Day Of Wrath (21 page)

“Except that whoever arranged that ambush was willing to go to extraordinary lengths to put an end to our investigation before we got any closer to the truth. And now you and the
MVD
are giving the bad guys what they want on a silver platter!”

Clifford turned red with anger. “Listen, Miss Gray, your investigation has done more to strain U.S.-Russian relations than you can possibly imagine.” He scowled, speaking plainly and candidly for a change.

“Somebody in the Pechenga militia already blabbed to the Moscow press corps. And only Undersecretary Carleton’s murder yesterday has kept this off the front pages in the States. But the local boys are running wild, and they’re embarrassing the hell out of the Kremlin. The press is playing every angle it can dream up—Russian organized crime, lousy Russian aircraft safety, Russian drug smuggling, corruption in the Russian military …”

“I don’t give a damn about the press, Mr.. Clifford or the Kremlin,” Helen said forcefully. “My job is finding out the truth about what happened in Kandalaksha and why my partner was killed.”

Clifford shook his head just as firmly. “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Gray.” He included Thorn in his baleful gaze. “As it stands, you two have managed to anger almost every faction in the Russian government. Most of them were never very happy with the idea of Americans investigating crimes on Russian soil.

Now they’re furious!

“Your original charter covered the O.S.I.A plane crash only,” the diplomat continued. “But once you started poking around into Mafiya drug cartels and their ties to the Russian Air Force, the
MVD
claims you crossed the line into ‘impermissible interference.

’” That was too much for Thorn. “That’s bullshit,” he growled.

“Alexei Koniev had permission from his higher-ups every step of the way.”

“And Major Koniev is dead,” Clifford reminded him brutally.

“Which brings me to another problem. The
MVD
is having trouble believing that one of their best men was killed in that ambush while you two walked away without a scratch—even if the major did die a hero.” He shrugged. “Not everyone believes your story about what happened aboard the Star of the White Sea.”

Helen glared and Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the diplomat held up a conciliatory hand. “Don’t worry. I believe you. At least I think I do. I’ve read both your personnel files.”

Clifford sighed and turned to face Thorn directly. “But your Special Forces background makes you very hot, diplomatically, Colonel.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “There are a lot of people here in Moscow who don’t see you as a simple soldier, Colonel. To the Russians, the closest thing to Delta Force is the old Soviet Spetsnaz.

And that means you’re a trained assassin in their eyes—a paid U.S. government killer. So your presence here makes them nervous. They were willing to let it lie as long as things stayed relatively quiet, but you’re in the spotlight now.”

Thorn tensed. He knew that what Clifford said was true. Officially, he’d been on very thin ice from the beginning, and now the ice had cracked. He looked over at Helen, hoping she was on firmer ground.

As if on cue she sat down in the chair next to him and crossed her arms. “Colonel Thorn’s background has proved an extremely valuable asset during this investigation,” she said steadily.

Clifford snorted. “That depends on your perspective, I suppose.

Others might reasonably argue your whole effort has been an unmitigated disaster from beginning to end. This Pechenga fiasco is simply the last straw.”

Jesus. Thorn shook his head, trying desperately to think of a way out of the bureaucratic box he saw being built around them.

“I don’t accept that, Mr. Clifford. As far as I can see, we’ve made substantial progress. We’ve established beyond a shadow of a doubt that the O.S.I.A transport plane was sabotaged. And we know that this Captain Grushtin carried out the sabotage—though we don’t know yet why, or on whose orders.”

“That’s no longer any of your concern,” Clifford said bluntly.

“What?” Helen exploded.

The diplomat drew a deep breath, then stood up and walked around his desk to face them. “All right, I’ll spell it out for you.

Your role in this investigation is over. This is now solely a Russian matter, involving Russian nationals on sovereign Russian territory. As a result, any further inquiries will be handled by the Russian government and only by the Russian government. Is that understood?”

Helen’s eyes blazed. “No, it is not understood, sir,” she ground out through gritted teeth. “As an
FBI
legal attache, this case still comes under my jurisdiction. Or have you forgotten the Americans who also died when that plane went down?”?

