Hussain Azziz al-Douri, onetime commander of the Mukhabarat’s Eighth Directorate, the unit directly responsible for developing, testing, and producing Iraq’s biological weapons.
“Good evening, General,” she said politely, with a faint smile on her lips.
He glared back at her. “Who the devil are you?”
The woman flipped back the hood of the abaya, revealing her short blond hair, straight nose, and firm chin. “Someone who has been hunting you for a very long time,” CIA officer Randi Russell told him coolly.
Dresden, Germany
Large flakes of wet snow drifted down from a dark, overcast sky. Spinning lazily in the calm, cold air, they settled softly across the plaza surrounding Dresden’s floodlit Semper Opera House. A thin white blanket softened the stark outlines of the equestrian statue of King Johann of Saxony rearing high above the open square.
People bundled up in overcoats hurried across the plaza with their umbrellas hoisted high to ward off the falling snow, joining the excited crowds gathering outside the brightly lit entrance to the Opera House. Placards and banners posted around the city announced this evening’s premiere of a new, ultra avant-garde version of Carl Maria von Weber’s Freischutz, the first real German opera.
Jon Smith stood in the shadows near the long-dead Saxon king’s statue, carefully observing Dresden’s self-anointed aficionados of high culture stream across the square. Impatiently, he shook the wet snowflakes out of his dark hair. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the cold bite through his thin windbreaker and black turtleneck.
He had arrived on the city’s outskirts roughly an hour before, dropped off by a Hamburg-based truck driver from whom he had bummed a ride all the way from Prague across the Czech-German border. Two hundred euros in cold, hard cash had more than satisfied the trucker’s curiosity about why an American businessman needed so long a lift. He had allowed Smith to ride in the sleeping berth at the back of his cab, safe from any prying official eyes.
Fortunately, crossing the frontier had proved uneventful. Now that the Czech Republic was part of the European Union, there were very few active checkpoints between the two countries.
But moving any deeper into Germany or getting a plane back to the States or anywhere else would take a lot more than luck. The murderous ambush on the road to Prague’s airport had cost him both his laptop computer and his carry-on bag. European hotelkeepers and airport security officials alike frowned on people arriving without luggage. More important, he needed new identification. Sooner or later, the Czech authorities would start casting a wider net for the American doctor and army officer who had missed his plane to London and vanished so mysteriously. They might even tie him to the bullet-riddled corpses found near the road to the airport.
Smith spotted a short, bearded man in evening dress and a bright red scarf walking slowly toward the statue. He wore a pair of thick glasses that reflected the dazzling lights silhouetting the Opera House. The newcomer also carried a colorful program for Mozart’s Don Giovanni conspicuously beneath one arm.
Jon moved out to intercept him. “Are you here for the performance?” he asked quietly in German. “They say the maestro is in top form.”
He noticed the little man relax slightly. Maestro was the recognition word Fred Klein had given him when Smith called to arrange this emergency rendezvous.
“So I understand,” the short, bearded man replied. He tapped the program under his arm. “But I prefer Mozart to Weber myself.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Smith said pointedly. “So do I.”
The little man smiled tightly. His blue eyes were bright behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Those of us who love Europe’s greatest composer must stick together, my friend. So take this, with my compliments.” He handed the taller American his Don Giovanni program.
“Good evening, General,” she said politely, with a faint smile on her lips.
He glared back at her. “Who the devil are you?”
The woman flipped back the hood of the abaya, revealing her short blond hair, straight nose, and firm chin. “Someone who has been hunting you for a very long time,” CIA officer Randi Russell told him coolly.
Dresden, Germany
Large flakes of wet snow drifted down from a dark, overcast sky. Spinning lazily in the calm, cold air, they settled softly across the plaza surrounding Dresden’s floodlit Semper Opera House. A thin white blanket softened the stark outlines of the equestrian statue of King Johann of Saxony rearing high above the open square.
People bundled up in overcoats hurried across the plaza with their umbrellas hoisted high to ward off the falling snow, joining the excited crowds gathering outside the brightly lit entrance to the Opera House. Placards and banners posted around the city announced this evening’s premiere of a new, ultra avant-garde version of Carl Maria von Weber’s Freischutz, the first real German opera.
Jon Smith stood in the shadows near the long-dead Saxon king’s statue, carefully observing Dresden’s self-anointed aficionados of high culture stream across the square. Impatiently, he shook the wet snowflakes out of his dark hair. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the cold bite through his thin windbreaker and black turtleneck.
He had arrived on the city’s outskirts roughly an hour before, dropped off by a Hamburg-based truck driver from whom he had bummed a ride all the way from Prague across the Czech-German border. Two hundred euros in cold, hard cash had more than satisfied the trucker’s curiosity about why an American businessman needed so long a lift. He had allowed Smith to ride in the sleeping berth at the back of his cab, safe from any prying official eyes.
Fortunately, crossing the frontier had proved uneventful. Now that the Czech Republic was part of the European Union, there were very few active checkpoints between the two countries.
But moving any deeper into Germany or getting a plane back to the States or anywhere else would take a lot more than luck. The murderous ambush on the road to Prague’s airport had cost him both his laptop computer and his carry-on bag. European hotelkeepers and airport security officials alike frowned on people arriving without luggage. More important, he needed new identification. Sooner or later, the Czech authorities would start casting a wider net for the American doctor and army officer who had missed his plane to London and vanished so mysteriously. They might even tie him to the bullet-riddled corpses found near the road to the airport.
Smith spotted a short, bearded man in evening dress and a bright red scarf walking slowly toward the statue. He wore a pair of thick glasses that reflected the dazzling lights silhouetting the Opera House. The newcomer also carried a colorful program for Mozart’s Don Giovanni conspicuously beneath one arm.
Jon moved out to intercept him. “Are you here for the performance?” he asked quietly in German. “They say the maestro is in top form.”
He noticed the little man relax slightly. Maestro was the recognition word Fred Klein had given him when Smith called to arrange this emergency rendezvous.
“So I understand,” the short, bearded man replied. He tapped the program under his arm. “But I prefer Mozart to Weber myself.”
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Smith said pointedly. “So do I.”
The little man smiled tightly. His blue eyes were bright behind the thick lenses of his glasses. “Those of us who love Europe’s greatest composer must stick together, my friend. So take this, with my compliments.” He handed the taller American his Don Giovanni program.
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