Day Of Wrath (30 page)

Ninety-odd miles northwest of Los Angeles, the flat expanses of California’s agricultural heartland—the Central Valley—stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Cropdusters, heavily laden with pesticides or fungicides, lumbered down Shafter-Minter Field’s main runway at periodic intervals.

Outlined against the fiery glow of the rising sun they lifted off into the air and turned—roaring off toward the vast fields surrounding the airport.

Two new hangars and several other buildings, painted dazzling white in the bright California sunshine, sat just off the main run-way—secure behind a high steel fence. A discreet sign on one of the buildings identified the compound as the “Caraco Corporate Aviation Training Center.”

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt stood just inside one of the two hangars—watching as sweating workers continued modifying the interior.

They’d walled off part of the floor space—building living quarters large enough to house several men for a week or more. Another crew was hard at work in another area of the hangar building another enclosure—this one out of heavy steel.

Welding torches sputtered and burned, filling the hot, stuffy hangar with acrid smoke, but the big central doors were kept closed as a safeguard against prying eyes.

The construction crews were working almost around the clock to meet the Operation’s tight timetable.

Satisfied by what he saw, Reichardt slipped outside and strode into the second hangar. Technicians were hard at work there, too, inspecting a sleek, twin-engined Jetstream 31 turboprop.

Others were busy unloading crates filled with extra tools and spare parts next to the area marked out for a second Jetstream still en route to the field. Their orders were clear: When the word came down from on high, the aircraft based at Shafterminter would be ready to fly—or else. There would be no exceptions, no excuses, and no delays.

Reichardt turned as the door behind him opened. Johann Brandt stepped through it, his face serious.

“What is it, Johann?” he asked.

“Another message from
PEREGRINE
.”

Finally. Reichardt swung away from the organized chaos filling the hangar and followed Brandt outside onto the airport tarmac.

The twin-engined Cessna executive jet that Prince Ibrahim al Saud had put at his disposal sat waiting for him. Reichardt hurried up the steps into the Cessna’s luxurious interior—all solid cherry, dark leather, and gleaming brass. A powerful computer workstation and communications center now occupied the aft end of the six-passenger compartment.

Reichardt dialed Mcdowell’s direct line.

The
FBI
agent sounded almost happy. “You missed them again, Herr Wolf.

Your people in Wilhelmshaven blew it. Thorn and Gray are still alive.”

Reichardt scowled. “I’m already well aware of that fact, Mr. Mcdowell.”

He’d received the first panicked report from the survivors of the Wilhelmshaven security team barely an hour after their ambush went disastrously wrong. He shook his head. That tattooed young idiot, Bekker, was no great loss. But Heinz Steinhof had been one of his best and most trusted operatives. First Kleiner and now Steinhof. His losses were mounting. These two Americans were even more dangerous than he’d first thought.

Well, Reichardt thought sourly, at least this time he’d had the foresight to take added precautions against possible failure. The cover story he’d so painstakingly built over the past few weeks should hold water for long enough.

The German turned back to the conversation at hand.

“You’ve been in contact with Special Agent Gray, then? Another fax, I assume.”

“Not a fax,” Mcdowell said. “A phone call. From Berlin.”

Reichardt raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Perhaps the two Americans were even more rattled by their narrow escape than he’d hoped. “Go on.”

He listened intently while the
FBI
agent ran through the details of his talk with the American woman, Gray—frowning only when he heard that she and Thorn knew the Caraco Savannah’s final destination, lie made a mental note to push the work in Texas even further ahead of schedule.

Mcdowell’s dismissive tone made it clear ‘that he didn’t believe their nuclear story. That was fortunate. Still, the
FBI
agent already knew more about the Operation than he should. At some point in the not-too-distant future, he could easily become a liability.

The American’s next question confirmed that. “Is there some part of the Galveston waterfront you want me to steer any potentially embarrassing investigations away from? A warehouse, maybe ? I’ve got some contacts in the Drug Enforcement Agency I could use to help you out—if need be.”

“Don’t let your beak grow too much, PEREGRINE!” Reichardt growled.

“You know the bounds of your orders. Stay within them!”

“Well, then. what action should I take?” Mcdowell asked plaintively.

“About Gray and Thorn, I mean.”

Reichardt ran through his options, knowing they were far more limited than he would prefer. Most of his special action teams had already left Europe—bound for the United States. In any event, too few of his people were close enough to Berlin or its environs to make an aggressive move against the two Americans.

He rubbed his jaw. How else could he make sure they were taken off the chessboard until it was too late for them to interfere further?

The answer struck him suddenly. Why strive for the complicated solution when a simple plan would work just as well—and with fewer risks ?

Smiling now, Reichardt said, “Very well,
PEREGRINE
. Here are your new instructions. You will follow them precisely, and without deviation.

