Day Of Wrath (36 page)

Worst of all was the news from Reichardt’s contact inside the
FBI
itself. The Americans had been looking for a smuggled nuclear weapon, and the initial alert had come from a source reporting to the U.S. D.O.D counterterrorist command-the J.S.O.C.

“So this Colonel Thorn is still causing trouble for us,” Ibrahim said softly. “Despite your best efforts to silence him.”

Reichardt hesitated. “Yes, Highness. It appears so.”

“And where are this irritating American and his woman now?

Still on the loose somewhere in Germany?”

“Yes,” the ex-Stasi officer admitted. “But they are being hunted by the German police—and now by their own people as well.”

Ibrahim frowned. “And yet somehow they seem able to bring all our plans to an end. I find that. interesting. Don’t you, Herr Reichardt?”

“The weapons are safe, Highness,” Reichardt replied. “And I promise you that this latest
FBI
investigation will hit a dead-end.”

Ibrahim felt his temper flare into rage, stung beyond restraint by the German’s smug self-assurance. “These investigations should have hit a dead-end at Wilhelmshaven, or Pechenga, or Kandalaksha!” he roared.

A shocked silence greeted his sudden outburst.

Ibrahim wrestled for self-control, anger at Reichardt warring with anger at himself for showing such weakness before the other man. “Your failures are endangering my plans, Herr Reichardt,” he said icily at last. “I will not tolerate that.”

“I understand, Highness,” the German said stiffly.

“When your government collapsed in ruin, I took you and your people under my protection. I provided you with employment, with power, and with a new purpose,” Ibrahim said. “In return, I expect success—not excuses.”

“I understand,” Reichardt said again.

“Good.” Ibrahim swept the pile of shredded paper into a wastebasket.

It would be burned later in the day. “Now then, you agree that this
FBI
investigation could be … inconvenient?”

“Yes, Highness,” the other man said. “I believe the time is too short for the Americans to learn anything significant, but their inquiries could put pressure on us at an awkward time.”

“Very well.” Ibrahim swiveled back to his desk. “Perhaps I can repair the damage your overconfidence has caused.” Reichardt wisely said nothing.

“Have you finished your round of inspections?” Ibrahim asked.

“I have, Highness,” Reichardt replied. “Everything is in order.

All will be ready on the appointed day:. I fly back to Dulles this evening.”

Ibrahim nodded. “Confer with me on your return.” He hung up and buzzed his private secretary. “Connect me with Richard Garrett. At once.”

He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the rolling landscape outside with hooded eyes. It was time to tighten the chains.

JUNE
15

Kaiserlautern, Germany, Near Ramstein

U.S. Air Force Base Colonel Peter Thorn saw the red Jeep Cherokee swing off the main road and into the parking lot adjacent to the restaurant. He glanced across the table at Andrew Griffin and then at Helen Gray. “That’s got to be him.”

The ex-S.A.S officer nodded, watching the sport utility vehicle pull alongside his Mercedes. “So it appears.”

A short, wiry man popped open the Cherokee’s driver’s side door, slid out from behind the wheel, and dropped lightly onto the pavement. He wore a camouflage fatigue uniform, the sort the Army called B.D.U’s-or battle dress uniform—and settled a green beret firmly atop his head.

He turned neatly on his heel, spotted the trio seated at one of the restaurant’s outdoor tables, and headed straight for them.

When the soldier came within spitting distance, Thorn pushed the fourth chair out from under the table with his foot.

“Take a pew, Michelito.”

Colonel Mike Stroud grinned. “Thanks, Pete. Don’t mind if I do.” He sat down and signaled the nearest waitress. “Ein Bier, bitte.”

With his beer in hand, the Special Forces officer turned his dark-eyed gaze more fully on his companions. “You’re looking good, Andy. The security consulting business must be booming.”

Griffin nodded at Stroud. ““Booming’ is precisely the word, Colonel.

There are more villains roaming around Central and Eastern Europe than ever before. And some of them have an unfortunate affinity for explosives. If you ever get tired of swashbuckling around in those fancy uniforms of yours, I can always use more good partners.” The Englishman turned to Thorn. “The same goes for you, Peter.”

