Day Of Wrath (32 page)

He’d thought that Thorn’s ability to run himself into trouble doing the right thing had reached its peak during the Delta Force raid on Teheran. By rights, his refusal of a direct presidential order to abort that mission should have resulted in a courtmartial.

Even after Thorn and his troops returned home to a hero’s welcome it had taken every ounce of pull Farrell possessed to keep him on active duty. And since then the general had heard whispers around the Pentagon that his own retirement had been hastened by running interference for the younger man.

Farrell snorted silently, correcting that thought. He knew full well that holding his second star and command of the Joint Special Operations Command was as high as he could ever have gone.

No, he’d never really regretted backing Pete Thorn. But, Jesus, he thought, his former subordinate could sure find ways to make his own life difficult. Violation of movement orders. Unauthorized travel.

Leaving the scene of a crime. Nobody at the Pentagon was going to be able to sweep that stuff under the rug this time.

Suddenly, Farrell stood bolt upright—still holding the phone to his ear. “You and Helen just mugged a couple of German policemen!”

“Not intentionally, sir,” Thorn said, sounding moderately contrite.

“Helen’s boss at the
FBI
must have sicced them onto our trail after she asked him for help getting out of the country. We thought they were more of the same people who’ve been gunning for us ever since Pechenga.”

“Christ on a crutch, Pete!” Farrell rubbed a hand through his graying hair in distraction. “What the hell are you both doing? I don’t care how many kilos of heroin those bastards are smuggling in, you’ve gone way overboard here! For God’s sake, you’re in the U.S. Army, remember—not the DEA!”

“We’re not chasing heroin, sir,” Thorn said firmly. “We’re chasing what we think is one loose Russian nuke. And it’s already on its way to the States.”

Farrell felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Ever since the Soviet Union came crashing down, every Western government’s nightmare scenario had revolved around the uncertain safety and security of the old U.S.S.R’s massive nuclear arsenal. And now Peter Thorn was telling him that the nightmare might be turning into a reality.

He took a deep breath. “Do you and Special Agent Gray have any hard evidence to back that assertion up, Colonel?”

This time Farrell waited until Thorn finished detailing their entire chain of evidence and reasoning. Then he let out a low whistle.

“That’s mighty thin, Pete. Mighty thin. A lot of people, good, smart people, too—would say that’s just a lot of halfassed speculation.”

“Yes, sir.”

Farrell checked a smile. Damn it. Peter Thorn was just as stubborn, and as painfully honest, as ever. So was his conviction the product of sound reasoning? Or just an act of faith? “Have you run this by anybody official yet?”

“Everybody seems to have bought the drug smuggling story hook, line, and sinker,” Thorn said. “Helen bounced it off her boss—and he tried frog-marching us into a German jail cell.”

Farrell shook his head. “It sounds like you’re out of friends, Pete.”

“I hope not, sir.”

Farrell knew that Thorn would never outright beg or plead, but there was a note in his voice that he didn’t hear often. “What do you want me to do, Pete?”

“Two things, sir. The most important is to get somebody official to take a hard look at the Caraco Savannah and her cargo. If we’re right, there’s one hell of a nasty surprise hidden inside one of those jet engines.”

Farrell pondered that. Could he risk his hard-earned reputation as a straight-shooter by asking people in authority to take a flyer on one of the wildest theories he’d ever heard a junior officer espouse? The smart move would be to wish Thorn well, advise him to find a good lawyer, and hang up now.

The trouble was, he instinctively believed what Thorn had told him. It explained a lot of otherwise unconnected events the O.S.I.A inspection team plane crash, the murders of General Serov and Captain Grushtin, and the ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven.

The heroin smuggling ring story fit the same facts, of course, but it did seem too convenient—a little too precisely tailored to satisfy American and Russian bureaucrats who wouldn’t want to believe that the unthinkable had happened on their watch.

And damn it, he wouldn’t forget this was Peter Thorn, he thought almost angrily. Whatever else the younger man had done, he was a topnotch officer—one of the best Farrell had ever commanded.

So act on your belief, he told himself..He sighed. “All right, Pete.

I’ll see who I can prod into gear. Now what’s the second thing I can do for you?”

