Erich Stimmel would recall that day fondly for years to come. It was never far from his mind, especially during sex, when to achieve pleasure he needed to conjure up memories of the atrocities he had been party to. The pain of others had come to mean ecstasy for him.
After the war he had escaped punishment at Nuremberg and slipped into a new identity, thanks to the organization known as ODESSA. He had become a gunsmith in Vienna and earned enough money to buy his prostitutes without having to tap into the accounts provided by those who had settled him here.
It was the winter of 1947, a week into the new year, and his memories of the boys and the priest were especially sharp.
“Stop,” the whore beneath him pleaded. “Please.”
“Shut up!” Stimmel shouted, and slammed deeper into her anus. The gunbelt he wore over his naked waist dug into her. His holster slapped against her flesh. The whore cowered beneath him, shivering, an animal and nothing more. Let it hurt, make it hurt. Yes … Yes!
With one final thrust, it was over. Stimmel pulled out and left the whore to her whimpers.
“The bathroom,” she muttered.
“Use it, bitch,” Stimmel said, as he rolled onto his back and sank into the down-filled quilt covering part of the bed. “Then leave.”
It hurt to walk even that short distance, and the woman closed the door behind her, feeling for a lock and trembling anew when she saw none there. She sat on the toilet seat and held herself, not wanting to die, hoping he would let her leave. She suddenly felt sick and turned herself round to face the bowl. The vomit rushed up her throat and left her breathless and gasping. Dry heaves racked her repeatedly.
Oh, God, please let me live. Please don’t let him kill me….
It was then that she heard the sound of a thump followed by the madman’s voice:
“What … Wh—”
A gunshot sounded, and then another.
“Noooooooooo!” he bellowed.
The prostitute sank to her knees. A horrible smell that made her retch anew filled her nostrils.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”
The drawn-out wail curdled her ears, fading to a rasp and then a wet gurgle. Something sloshed about in the room beyond. Soft thuds pounded the wall, and the woman held her breath against the chance that she might be discovered.
She remained motionless until all sounds in the adjoining room ceased. When she eased open the door, a wall of utter coldness slammed into her, a fierce dead chill pouring in from the bedroom accompanied by waves of the god-awful, nauseating stink. The woman emerged from the bathroom holding the doorframe tight and dropped to her knees at first sight of what lay before her.
Blood. Everywhere. Covering everything. The madman’s blood.
He had been torn apart. Pieces of him lay strewn about beneath scarlet patterns embroidered upon the walls. His pistol lay on the bed, grasped in a severed hand. The prostitute leaned over and gagged, unable to breathe. She crawled across the floor through the grotesque remains, the stink and the cold all but unbearable.
She emerged into the street below naked and screaming, screaming of monsters loose in Vienna, screaming that no one was safe. The few people on the street gave her a wide berth as she ran past them. But none of them listened, and the woman rushed on through the night toward the false promise of morning.
Part One
The Dig
Chapter 1
The president’s limousine swung off Eighteenth Street and turned toward the entrance of the Crystal Gateway Marriott. Abu Al-Akir turned away from the television broadcasting the limousine’s arrival over CNN and brought the rifle back to his eye. Getting used to the heft of the Weatherby, the way it felt against his shoulder, was crucial. Since there had been no opportunity to test-fire the weapon, he would have to rely on feel and instinct to provide the mandated minute adjustments. He had killed many men in his time, but the kill he was going to attempt today was by far the most challenging. He would be firing a blind shot through a mezzanine window ten stories below at a target speaking in a room off the lobby yet another floor down.
Well, not quite blind …
The president would be addressing a crowd of chamber of commerce representatives from all over the country in the Marriott’s Lee Room. The only question now was whether the door to the room would be open or closed; his choice of bullets depended on what CNN showed him.
The sole bit of furniture in this twelfth-floor apartment that had been rented for him weeks before within Crystal Towers was a television perched upon a stand. It was set against the wall in a way that required him to turn his head only slightly to watch the screen. In a few minutes CNN would be carrying the president’s speech live. Al-Akir cringed at the memory of how the preliminary team had forgotten to have the apartment’s cable switched on, not realizing that the all-news network couldn’t be picked up otherwise. Al-Akir himself had uncovered the oversight and the activation had been completed only yesterday.
The remainder of the logistics had proven brilliant in every respect. The preliminary team had cut a hole in the bedroom window just large enough to accommodate the very tip of his sniper’s rifle. With the president’s guards concentrating their efforts inside and around the Marriott, there was no way they could possibly notice such a slight anomaly. Beyond that, it was extremely unlikely that anyone could have foreseen the type of shot Al-Akir was going to attempt.
He had practiced it a thousand times on a replica of these conditions with a twin of this Weatherby .460 Magnum, chosen for its legendary flat trajectory, which was a prime requisite today. Of course, precise weather could not be factored in, but today’s air was cool; low humidity and very little wind. In other words, perfect. He would be firing the bullet through the glass of a Marriott mezzanine window on a downward trajectory for the Lee Room and the president’s head, timed off with the help of the CNN broadcast five feet to his right. The logistics were stored in his memory. Minor alterations would be programmed into his computerlike mind. Both varieties of his custom-made bullets accounted for a pair of twelve-shot clips. Guided by the CNN picture, Al-Akir guessed he could squeeze off a minimum of seven and still avoid capture.
On the screen, the president was shown being ushered through the Marriott lobby for a speech that he was now fifteen minutes late for.
Al-Akir lowered his Weatherby back to the floor. He had picked up the rifle only that morning, the final safeguard of the plan. Al-Akir knew the Americans were looking for him, and one man in particular. The trick was never to wander into their, or especially his, grasp. Never surface to make a drop or a pickup. Everything was conducted through intermediaries, a long chain that, if broken, would mean the cessation of his mission. Al-Akir took chances, but very few risks.
Along with Abu Abbas and Abu Nidal, he was one of the world’s most wanted terrorists. While these others had grown fat living off their reputations, Al-Akir had stayed sharp, never straying from his deadly trade. The order to kill the American president came from high up in the movement, but it was only part of the reason why he was in the country. From here he would travel to San Francisco on the most crucial mission of his life. The Arab people were about to seize their own destiny. The means were at last at hand. The death of the president would mark Day One in a new and fateful calendar.
Al-Akir turned his attention back to the television. He had already turned the volume off so that it would not distract him. Seconds later he watched the president enter the Lee Room and shake an army of hands en route to the lectern. He took his place behind it and waited for the applause to die down. Al-Akir waited for CNN to cut to a camera angle that included the door.