Thorn tried smiling, instantly aware that it wasn’t his most convincing expression. “Once I’m out from under my legal troubles, you mean?”

“Well, that would make it easier, of course. But I’m quite serious.

I’d be very proud to have you on my team.”

“Thanks,” Thorn said. He meant it. Under the circumstances, Griffin’s offer of future employment was extremely generous—no matter how much he hated the thought that his days in the Army were numbered.

Stroud smiled across the table at Helen. “And you must be this desperate character’s gun moll. Sort of the Bonnie to his Clyde, I hear?”

Helen’s return smile was also forced. “That’s me, I’m afraid.” Thorn concealed a frown. Helen’s behavior worried him.

She’d been abnormally quiet during the past two days. She was her usual self around Andrew Griffin. But she’d kept mostly to herself whenever the Englishman was out of the flat—spending long hours staring out the window or off into space.

He pushed his concerns away for the moment. It was time to show some manners. “Mike, this is
FBI
Special Agent Helen Gray.”

Stroud shook his head. “I never heard that name, Pete. Or yours for that matter.” He reached into one of his chest pockets, fished out a pair of Department of Defense identification cards, and slid them across the table. “These’ll get you through the main gate at Ramstein with me. From now on, you’re Chris and Katy Carlson. If anybody asks, you’re a couple of number, crunchers working out of the Pentagon. I’ve already booked you into a room at the base
BOQ
.”

Thorn glanced down at the ID card. It bore a reasonable likeness of him—no doubt courtesy of Sam Farrell.

Helen frowned and held hers up. “If you don’t mind my asking, Colonel Stroud, where did you get this? Phony D.O.D
IDS
don’t usually grow on trees.

“Nope, not on trees,” Stroud acknowledged-“We usually keep ours in locked filing cabinets.”

Thorn knew the other man wouldn’t say anything more. Like Delta, Special Forces teams often tried to keep a low profile during their assignments overseas. And anonymous, low.ranking civilian government employees arriving at an airport in some war-torn foreign country were far less newsworthy than uniformed Green Berets making the same trip.

He put his own new card away. “How long do you think you’ll have us on your hands, Mike?”

“Well, from what Sam Farrell said, the sooner you’re off German soil, the better. So I hope you won’t be staying at Ramstein long.” Stroud sipped his beer appreciatively and then explained.

“I’m wangling space for you on a Mobility Command cargo flight. With a bit of luck, you’ll be heading back to the States in the next day or so. Probably to Dover Air Force Base.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to thank you, Mike,” Thorn said. “Not with all the risks you’re running for us.”

“Shoot.” Stroud grinned. “I’m only helping you obey your original orders to head home. Aren’t you planning to report in once you’re back?”

Helen nodded.

“Then I’m just doing my sworn and solemn duty,” Stroud continued.

“Nobody could fault me for that, could they?”

Andrew Griffin arched an eyebrow. “Sounds a bit Jesuitical to me, Colonel.”

Stroud laughed. “Hey, then I guess I learned something during my misspent youth at St. Ignatius Loyola High School, after all.”

Thorn grinned. For the first time since he’d left Delta Force, he had the real sense of being among friends. The jokes were pretty bad, but the camaraderie was very real—and that meant a lot to him right now.

With Farrell sounding the alarm around D.C. and Mike Stroud ready to shepherd them through the gates at Ramstein, he and Helen finally stood a good chance of putting their hard-won data in front of the proper authorities.

The White House Richard Garrett waited until the outer office door swung shut behind him before abandoning the affable smile he usually wore.

The former Commerce Secretary turned Caraco lobbyist dropped his briefcase beside the chair he’d been offered and sat down. Then he scowled darkly. “Goddamnit, John, what kind of idiot games are you people letting the
FBI
play here?”

John Preston, the current White House Chief of Staff, held up a conciliatory hand. “Whoa, Dick! I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. What’s all this about the
FBI
?”

“Save the “I’m innocent and ignorant’ horseshit for the press and other suckers,” Garrett growled. “We both know you were on the phone to the Hoover Building right after I called you this morning.”

Preston held up both hands now, this time in a gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay, I give. I assume you’re referring to the raid on that Galveston warehouse?”

