Day Of Wrath (8 page)

Do you understand me?” Reichardt waited for his message to sink in.

With his eyes darting back and forth between the two hardfaced men standing beside him, the young Russian customs official hurriedly nodded again.

“Good,” Reichardt said calmly and dismissively. “Our papers are in order, and you have inspected the cargo to confirm that it contains the jet engines we are authorized to export. We will now proceed with the loading.”

Without a second glance, he stepped aside and turned away.

Raminsky started to say something more, but it came out only as a strangled cough. Then he turned on his heels and fled quickly down the pier, clutching his paperwork to his chest.

The longshoremen, who had all observed Raminsky’s humiliating retreat, returned to their work reenergized. The last crate was secured in the Star of the White Sea’s hold by midafternoon.

After shaking hands with the captain and wishing him a safe voyage, Reichardt sought out one of his security team, a darkhaired, powerfully built man. “Is the plane ready, Johann?”

“Yes, sir. And your luggage is already aboard.” Johann Brandt had served under Reichardt in the Stasi. He was competent, efficient, and completely loyal to his superior. Like his fellow operatives in Reichardt’s Revolutionary Movements Liaison Section, Brandt had gone underground just before East Germany collapsed-emerging with a new identity and a much fatter bank account.

All of Reichardt’s subordinates would obey any command he gave them.

They had all made the same Faustian bargain—selling their souls for vast sums of money.

“Good. And our people on the Star know what to do?”

Brandt nodded.

“And the others are ready to close our office here?”

Brandt nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

For several weeks Reichardt’s men had operated out of a rented flat near Pechenga’s small harbor—guarding shipments, keeping track of port officials and local law enforcement, and watching for strangers.

Now that this phase of the Operation was complete, it was time to move his men to new posts in other cities. There was other work to be done.

Investigation Base Camp, Northern Russia Colonel Peter Thorn pushed aside the newest bag of personal effects recovered from the crash site and sat back from the worktable.

He stripped off the pair of latex surgical gloves he wore when handling potential evidence and rubbed at sore eyes. Too little sleep and too much close work in bad light had left them feeling gritty, almost raw.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked up into Helen Gray’s worried face.

“You okay, Peter?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.” He covered her hand with his.

‘“Just like you.”

They were all on the edge of exhaustion. Since Alexei Koniev had found nearly two kilos of pure heroin in Colonel Anatoly Gasparov’s luggage, the three of them had been working almost around the clock to try to pin down just what had gone wrong aboard the An-32 carrying Gasparov, John Avery, and the rest of the O.S.I.A inspection team.

Although neither the
NTSB
nor the Russian Aviation Authority experts were willing to label the crash as anything but an accident yet, finding a million-plus dollars of illegal drugs aboard the downed aircraft added up to one hell of a potential motive for sabotage.

Helen and the Russian
MVD
major spent most of their time on the secure communications channel to Moscow or poring over the voluminous police and surveillance files faxed to them.

Operating on the working theory that Gasparov might have fallen afoul of a rival drug-dealing Mafiya gang, they were trying desperately to trace his most recent movements and any suspicious contacts.

Which left Thorn with the painstaking grunt work of sifting through the rest of the crash victims’ personal effects—looking for something, anything, that might shed some light on the situation.

He was still puzzled by the discrepancy between Avery’s inspection logbook and the other two they’d recovered so far. Faint alarm bells went off whenever he saw the circled weapons serial number, but he couldn’t make it connect with Gasparov’s apparent heroin smuggling. In any event, both Washington’s and Moscow’s records were quite clear.

Avery and all of his teammates had given the Kandalaksha special weapons storage depot a clean bill of health before boarding the doomed An32.

Helen pointed her chin toward the bag he’d set aside. “Find anything more?”

“Nope.” Thorn shook his head. “A couple more wallets. Part of a key chain. Pieces of a couple of paperback books. Nothing significant.”’ He looked up at her. “How about you? Any progress?”

“Not much.” Helen bit her lip in frustration. “Gasparov’s arms inspectorate colleagues are saying the same thing. They all knew he was cutting corners—selling government equipment and supplies and so on—to supplement his salary. But they’re all ‘shocked,’ just ‘shocked,’ that he’d have anything to do with illegal drugs.”

