Day Of Wrath (27 page)

All had been difficult.

But Reichardt had carefully planned and painstakingly researched all those assignments. It was the other man’s strength and safeguard. By the time Steinhof tightened a wire garrote around someone’s neck, he not only knew the perfect time and place to do it, but why the garrote was better than the knife or the gun.

Now, though, all he had to work with were a pair of names and two photos—faxed once and then faxed again, growing muddier with each transmission. Reichardt apparently knew nothing about when this Thorn and Gray would arrive in the city, or indeed, if they would come at all. It was unsettling, but Steinhof knew better than to press his superior for more information. Men who called Rolf Ulrich Reichardt’s imperfections to his attention tended to have short life spans.

At least, he knew the two Americans would be seeking news of the Baltic Venturer. That gave a focus to Steinhof’s surveillance plan.

With just six men left, counting himself, the ex-Stasi agent could only cover the Port Authority office and the Customs House. But that should be enough. Assuming they came to Wilhelmshaven at all, the Americans would have to go to one or the other if they were interested in information about Baltic Venturer.

Steinhof glanced down at the pictures he still held in his hands.

Reichardt had warned him to handle this man and woman with care. And their records made it clear that they were deadly close-combat fighters.

He smiled thinly. If he and his men did their jobs right, the two Americans would never realize they were in a fight—not until that last instant before the light and life faded from their eyes.

Port Authority Office, Wilhelmshaven Helen Gray took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Wilhelmshaven’s salt-scented air and trying to wake herself up. The fortyeight hours since she and Peter Thorn had ditched their ride home to the States had been a blur of short-haul plane flights, long train rides, and restless sleep snatched wherever and whenever possible.

After flying back into Berlin from Bergen, they’d passed what little was left of last night in a tourist hostel in one of the German capital’s cheaper districts. This morning they’d hopped the first passenger train heading here. They’d left their bags in a locker at the Wilhelmshaven train station. Neither of them wanted to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary.

She caught Peter suppressing a yawn of his own and nudged him gently.

“You up for this? Or do you want a nap first?”

He shrugged. “Aged, ancient, and weary as I am, I think I can hobble on, Miss Gray. How about you?”

Helen shook her head, checking her pockets for the fake business cards that identified her as an American journalist named Susan Anderson.

Satisfied, she squared her shoulders and led the way across the street.

The Port Authority office occupied the entire ground floor of a commercial building on the south side of the Weserstrasse. Inquiries at the front counter finally produced a drab brunette named Fraulein Geiss, who spoke enough English to answer their questions.

The German woman tapped the counter impatiently. “How may I help you, Fraulein Anderson?”

Helen did all the talking again. “We’re looking for information on a Wilhelmshaven-registered ship, Baltic Venturer. Specifically, the dates of her last arrival and departure, where she docked, and what cargo she carried.”

The brunette studied Helen’s business card curiously. “You are a reporter, yes?”

“That’s right.” Helen nodded.

“May I ask, why do you want this information?”

“Of course.” Helen smiled politely. “We’re doing research for a business news story on the North Sea trade—analyzing the effects of the new open markets in Russia and Eastern Europe. I’m especially interested in seeing how the growing competition from former Soviet bloc merchant ships is affecting established Western routes and customer relationships …” She watched the German woman’s eyes glazing over and hid a smile. Answering potentially awkward questions with a flood of information—all of it boring—was often an effective way to make sure no more awkward questions were asked.

After several more seconds, Fraulein Geiss held up her hand.

“Enough, please, Fraulein Anderson. I understand your need.

Allow me to check for you.”

The German woman turned to a computer mounted on the counter and typed in a few lines. Numbers and letters flashed onto her screen. “Ja, we have that ship in our database.” She tapped the screen with a pen.

“She arrived six days ago on the fifth—and docked at S43.”

Helen leaned over the counter. “Is the ship still in port?”

Fraulein Geiss entered another code and studied the new set of symbols on her monitor. She shook her head. “No. She sailed again on the seventh-bound for Portsmouth in England.”