Clifford rounded on her, his patience evidently at an end.

“That’s the second part of my message, Special Agent Gray. As of now, you’re no longer a legal attach at this embassy. The
FBI
is transferring you back to Washington—at the request of the Russian authorities and the ambassador as well.”

Oh, hell, Thorn thought, watching the color drain from Helen’s face.

That’s torn it. These sons of a bitches have just flushed her career down the toilet.

“It’s for your own good, Miss Gray,” Clifford explained, more calmly now that he’d dropped his bombshell. “Your usefulness as an investigator here is now nil. No official will ever talk to you.”

He spread his hands. “Besides, there’s the matter of your own physical safety. After what you did aboard the Star of the White Sea, the Mafiya may come after you personally.”

“I can take care of myself, Mr. Clifford,” Helen said tightly.

“And I can find people who’ll talk.”

The Deputy Chief of Mission shook his head. “You have your orders, Miss Gray. I suggest you obey them.”

He turned toward Thorn and arched an eyebrow. “As for you, Colonel, you’ve been ordered back to D.C too. You’ll be assigned to temporary duty at the Pentagon—pending your imminent retirement.”

Thorn sat motionless. He told himself he wasn’t surprised—not really.

Egged on by a White House still angry at him for disobeying the President, the brass hats had been looking for a chance to toss him out of the Army for two years now. Only his old commander’s pull had kept them at bay for this long. Well, he’d been living on Sam Farrell’s nickel ever since Teheran and it looked like he’d just spent it. The one thing he hadn’t expected was to pull Helen down with him.

Clifford turned his back and looked out the window. “You both have fortyeight hours to get your personal affairs in order, to pack, and do whatever else you need to do. But you will not leave Moscow. And you will check in here at the embassy by phone at 0700 hours and 1900 hours each day. Finally, you will keep your contacts with Russian nationals to the absolute minimum necessary to prepare for departure.”

“In other words, we’re under house arrest,” Helen muttered.

Clifford looked over his shoulder at her. “On the contrary, Miss Gray,” he countered. “I’ve given you the freedom of the city. And you should be damned grateful to follow. I’d be within my rights and authority to confine you to the embasy grounds and ship you out on the evening flight—with within my the embassy grounds or your personal effects to Then he shook his head. “But I won’t do that. You’ve created a nasty incident-one that my staff and I are going to have to bend over backward to smooth over. But you’ve committed no crime, per se—no matter what some of the MVD’s hardliners are claiming. So for God’s sake stay low, keep your mouths shut, and steer clear of any more trouble!”

Without waiting for any further argument, Clifford turned back to the window in a clear dismissal.

Thorn stopped in the hallway outside Clifford’s office, aware that he still felt numb, almost completely disconnected from his own body. No matter how many times he’d told himself his days in the Army were numbered, the diplomat’s cold announcement that he was being forcibly retired had still hit him with the force of a hammer-blow. He’d spent most of his adult life in uniform.

What could the civilian world offer him now?

Thorn frowned, remembering friends who’d opted out of the Special Operations Command during the Army’s recent waves of downsizing. Two or three had joined defense firms as managers.

A couple had tried to set themselves up as security consultants.

One was a teacher at some high school in the Midwest. They were making a living, supporting themselves and their families, but they all missed the Army’s close-knit camaraderie, excitement, and sense of a larger purpose.

He glanced at Helen. Her face mirrored his own stunned disbelief.

She clearly didn’t harbor any illusions about her own long-term prospects in the
FBI
. The legal attache job had been a plum assignment—one that had put her in the running for further promotion.

But the
FBI
hierarchy was notoriously unforgiving and notoriously touchy about bad publicity. Screw up once and you’d find yourself in hot water. Screw up once, in the public eye, and you were likely to spend the rest of your career either in some podunk town in the middle of nowhere, or, worse yet, trapped in the drearier confines of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

Without thinking, Thorn slipped his arm around her shoulder.

Normally Helen was prickly about public displays of affection, especially on her professional turf, but she welcomed his touch now.