Thorn arched an eyebrow. “You believe them?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She took her hand off his shoulder and started pacing. “Questioning Russian officials is tough enough in person. But I really don’t like having to rely on secondhand interrogation reports translated into some Russian cop’s idea of English.”

“Plus you can’t be sure whether or not the cop who’s asking the questions isn’t a crook himself?” Thorn probed.

Helen nodded grimly. “That, too, Peter. We both know the
MVD
is riddled with people on the Mafiya’s payroll. For all I know, the officers assigned to question Gasparov’s associates are working for the same drug ring.”

Now that she was on to the subject of police corruption, Thorn decided to risk asking a question that had been on his mind since he’d arrived at the An-32 crash site. “So what about Koniev? How far can you really trust him?”

Helen stared down at him. “Alexei?” She shook her head in disbelief.

“You’re asking me if Alexei Koniev is dirty?”

Thorn had the sudden feeling he’d stepped on a delayedaction mine. He forged ahead anyway. “Yeah, I guess I am.” He outlined his reasoning.

“I’ve seen the pay scale for an
MVD
major, and there’s no way Koniev can afford the clothes he wears—not on his salary. So where’s the money coming from?”

“I vetted him myself, Peter,” Helen said coolly. “He’s clean. As far as the money’s concerned, Alexei’s older brother, Pavel, just happens to be one of Russia’s top entrepreneurs. He’s a software wiz who’s built himself a pretty good-sized commercial empire.

From time to time, he likes to help Alexei out. That’s all there is to the mystery money.”

“Oh.” Thorn winced. He hesitated and then forced himself to admit the obvious. “Guess I look something like a jerk right now, don’t I ?”

“Yes, you do. Maybe a little jealous, too,” Helen replied tartly.

Then, seeing the crestfallen look on his face, her tone softened slightly. “Of course, you’re kind of cute when you’re jealous, Colonel Thorn.”

He tried a sheepish smile. “Sorry, I can’t help it. Once Special Forces, always Special Forces. Jealousy’s just part of my Neanderthal Army training. Sort of ‘see my woman, see handsome stranger, bash handsome stranger … ”” Helen made a face. “Peter. Oh, Peter …” She chuckled and shook her head. “So here you’ve been keeping one eye cocked at Alexei Koniev—suspecting him of being everything from a Mafiya plant to a Muscovite Don Juan who’s trying to sweep me off my feet …”

Thorn laughed quietly. “Okay, that does sound kinda stupid.

But you’ve got to admit, the guy is pretty slick.”

Helen’s smile grew wider. “Now, Peter Thorn, if I were interested in somebody suave and debonair, would I be interested in you?”

Thorn laughed and shook his head. “Probably not.”

“Right. So stop worrying.” Helen leaned over and kissed him.

Suddenly, a snide, perfectly modulated voice washed over them. “Well, well, well. What an interesting investigative technique, Special Agent Gray.”

Helen pulled herself upright, already turning red.

Thorn swung around in his chair. He took an instant dislike to the middleaged man standing leering at them from the entrance to the tent.

Everything about the stranger seemed out of place in this rough working camp deep in the Russian wilderness. His perfectly tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and expensive black loafers without a trace of mud on them all shouted “rear-echelon motherfucker” to Thorn—or, worse yet, “politician.”

“Who the hell are you?” Thorn growled as he stood up, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice.

“
FBI
Deputy Assistant Director Lawrence Mcdowell,” the other man answered calmly. He came closer. “And I might ask you the same question.”

Great, just great, Thorn thought bitterly.

He knew Mcdowell headed the FBI’s International Relations Branch—which made him Helen Gray’s Washington-based boss.

According to Helen, he was the worst possible mix—intensely ambitious and a prima donna to boot. He spent more of his time toadying to the current administration and to powerful Capitol Hill staffers than he did managing the Bureau’s far-flung legal attache offices. Apparently, he and Helen had also crossed swords sometime in the past—before either of them worked in the same unit. Ever since then the bastard had tried to make her life difficult whenever he could.

And now they’d given him the perfect opening to make even more trouble.

