“So the director told me,” the woman said. With a grand sweep of her arm, she indicated the gleaming, impeccably clean and shining cabinets that housed the BKA’s monster computer. “If there is information to be had anywhere on the Continent on the people you are researching, it is here, in Komissar’s data banks.”
“A little out of date, isn’t he?” MacKenzie observed.
“Mac…” Murdock said, warning edging his voice.
“Komissar” was a computer, a very large computer with a mainframe occupying a small, air-conditioned room in the BKA’s basement, and with terminals located throughout the office complex.
“He was installed during the late 1970s,” Inge said, sounding a bit defensive, almost as though a favorite child had just been harshly and unfairly criticized. “And he has been upgraded several times since. He currently stores some tens of millions of pages of information on terrorists and terrorist groups all over the world… focusing particularly on those individuals operating in Europe, of course. We may not have access to your American Super-Cray computers, but Komissar is more than powerful enough to do the job expected of him.”
“I’m sure the chief wasn’t criticizing your machine,” Murdock said diplomatically. “Or your methods.”
“No, ma’am,” the big SEAL added. “He’s just a lot bigger than what I’m used to back home.”
“And coming from a Texan,” Murdock said, “that’s quite an admission. In any case, we’ve found that the key to solving problems is never the technology. It’s the people.”
“That is most observant, Lieutenant,” Inge said, nodding. “And you’re right, of course. It is the people who make our system work. The BKA is one of the finest criminal investigation units in the world.”
“We were particularly interested in your cataloguing system,” Murdock said. “I was told you have a whole warehouse full of Stasi records.”
“More than one, in fact. We Germans, as I’m sure you’ve heard, can be meticulous record keepers.”
“I sometimes think record keeping will be our undoing,” a new voice said at their backs.
Turning, Murdock saw a young, athletic-looking man wearing neatly pressed combat fatigues. A sharpshooter’s badge was pinned to the left breast of his tunic, along with several medals that Murdock did not recognize.
“Oberleutnant Werner Hopke,” the man said said, extending a hand. “Grenzschutzgruppe Nine. You must be the American SEALs, though you seem to be out of uniform. I was expecting swim fins and wet suits.”
The GSG9 was German’s unique answer to the terrorism that had plagued West Germany in the seventies and eighties. The face of terrorism had changed, of course, along with the changing map of Europe during the past few years, but the GSG9 had maintained its status as one of the world’s elite counterterror and hostage-rescue units.
Murdock took the man’s hand. Hopke had a dry, firm grip. “Lieutenant Blake Murdock, United States Navy. And this is my partner in crime, Master Chief MacKenzie. As for the uniform, well, consider this camouflage dress for urban environments.”
Hopke chuckled. “GSG9 is forced to use protective coloration as well, Herr Lieutenant. My condolences. In any case, I am very pleased to meet you both. I have been assigned as your liaison with the Grenzschutzgruppe during your visit. Has our Inge been taking good care of you?”
“Our Inge?” MacKenzie asked. He turned to the woman. “You didn’t say you were with the GSG9.”
She laughed. “I’m not.”
“Miss Schmidt works closely with the Grenzschutzgruppe, however,” Hopke said. “She is, ah, I suppose a computer technician might say she is our primary interface with Komissar. Sometimes I think she is Komissar, which is why mere mortals like us don’t have a chance to get to know her better.”
“Possibly,” Inge told him, with a flirtatious lift of her chin, “you simply haven’t found the proper program to run on me.”
“Ah, tell me about the Euro-terror groups,” Murdock said brusquely. He could sense the chemistry flowing between Schmidt and Hopke, and thought it best to get the conversation back onto strictly professional grounds.
“What did you need to know?” Hopke asked.
Murdock exchanged glances with the other SEAL, then looked Hopke in the eye. “What is your clearance, Herr Leutnant?”
“Blue three.”
“Miss Schmidt?”
“Blue four.”
“Maverick Lance,” Murdock said.
Hopke’s face immediately tightened. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “this should be discussed in a secure area.”
Murdock nodded. “I couldn’t agree more.”
“Come with me.”
Turning, the four of them left the BKA basement room and the glassed-in Wiesbaden computer. There were some secrets that even Komissar was not yet privy to.
2
The secure room in the BKA headquarters basement had many of the qualities of a bank vault. There was only one way in, past an armed guard and through a massive steel door that gave a muffled, pressurizing hiss when it closed and sealed shut behind them. Inside, it resembled a corporate conference room more than a vault. The soundproofing had been concealed behind rich, wood paneling, the floor was thickly carpeted, and a long table occupied the center of the room, which appeared to have been designed around it. A niche in one corner partly hid a coffee machine and a small refrigerator.
“All the comforts,” MacKenzie said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You could live down here for days.”
“There are a number of rooms such as this one in the complex,” Inge told them. “It was thought back in the eighties that, should the Soviets invade, the BKA planning and command staffs could continue their work in secure conditions, despite Spetsnaz commando raids, despite even a nuclear strike on Wiesbaden.”
“And speaking of nuclear strikes,” Hopke said, taking a seat at the conference table, “what is this about Maverick Lance? I saw no report.”
“There hasn’t been one,” Murdock explained. “Not yet. But both the CIA and Navy Intelligence have been following a series of events, incidents if you will, here in Europe. The possibility of a Maverick Lance is very real.”
“I thought your Army’s Delta Force was tasked with such operations.”
Murdock smiled. “You know the American military, Lieutenant. If one of the services is going to do something, they all have to have a piece of it.”
“I’ve often wondered how Americans are able to get anything done,” Hopke said, returning the smile to soften the words. “Their love of bureaucracy rivals that of the Russians.”
“Or the Germans,” MacKenzie said. “Who was it who invented the general staff?”
Hopke’s grin broadened. “Ah, but that was good bureaucracy, you see,” he said, bantering. “The German general staff brought the art of warfare to new heights of organization and efficiency.”
“I see. Is that why Germany lost two world wars in a row?”
“Mac…” Murdock warned.
But Hopke only laughed. “Point taken, Master Chief. Still, this does not sound like an operation that would be of much interest to Navy SEALs. You operate in the water normally, from submarines. Ja?”
“SEALs is an acronym for sea, air, and land, Lieutenant,” Murdock said. “We work wherever they send us, and if that means the nearest water is in our canteen… or in that coffeemaker over there, well, that’s good enough for us.