Thorn hesitated for another long moment before answering.

“To chase these bastards down, Helen and I need to get out of Germany and back to the States. Preferably without seeing the inside of a Polizei cell.”

Even though he was half expecting it, the request still surprised Farrell. He whistled softly again. “That’s a tall order for an old soldier, Pete.”

“I know, sir,” Thorn said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll understand if there’s nothing you can do. You’ve already risked a lot on my behalf-more than I can ever repay you for—” Farrell cut him off.

“You’re a damned fine officer, Pete. And a hell of a good man. You don’t owe me anything.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, Louisa would kill me if I let anything happen to you and Helen. She’s been planning your wedding reception for two years now.”

“She might have to change the venue to the nearest federal prison,” Thorn said soberly.

“Tree.” Farrell shook his head. “Look, Pete, I’ll dig where I can.

It’s a long shot, though. And being right about this is probably the only way you’re gonna save your hide this time.”

“Frankly, sir, I’d rather be wrong,” Thorn said. “If Helen and I are right, that nuke could already be on U.S. soil. And if that’s true, we may never find it—not until the damned thing goes off.”

Farrell shook off the horrific image of a fireball incinerating an American city, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Right now let’s worry about getting you two home safe and sound.

Where are you exactly?”

“An all-night Turkish coffeehouse in the Prenzlauer Berg district.

I’m using a pay phone in the back …”

Farrell jotted down the location and phone number on a scrap of paper.

“Can you stay there for another couple of hours or so?”

“Yeah,” Thorn replied. “From the looks of some of the other customers, Helen and I could probably live here for a while—as long as we kept paying for coffee, that is.”

“Okay, Pete. You hang tight and stay low. I’ve still got a friend or two in Europe who might be able to pull you out of this jam.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorn sounded relieved and grateful. “I really appreciate it.”

“Then do me a favor,” Farrell said.

“Anything.”

Farrell grinned into the phone. “You’re not in uniform now, Pete. And neither am I. So drop the ‘sir’ and call me Sam.

Okay?”

“Yes, sin-” Thorn caught himself. “I mean, okay, Sam.”

“Better,” Farrell said. “Now watch your back, Pete. Meantime, I’ll try to round up the cavalry.”

He waited until Thorn hung up and then replaced the receiver.

Farrell stood thoughtfully by his desk for a moment. The full implications of Peter Thorn’s claim were just beginning to emerge.

Where should he go to kick somebody into a serious investigation?

Not the Russians. That much was certain. Moscow wasn’t going to rock the boat—especially now that any smuggled weapons were off its own soil. And from what Thorn said, the
FBI
, the O.S.I.A, the
CIA
, and the State Department were also nonstarters. So who did that leave?

He shook his head. Time enough for that later in the morning.

For now, he had two friends who were in serious trouble. The first step was getting them out of Berlin before the German police rounded them up. Slipping them back to the States would be an even bigger job.

He started flipping through his Rolodex.

Who did he know in Berlin? And who could he trust to shelter a couple of fugitives?

Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin Colonel Peter Thorn cautiously poked his head around the corner of the back booth—checking the front of the dingy coffeehouse for the tenth time. It was full light outside.

“Anything?” Helen Gray asked.

He turned back to face her. “Nope. Still looks clear.”

She nodded, took another sip from the small, steaming cup in front of her, and made a face. “I swear to God, Pete’, this stuff is getting stronger. I think it’s more grounds than coffee now.” Thorn smiled.

“It’s an acquired taste.”

He drained the remnants of his own cup in one gulp and ran his eyes over the other patrons seated nearby. Most of them had the shaggy, unkempt look of an artsy crowd who tended to gravitate toward coffeehouses after a busy night partying at trendy nightclubs and alternative music houses. They seemed to be relying on coffee, cigarettes, and conversation just to stay conscious.

Certainly none of them were paying any attention to the two tired-looking American tourists who’d parked themselves in the far corner booth.

Nobody except the proprietor, that was. But Thorn doubted the swarthy-faced Turk behind the counter went much out of his way to help the Berlin police. There wasn’t much love lost between Germany’s native-born population and the immigrants who’d flocked there seeking work over the past couple of decades.

