As he liberated himself from the seat belt, he glanced out of the window where the much-heralded Terminal 5 was suckling a litter of Airbus 300 series and Boeing 700s: 80,000 tons of steel, 36,000 square yards of glass for a giant rabbit hutch. He had no idea why the numbers stuck in his mind other than the persistence of the British press in featuring every phase of its construction. There had to be a rule, known for certain only to the cognoscenti, that airport terminals, unlike the older, eye-teasing train stations of a century ago, must be either modern beyond attractive or tediously utilitarian.
He stood and removed his bag from the overhead as the plane docked at a somewhat less lionized, if equally unattractive, terminal and, like cattle to the slaughter, shuffled his place in line down the aisle to the exit into Terminal 1. Duty-free shops opposite departure/arrival gates lined the left side of the walkway, windows gleaming with expensive luxury watches, the latest in electronics, and other high end goods. Airport retailers are not known for bargain prices.
Jason’s passing stare into the glass was rewarded by the reflection of a man as he stood up from one of the lounge chairs that lined the center of the concourse. He would have gone unnoticed had he not taken something from a jacket and folded it into the newspaper he held in the other hand. Gloved hand, Jason noticed. Most people who wear gloves indoors usually have a purpose other than keeping their hands warm. The guy wasn’t Ronald McDonald. He maneuvered around a woman pulling a pair of roller boards to fall in behind Jason at a slightly faster pace. Alarm bells were clanging in Jason’s mind, but he maintained the exterior of one fascinated by the gaudy retail display.
He picked his spot in front of a display of Rolex watches. Arms akimbo, he leaned forward as though to better see the timepieces. In reality, he was carefully watching the approach of the man with the rolled newspaper. Jason waited until the stranger was only a step away, reaching into the paper.
Jason took a step back. It was the move of a man suddenly tired of what he was viewing, or, perhaps, remembering something he had to do. The heel of his shoe came down on the stranger’s instep hard enough to elicit a yelp of pain. At the same instant, Jason’s elbow hit the wrist of the hand with the paper, knocking it loose.
“How clumsy of me!” Jason said, stooping. “Here, let me…”
Before the astonished man could protest, Jason shook the pages of the newspaper. A syringe rolled onto the tiles.
Jason snatched it up before the other man could close his fingers around it. The man bolted, shoving surprised passengers aside.
Jason’s impulse was to give chase, but he held up. Like mice, the presence of one assassin meant there was a good chance more were around. He gently pushed the syringe’s plunger, bringing a few drops to the hole in the needle and sniffed. No odor. Jason would have bet is was also tasteless. The really nasty stuff usually was.
Only then did he notice a small crowd of curious onlookers.
“My physician,” he explained with a forced smile. “He has his own way of delivering my annual flu shot.”
18
Jason waited as long as possible before paying cash for his ticket, reluctantly showing his passport for identification. Absent false ID, there was no way he could keep his name off the passenger manifest, a document any moderately talented teenage hacker could get. His hope was that by the time his name was added, the flight would have departed.
In the waiting area, he selected a seat with a wall at its back. The thought of how easily the syringe’s needle could have slipped through the fabric of the seat or those on an aircraft made him squirm. Easy, quiet, undetectable. Undetectable until one of the plane’s flight crew discovered the passenger in 14F was dead, not sleeping, by which time the killer would be long gone. Equally disquieting was the certainty the attempt had been perpetrated by professionals, not one of Moustaph’s disciples, filled more with religious zeal and hatred than talent. Not that the Al Qaeda leader didn’t have capable killers available.
Another disturbing thought was the question of whether the men in Liechtenstein were connected to the shot fired through the bedroom window. Jason was fairly certain they were. Both the lack of subtlety and the blind shot through the window had an amateurish quality. Not like the would-be attack with the syringe.
The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable he became. Two sets of assassins? One, the amateurs, acting out of revenge at the command of Moustaph, the other, the paid professionals with ready access to poison syringes and an arsenal of equally deadly weapons.
Not much he could do about it now other than to e-mail Momma and Narcom a list of what he needed so far. He had just finished when his flight was called.
Moments later, he was seated, iPod earbuds inserted as the violins of Scarlatti, the greatest of the Neapolitan Baroque composers, danced through his head. He ignored the scientifically dubious claim of possible interference with the aircraft’s navigational system and began to read the material Momma had given him further.
19
From letters preserved by present-day relatives of Tesla and shared with the author by surviving members of Tesla’s family in Croatia, it becomes clear he was concerned about the welfare of his family there under Nazi rule. He was particularly distressed by the service of his young nephew, Darf, in a regiment of Croatian infantry fighting the Russians, along with the Germans at Stalingrad. His unhappiness came not from a political point of view, but from a fear of harm to Darf, harm suffered on behalf of the Germans whom he trusted no more than the Russians.
In September 1942, when the Stalingrad offensive had just begun, he wrote his sister, Ljerka, Darf’s mother.
I fear for Darf. He is young, impetuous, and likely to take unnecessary chances on behalf of the country’s current masters who care nothing for Croatia nor the fate of its youth. Besides, the lad suffers from asthma and may perish without his family to care for him.
It is possible I may be able to help secure his release from the military.
If so, it is my intent to do so.
Thereafter, Tesla corresponded with the U.S. Department of State, seeking to have the U.S. government intervene in some manner. Since America was already at war with Germany and its allies by this time, there was little the government could do. Tesla then contacted the embassies of neutrals Switzerland, Sweden, Spain, and Portugal as well as the representative of the Holy See in New York (exchanges of ambassadors between the United States and the Vatican were not established until 1984). As an internationally known scientist whose inventions “benefitted all mankind,” he asked each, in the “name of humanity” to intercede with the Croatian pro-Nazi regime to free his nephew from military service.
As naive as his efforts may seem, Darf’s children in Croatia today relate the story their late father told of his sudden release from the army just as the November 1942 Russian counter-offensive began in some of the worst weather conditions known to modern warfare. He was flown home and given a job in his country’s small war-production office. We may only speculate which neutral country succeeded in fulfilling Tesla’s requests. Or, more puzzling, why the German army, desperate for every man it could muster, would acquiesce.