
“Is that not still the case?” Solkov said.
“Fahid has deviated from the plan!” Drachev shouted.