He fought down the urge to check his watch again. If Sam Farrell said to sit tight, he’d sit tight. Anyway, their odds of staying undetected by the authorities were better in here than out on the street. By now, their pictures could be plastered across the front page of Berlin’s daily newspapers and the screens of the morning’ TV shows.

“Peter … I think we’ve got company.”

Helen’s soft warning brought his head around. A man wearing a perfectly tailored business suit had come through the coffee.

house’s front door and stood near the entrance—clearly surveying the tables. Thorn had the quick impression of a tough, wiry build, alert blue eyes, and neatly trimmed gray hair.

Without much trouble, the newcomer spotted them and made his way over to their table. He stopped a few feet away, taking evident care to keep his empty hands in plain view.

“Peter Thorn? Helen Gray?” His accent was British—and impeccably upper-class. “My name is Griffin. Andrew Griffin. General Farrell asked me to give you a lift.”

Thorn felt himself relax slightly. The name Griffin rang a bell somewhere. He searched his memory for an instant and then looked up at the Englishman. “Colonel Griffin? Of the S.A.S?”

He remembered seeing the name Griffin while reading classified reports on some of the British 22 Special Air Service Regiment’s covert operations. Delta Force and the S.A.S cooperated closely-often sharing training, intelligence, and tactical tips.

Griffin shook his head. “Ex-S.A.S. I retired a year ago.”

“You ran the
FORAY
exercise at Cheltenham, didn’t you?” Thorn asked.

“Yes. But the code name was
FORTITUDE
,” the Englishman said steadily.

His eyes twinkled. “As I’m sure you knew, Colonel.

I hope that you’re now satisfied I am who I say I am.”

Helen smiled. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Griffin? The coffee’s … “—she tilted her cup to show the dark sediment liberally coating the sides—”available.”

The Englishman smiled back. “No, thank you, Agent Gray.”

He nodded toward the door. “My car is just outside. and I understand you two are rather eager to get out of the limelight.”

“You could say that, sir.” Thorn rose from his seat, caught the owner’s eye, and counted out a wad of deutsche marks onto the table.

“It’s been a very long night.”

Together he and Helen followed Griffin through the front door and out onto the street, where a gray Mercedes sedan with tinted windows sat waiting. The ex-S.A.S officer unlocked the car, ushered Helen into the back seat, offered the front passenger seat to Thorn, and then slid behind the steering wheel himself.

Griffin pulled smoothly out into traffic, heading west. He glanced at Thorn. “I’ve a sizable flat in Charlottenburg, Colonel.

Our mutual friend has asked me to put you and Miss Gray up until he can make other arrangements.”

“I’m grateful, sir,” Thorn said. “I know you’re taking a big risk.”

The Englishman shook his head. “It’s no trouble.” He smiled thinly.

“I’ll admit that you and Special Agent Gray are rather. infamous.

at the moment, but I think the risk involved is minimal. Or at least controllable.”

Helen leaned forward to join the conversation. “How do you figure that, Mr. Griffin?”

Griffin lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “I run a security consulting firm here in Berlin, Miss Gray. We specialize in advising British and American corporations on how to cope with terrorist threats—and with the East European and Russian organized crime syndicates. So, you see, I maintain rather good ties to the local German law enforcement authorities. They consider me a very solid businessman and a friend of the police. Given that, I hardly think they’ll spend much time considering the possibility that I would offer sanctuary to two such notorious villains.”’ Thorn winced. “It’s that bad, then?”

Griffin nodded. “You put two Berlin police detectives in the hospital, Colonel. Although not permanently, I’m happy to say.

And the authorities here do tend to frown on outsiders waylaying their policemen in dark alleys.” He glanced at Thorn again.

“I assume it was necessary?”

Thorn shook his head grimly. “Not as it turned out.” He frowned. “We were suckered in.”

The ex-S.A.S officer nodded. “So General Farrell indicated.”

He shrugged. “At any rate, as the poet said, these things ‘gang aft a-gley.” Who knows, you may even have done those policemen a bit of a favor. Their broken heads will mend. And perhaps the next time they won’t traipse so blithely into an ambush.”