Shit.

“I asked you a question” — Mcdowell’s eyes flicked to the rank insignia on Thorn’s battle-dress uniform—”Colonel.”

“My name’s Peter Thorn.”

“Thorn.” Mcdowell chewed on that for a second or two. Then it clicked. The
FBI
man snorted in disgust. “The Delta Force cowboy.”

Thorn knew what the other man was thinking. Two years before he’d led a Delta Force commando raid into Teheran to kill Amir Talehan Iranian general who’d organized a terrorist campaign on American soil that had thrown the whole country into complete chaos. When the operation started going wrong, the President had gotten cold feet and tried to abort the mission.

Thorn had refused. He’d disobeyed a direct order from the commander-in-chief, pushed ahead, and won—though at a high cost in casualties. Success had protected him against the courtmartial he’d expected, but it hadn’t saved his career from oblivion.

And for a climber like Mcdowell, that was probably the worst of his sins.

Mcdowell turned back to Helen. “All right, Agent Gray. Now that you’re done flirting with Colonel Thorn here, maybe you can fill me in on your progress-or lack thereof-on this investigation.”’ He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got half an hour before my helicopter ferries me out of this dump and back to Arkhangelsk, so let’s not waste any more time.”

Thorn felt his hands straighten into killing edges. With an effort, he forced them to relax. This bastard needed a lesson in manners, but it would have to be a verbal lesson. He stepped forward. “Hold it right there, you son of a—”

“Colonel Thorn!” Helen exclaimed.

He stopped and stared at her. Her bright blue eyes were icecold now.

“You’re out of line, Colonel,” she said sharply. “This is an
FBI
matter.”

Thorn suddenly realized what he’d almost done. He’d allowed Mcdowell’s insults to push him to the brink of interfering in Helen’s professional life. And that would have been catastrophic for helen-and for them.

For all its progress in the past decades, the FBI’s upper reaches were still mostly a male preserve. As one of the first women to serve in the Hostage Rescue Team, and now as one of the Bureau’s topranking legal attaches, Helen was still swimming against the tide. No matter how chivalrous it might feel, jumping in to fight her battle with Mcdowell would only put everything she’d achieved at peril.

He just hoped Helen would forgive him for dragging her so close to the edge.

Swallowing hard, Thorn spun on his heel and left without another word.

The White House, Washington, D.C. The Blue Room of the White House was brimming with men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns, mingling with each other and trying to figure out who the important players were.

Waistcoated waiters circulated with trays of beautifully presented hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne.

The richly furnished room clearly awed some of the guests with its French Empire furniture, luxurious gold drapes, and portraits of early presidents adorning the royal blue walls. It was an elegant and imposing setting, offering a glimpse of power and luxury that came naturally to few Americans.

Prince Ibrahim al Saud sipped a glass of mineral water and studied the glittering crowd through narrowed eyes. He was not one to be impressed by such surroundings. Even though he was only one of thousands of princes in Saudi Arabia, he’d been born to privilege and wealth-and the power that wealth provided.

The prince was relatively inconspicuous among all the other Middle Easterners invited to this reception and dinner for the visiting Egyptian President. Only a few of the guests recognized him on sight, and then usually as the chairman of Caraco.

The ebb and flow in the crowded room brought an elegantly coiffed elderly woman into the small circle of guests around Ibrahim. Diamonds sparkled on her fingers and ears. She looked in his direction, clearly intrigued.

One of the men who headed Caraco’s Washington office whispered the pertinent information in his ear: “Mrs. Carleton. Her husband is the Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. She’s an avid gardener.

Famous for her roses.”

Ibrahim nodded briefly. Carleton’s wife? How ironic. He moved closer to the woman. “My dear Mrs. Carleton, what a pleasure to meet you.”

She smiled back, though less certainly. “Thank you, Mr … ?”

“My apologies, Mrs. Carleton. Of course you do not know me.

Please forgive my impertinence, but your fame precedes you.” He bowed.

“My name is Prince Ibrahim al Saud.” , Her eyes widened slightly.

“Your Highness. The pleasure is all mine.” She still seemed uncertain. “But what fame are you referring to?”