“Can you tell us what cargo she offloaded?” Helen asked, quickly scribbling the ship’s berth and her arrival and departure times on a notepad.

The German woman shook her head stiffly. “I do not have this information. That is not our function here. You must obtain that from the Customs Office.”

Helen thought fast for a moment. There were three possibilities facing them. First, that the crew of the Baltic Venturer had unloaded her cargo of contraband jet engines here in Wilhelmshaven.

Second, that she’d carried them away with her on the next leg of her journey. Or, the third possibility: that whoever controlled the engines had shifted them to another vessel—just as they’d apparently done in Bergen.

She flipped to another page of her notebook. “Do you have some way to find out what other ships were berthed next to her while she was in port?”

“Of course.” Fraulein Geiss nodded humorlessly, apparently a bit nettled that an American reporter would doubt the efficiency of the Wilhelmshaven Port Authority office.

This time the German woman produced two lists. One was for S42, the berth to port of the Venturer. The other was for S44, to starboard.

S44 had been empty when the Baltic Venturer arrived, but a “reefer,” a refrigerated cargo ship, had steamed in the next day.

She’d unloaded her goods for the next three.

S42, the portside berth, had been busier. A container ship, the Caraco Savannah, had been moored there, but she’d left almost immediately.

Another ship had taken her place later that same day, taken on cargo, and then sailed right after Baltic Venturer on the seventh.

Fraulein Geiss waited until Helen’s pen stopped moving. “Is that all, Fraulein Anderson?”

Helen smiled at the dour woman. “That’s all, Fraulein. But I do want to thank you for your time and effort.” She put a hand on her pocketbook.

The German shook her head primly. “Such thanks are not necessary. I do my work, that is all. Now, if you will excuse me … “Of course,” Helen said. “So the Customs House is …” She produced the pocket map they’d picked up at the train station’s tourist kiosk.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Fraulein Geiss circled the location for her.

From across the Weserstrasse, Heinz Steinhof watched the serious-looking man and pretty woman emerge from the Port Authority office. They stood on the pavement, studying something the woman held in her hands. A map?

He turned to the big, darkhaired young man beside him. “You were right to signal me, Bekker. This looks promising.”

Sepp Bekker grunted in reply. Steinhof had recruited him several years ago from the dissolving ranks of East Germany’s Border Command. Bekker was just short of two meters tall, with broad, almost.Slavic, features.

He was in his early thirties, strong, quick, and utterly without principles. He also had wild tastes, evidenced by the cobra’s head tattoo that peered over the edge of his shirt collar.

The ex-border guard bragged about his tattoos whenever he could—idly boasting to his fellows that he had one for every would-be escapee he’d shot before the Berlin Wall crumbled.

Steinhof thought he needed seasoning.

Steinhof himself was almost as tall as the younger man, but his own hair had turned silver and he kept it close-cropped. A casual observer might mistake the two of them for father and son, but the older man’s face held more intelligence than the young, tattooed thug’s ever would.

The two Americans had turned away now—walking west toward the Customs House.

“Wait here.”

Bekker nodded, settling back into the shadow of the building.

Staying on his side of the street, Steinhof passed them at a rapid clip, then crossed over at the next intersection. This close to the end of the working day, there was plenty of foot traffic, and he was one of a half dozen others waiting at the light when the two Americans reached it.

He studied them carefully at close range—making sure he stayed out of their direct line of vision. No doubt about it. These two were the quarry Reichardt had assigned him Thorn and Gray in the flesh and within easy reach.

Steinhof shifted slightly on the balls of his feet. He could feel the weight of the Walther P5 Compact hidden by his jacket.

There they were, less than two meters away, totally unaware and unguarded. He had the sudden urge to draw his pistol and kill them now, here, immediately.

The urge passed.

Murder on a public street in broad daylight was far too risky.

No matter how badly he wanted these Americans dead, Reichardt would not thank him for getting himself locked up by the police.

Steinhof lagged further and further behind Thorn and Gray—watching as they turned off the sunlit street and entered the Customs House. He spotted the man he’d placed outside the building and casually signaled him over. Their watching and waiting were over. It was time to begin setting the stage for the last act in the two Americans’ lives.

Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz, Wilhelmshaven Holding the heavily laden tray in both hands, Colonel Peter Thorn carefully maneuvered his way through the crowded, noisy tables at the little outdoor restaurant overlooking the Friedrich-Wilhelm- Platz--a small park separated from the Wilhelmshaven waterfront by a few short blocks. Across the way, a stern statue of Kaiser Wilhelm seemed to stare disapprovingly down at the frivolous antics of his former subjects. When they weren’t busy working, Wilhelmshaven’s citizens indulged their three favorite pastimes--eating, drinking, and boating.

Thorn neatly dodged an overweight German businessman with an overflowing beer stein exuberantly making a point to his dining companions and sat down across from Helen Gray.

With a dramatic flourish, he waved a hand over the tray he’d set between them. “Two coffees, madam. Black. No cream. No sugar. And for nourishment—a delicious assortment of breads, cheeses, and hard salami.”

A twinkle crept into Helen’s eyes—replacing the hunted, worried expression he’d seen all too often since they’d cut out on their own.

She reached for one of the coffees. “You do show me the nicest places, Peter. I’ve got to say this is exactly how I dreamed of taking the grand European tour.”

Thorn grinned back. “Touch.”

Helen put her cup down and started paging through the information they’d gathered at the Customs House. The types of cargo carried by ships entering and leaving German ports were a matter of public record—although the owners, final destinations, and tonnage remained closely held proprietary data. She shook her head, clearly frustrated by something.

“What’s the problem?” Thorn asked.

“This.” Helen slid the page she’d just read—a copy of the cargo manifest for the Baltic Venturer—across the table to him.

“According to that, the ship wasn’t carrying jet engines. Not one.”

She frowned. “Could she have stopped somewhere else between Bergen and here?”

Thorn scanned the form himself and shook his own head. “I don’t think so. Her last port of call is listed here. And it was Bergen.” He pointed to a line halfway down the page.

“Then where the hell are Serov’s engines?”

Thorn couldn’t see them listed anywhere on the sheet, either.

According to German customs, the Baltic Venturer’s cargo consisted entirely of timber, paper pulp, and titanium scrap.

His mouth twisted downward. Had the Norwegian dockworker in Bergen sold them a bill of goods? Had the man just made up a story to please a pretty American woman reporter?

Were he and Helen really just on some kind of self-inflicted snipe hunt?

He rubbed his jaw, still studying the cargo form. “The engines could have been brought in covertly. Maybe they weren’t reported to customs at all,” he speculated.

“Possibly,” Helen acknowledged.

Thorn nodded, as much to himself as to her. “Look, I’d rather believe a human being than a piece of paper. Karl Syverstad was damned positive when he described those crates he saw shifted from the Star of the White Sea to the Venturer. Dozens of ships go in and out of this port every week. How much time do customs inspectors really have to dot every I and cross every T on these forms, anyway?

“Not much,” Helen said slowly.

“What else have we got?” Thorn asked.

She pushed over the rest of the forms.

Three other ships had been berthed alongside the Baltic Venturer at one time or another during her stay in Wilhelmshaven.

The reefer moored at S44 had carried beef from Argentina as its sole cargo. The first of the two ships anchored at S42, the Caraco Savannah, had brought in iron ore and bauxite—and she’d left carrying automobiles and auxiliary electric generators. The second had arrived empty, and then sailed with a cargo of machine tools.

Not much help there.

Thorn slid the papers back to Helen’s side of the table. “Say the engines aren’t listed anywhere on those forms. Where does that leave us?”

She looked up from the notes she’d taken at the Port Authority office.

“Looking hard at Caraco Savannah, I think.”

“Why?”

“Because she left Wilhelmshaven roughly three hours after Baltic Venturer pulled in,” Helen argued. “The pattern’s the same one we found in Bergen. Bring the contraband in, off load it right away, and get it back out of port before anyone official starts poking around.”

“Easy to say, but damned hard to prove. It’s just as likely those jet engines were offloaded straight into a truck,” Thorn countered.