Critical Effect

“Why, Hal, don’t you get it? That’s just my little way of endearing myself to you.”

Brognola shook his head and quipped, “Glory.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Choldwig Burke quietly placed the cordless telephone handset on his makeshift metal desk and swiveled in his chair to look upon the dusk cityscape of Wiesbaden. He had a perfect view of it from the abandoned automobile factory on the south side of the city, and it calmed him. He had purchased the factory a mere six months earlier for a song under a deal he’d worked out anonymously through a third-party agent.

Burke considered the recent news. He opened and closed his hands, clenching his jaw in tandem with the movements, as if keeping time with an orchestral piece. The detachment he left behind to observe the plane failed to check in at either of their scheduled times, and then he received the message that most if not all were probably dead. The informant didn’t have much more information than that, but she had noticed one of his men in the custody of five strangers of various ethnicities. He’d instructed her to call back as soon as she had more information on their current whereabouts.

The other issue weighing on Burke’s mind was the unsteady alliance he’d formed with the Palestinians. Mukhtar Tarif, leader of the Hezbollah unit under sanctuary provided by the GFR, had proved himself totally unpredictable. Such men were not trustworthy to Burke’s way of thinking, and he didn’t know how much longer they could maintain a credible alliance. Burke hadn’t wanted this whole thing to begin with, but the people he employed expected payment for their services, and being they were very good at what they did, they didn’t come cheap, either.

When Burke’s operation had still been small—with just a couple dozen men able to handle the business in the way it needed handling—these kinds of troubles hadn’t been an issue. But with growth came greater risks, and greater risks demanded upping the ante for certain types of services. Tarif had stepped forward and made an offer Burke resisted at first. But Burke’s second in command, a brilliant ex-military strategist named Helmut Stuhl, convinced him to accept the deal. He regretted every minute of it. It had turned out to be very risky and expensive for the GFR, which meant it hadn’t resulted in as much profit.

Burke planned to change all that with their successful theft of the LAMPs. He had supreme confidence in them to do the job necessary, and once he sold them out to the highest bidder, Burke could rid himself of Tarif and his band of fanatics forever. First, however, he needed to deal with the incident in St. Louis.

A knock sounded at the door of his makeshift office. “Come in.”

The door swung open to admit Mukhtar Tarif and his pair of bodyguards. He never seemed to go anywhere without them. The bodyguards tried to look imposing, menacing, but to a man of Burke’s size and physical prowess they were a joke. Burke possessed the physique of his father, but he’d inherited his brains from his late mother. Liesl Burke had served as a nuclear power engineer and consultant to the government of Luxembourg. She’d held a degree in nuclear physics, and many colleagues had considered her one of the most innovative and brilliant scientists in her field. Then cancer took hold and ravaged her body, eventually overtaking not only her life but her beloved career.

Liesl Burke also left behind a saddened ten-year-old boy.

Sworn to model his life after that of his mother’s, Burke excelled in his studies. By sixteen he’d been wooed by the finest universities in Germany but eventually he set his heart on the study of particle physics. He spent several years at the CERN Laboratory in Geneva. That later proved extremely valuable in gaining knowledge of the Hadron magnets used in the LHC project, and ultimately proved instrumental in understanding the Low Altitude Military Platform brainchild of the British RAF.

Mukhtar Tarif dropped into the straight-backed metal chair in front of Burke and propped his feet on the desk. Young and impetuous, the terrorist leader had treated Burke with impunity and disrespect nearly from the beginning of their relationship. Burke had only tolerated it because of his belief in the GFR and his steadfast ideology that the needs of his organization far exceeded those of any individual, including its founder. Such idealism had earned him the respect of every member in the organization, and he didn’t intend to sacrifice their loyalty on what amounted to little more than ego.

“I’m told you needed to speak to me,” Tarif announced in flawless German. He’d mastered the language in one of the terrorist training camps sponsored by al Qaeda deep in the mountains of Afghanistan. “What do you want?”

“I want to know exactly what kind of a fool you think I am,” Burke replied in a no-nonsense tone. “You didn’t actually think I wouldn’t find out about Delmico?”

“On the contrary, I knew you would find out. He is no longer of any concern to you.”

“I will judge what’s of concern to me and what isn’t.”

The effect of the implicit warning in Burke’s voice became evident with the dangerous hue visible in Tarif’s expression. “That sounded much to me like a threat, Mr. Burke.”

“Take it as you like,” Burke replied with a smile. “But Dr. Delmico is my contact, and I want him released unharmed. Immediately.”