“No kidding.” Garrett shook his head in disgust. “So what prompted that piece of lunacy?”

“The
FBI
had a hot tip, Dick. The Army called a priority one alert—claimed somebody was smuggling a nuclear weapon through there.”

“Through a Caraco Transport-leased warehouse? Some pointy-headed general hit the panic button with that as the premise?” Garrett asked sarcastically.

“That was apparently the story,” Preston admitted.

“And you let them do this ?”

The White House Chief of Staff shook his own head. “We didn’t let anybody do anything, Dick. Hell, this was an
FBI
operation.

They don’t clear that stuff with us. Christ, I didn’t even know anything about it until you got on the horn!” Garrett asked, “So John, you mind telling me precisely what this rogue
FBI
raid on one of my client’s legitimate business enterprises turned up?”

Preston looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well?” Garrett pressed.

“Apparently nothing,” Preston said reluctantly. “The agent in charge reported the place was stripped down to the bare walls.”

“Then I can assume that the FBI’s preparing a written apology to Prince Ibrahim al Saud, and that they’ve called off the dogs?” the former Commerce Secretary pressed further.

“Well …” Preston picked up a fountain pen from his desk and began repeatedly pulling the cap off and then putting it back on.

“Not exactly.”

“Uh-huh.” Garrett leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers.

“Let me see if I add this up right, John: Acting on some wild-assed story about a blackmarket nuke, the
FBI
raids a warehouse leased by a respectable international corporation. A corporation that’s been damned generous to this president and his party. A corporation headed by a Saudi prince who’s known far and wide as a loyal friend of the United States, for Christ’s sake!

Jesus, the President himself sat down for coffee with Prince Ibrahim just a couple of weeks ago! You with me so far?”

Without waiting for the White House Chief of Staff’s reaction, Garrett drove on. “Now, then. The
FBI
finds precisely, exactly nothing during this raid of theirs. No nuclear weapon. No stolen blueprints for Plan 999 from Outer Space. Nothing.

“But instead of slinking home in disgrace, the Hoover Building boneheads are still out there—ripping my client’s duly leased property to pieces and exposing his good name to a possible media scandal.” The former Commerce Secretary leaned forward.

“Does that about sum it up, John?”

Preston spread his hands. “I’ve checked, Dick. There’s no media interest in this story. Not yet.”

“And I thank God for tiny favors!” Garrett said. He snorted.

“The publicity hounds at the
FBI
usually don’t make a move without putting on their TV makeup.”

Preston colored. “Jesus, Dick. What the hell do you expect me to do?

I run the White House staff. I don’t run the Department of Justice or the Bureau. They’re out of my bailiwick.”

“Bullshit.” Garrett looked steadily at the other man. “We both know you and the President have the Attorney General right smack in your back pocket. You say ‘jump’ and she’ll ask you what flavor of moon cheese you want.”

The White House Chief of Staff ignored that. “Leiter’s got an independent streak, though.”

“The
FBI
Director?” Garrett shook his head. “Use your brains, John.

Leiter likes his job. Hell, he loves his job. But he’s got five or six congressional committees gunning for him right now. You think he’s going to want the White House piling on, too?”

“Maybe not.”

The former Commerce Secretary shook his head mournfully.

“Maybe not. C’mon, John. We’ve been friends for twenty years. Get with the program! Do the right thing! You and I both know the FBI’s gonna wind up with crap all over its face if it presses this pointless investigation any further. And we also both know that dragging Prince Ibrahim’s name through the press won’t exactly help you, the administration, or the President.”

Garrett sat back, watching as the other man digested his implied threat. Adding the raw details of Caraco’s political contributions to the stories already in print might finally tip even a cynical public into giving a damn about the way the current president ran his fund-raising operations. If the water got too hot, Ibrahim could always jet off to Riyadh, the French Riveria, or one of the other homes he had scattered around the world. The President and his closest aides would be left hanging—faced by yet another congressional investigation and ever-higher legal Preston sighed. “You’re certain there’s nothing to this rumor the FBI’s following up?”

Garrett chuckled. “That Caraco employees decided to smuggle a nuclear weapon into Texas?” He laughed again, more scornfully this time. “I mean, think about it, John. The FBI’s all hot to trot. and why?