She sighed deeply and half leaned against him as they headed back toward the elevators that would take them to her office.

“Jesus, you two sure don’t look like the superhuman Amerikanski secret commandos I’ve been reading about in the afternoon paper! More like folks who’ve been caught out in a tornado.”

Thorn stiffened and swung around toward the short, balding man who’d come around a corner behind them. He’d taken just about enough crap from the U.S. State Department for one day … Helen laid a cautionary hand on his arm. She tried smiling and almost made it. “Hello, Charlie.”

The newcomer looked ready to embrace Helen, but he settled for pumping her hand. “Christ, Helen! I’m sure glad to see you alive and well.

When we heard about that business in Pechenga, we were all horrified.”

He turned to Thorn and extended his hand. “And you’re Peter Thorn.

I’m Charlie Spiegel. I work here at the embassy.”

Helen explained. “Charlie and I worked together on a couple of cases.

I can’t tell you who he works for, but he’s good at his job.” The implication was obvious: Charlie Spiegel worked for the
CIA
.

“She’s too kind, Colonel,” Spiegel said. He flashed a quick grin.

“Mostly I just sit around and file reports claiming credit for whatever paydirt Helen digs up.”

“But not this time,” Thorn said quietly.

Spiegel’s grin faded. “No, not this time.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Man, I’m afraid you two have taken one hell of a long walk off a short pier. I hate to say it, but I think the ambassador’s right to get you out of Russia before anything else hits the fan—and the quicker the better.”

He saw the surprise on Thorn’s face and shrugged. “Helen said I was good, and it’s my job to keep plugged in. Look, why don’t you come to my office? While His Nibs in there gave you the forty lashes with a wet tongue, I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground. There are some new developments I think you should know about.”

The
CIA
agent’s office was on the floor above Helen’s, and it was just as cramped and a lot messier. Books, periodicals, and printouts cluttered Spiegel’s battered desk, every shelf, and much of the floor space.

Thorn shook his head wryly as he and Helen cleared stacks of reference works off chairs so they could sit down. This guy seemed to live on paper.

Spiegel didn’t wait for them to get settled. He flopped into his own swivel chair and started explaining. “First, I don’t think you folks fully understand the flap your gun battle in Pechenga has created.

You’re both front-page news here. Hell, Clifford’s people had to do some pretty fast footwork to keep the media away from you. That was part of the reason for that little covert handoff out at Sheremetevo Airport.”

Thorn considered that grimly. The only thing worse than sitting in
MVD
custody would have been getting caught by a mob of eager-beaver reporters and cameramen. Everything in his nature and his Delta Force training taught him the importance of staying out of the glare of TV lights.

“The fortyeight hours you’ve been given isn’t just to let you pack, it’s mostly to give the story time to cool off,” Spiegel said confidentially. He lowered his voice. “You didn’t hear it from me, but the embassy is even making sure you don’t arrive home at a commercial airport. You’ll take a regular flight to Germany, but then they’re transferring you to a military passenger flight to Andrews Air Force Base.”

“Arriving in the dead of the night, I suppose?” Helen asked bitterly.

“You got it,” Spiegel confirmed. “And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you’re listed on the manifest as
PFCS
John and Jane Doe.

The last thing anyone wants is more news coverage.”

Thorn nodded. He agreed with the precautions the State Department was taking on that score, if on no other.

“What about our work, Charlie?” Helen asked. “Can you or your people dig any further? I don’t want this investigation to fall through the cracks once they’ve shipped us off. We’ve paid too high a price to let it go so easily.”

Spiegel looked blank. “Jesus, Helen. That’s gonna be a problem.

I mean, the word’s come down from on high: Steer clear of the Kandalaksha mess. It’s a Russian-only situation. If my people start asking too many questions, I’m going to trip all kinds of alarm bells all over the damn place—both here and in D.C.”

Then he shrugged. “Besides, with this Grushtin character dead and that freighter a bust, I wouldn’t really know where to start looking. Seems to me you’ve run this thing into a dead-end no pun intended.”

Thorn frowned. He wasn’t going to let this guy off the hook so easily.