Clear? ...”

Outside the Europa Center, Berlin Inside the phone kiosk, Helen Gray turned her back on the Wasserklops, the gigantic fountain outside the towering Europa Center. She glanced at Peter Thorn. “Any sign of trouble?”

He continued scanning the crowded, neon-lit square and streets around them for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Nope. A few cops on patrol-but they don’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular.”

Helen nodded-relieved but not especially surprised. Even if the Berlin police were hunting for them, they’d have a hard time picking out two particular foreigners from among the tens of thousands milling along the Kurfiirstendamm—the German capital’s busiest and most prosperous boulevard. The Europa Center behind them was a hive of activity—housing everything from fine jewelry stores to overpriced restaurants and even a pallid imitation of a Monte Carlo casino.

She punched in Mcdowell’s office number, waited for the automated operator, and then swiped the phone card they’d purchased at a local store through the electronic reader. Glowing digits on the phone’s display showed how many longdistance minutes her German marks would buy. Thank God for modern technology, she thought while waiting for the call to go through.

In an earlier day, she and Peter would have needed a satchel to carry all the coins necessary to call overseas using untraceable cash.

This time Mcdowell’s secretary patched her straight through.

“Mcdowell here.”

“This is Gray,” Helen answered steadily. “We’re ready.”

“You should be,” her boss said. “You were right. The German police are looking for both you and Colonel Thorn. Or at least two Americans matching your physical descriptions.”

Helen sighed. “Damn.”

“Exactly,” Mcdowell agreed icily. “The Berlin field office has obtained a copy of the Wilhelmshaven police report. It doesn’t make pleasant reading. The German authorities don’t exactly approve of so-called tourists dropping corpses all over their nice clean streets.”

“Have they identified the bodies yet?” she asked.

“One of them. The older guy carried a walletful of ID and credit cards made out in the name of Heinz Steinhof. The local police say he apparently owned some kind of export-import business in Hamburg.”

Helen snorted. “Sure. And John Gotti just ran a little mom-and-pop pasta shop in Brooklyn.”

“There’s one more thing you should know, Special Agent Gray,” Mcdowell said, sounding smug.

Helen didn’t like the sudden shift in his tone of voice. “What’s that?”

“The German cops found a plastic bag containing fifty grams of pure heroin sewn into Steinhof’s jacket. In case you can’t handle the math, that’s worth roughly twenty-five thousand dollars on the street. So they’re assuming this was some kind of midlevel drug buy that went sour.”

Helen made a face. More heroin. More misdirection for anybody in authority eager to jump on the easiest and safest explanation for everything they’d discovered. Terrific.

“You still there, Agent Gray?” Mcdowell said.

She fought down the urge to let her temper flare. “I’m still here.”

“Good. Anyway, whatever the hell you and Thorn have stuck your big dumb feet in, it’s pretty clear we’ve got to scoop you out of Germany before you wind up in the slammer. God knows, the
FBI
, the U.S. Army, and I personally don’t need the kind of bad PR that would generate.”

That rang true, Helen thought. Trust Mcdowell to worry more about his image than about the truth of their story. She took an even firmer grip on her temper. “So, what do you suggest, sir?”

“Nothing fancy. Just make your way to the following intersection,” Mcdowell said, rattling off a couple of street names in badly pronounced German. “That’s in some district called Neukolln. Can you find it?”

Helen flipped through the city-guide map book she’d picked up on their first pass through Berlin. Neukolln lay just east of the city’s old Tempelhof Airport. “Yeah. What happens there?”

“You’ll meet Special Agent Crittenden. He works out of the Berlin office. Do you know him?”

Helen ran through her memory quickly. She had the impression of a tall, broad-shouldered man with the beefy look of a former football player. “Yeah. I met him once, I think. Either at the academy or at one of our conferences.”

“Crittenden will be waiting there at 2030 hours, local time.”

Helen glanced at her watch. That gave them a little under an hour and a half to make the rendezvous point. Plenty of time.

“He’ll have a car with embassy plates,” Mcdowell continued.

“You and Thorn pile in. He’ll drive you to the Air Force base at Ramstein where you’ll both meekly trundle aboard the first available flight heading to Andrews—just like the lost little lambs you are.”

Gritting her teeth, Helen nodded into the phone. “Got it.”

“You’d better get it, Agent Gray,” Mcdowell said. “We’ll sort out your story once you’re back here in D.C. In the meantime, make sure you’re at the rendezvous point on time. Capisce?”

Almost against her will, Helen forced out a terse, “Yes, sir.”

Then she hung up.

Neukolln Borough,l, Berlin Colonel Peter Thorn stepped out of the S-Balm car onto the Neukolln station platform—quickly scanning the surrounding area for signs of any watchers. Only four other passengers left the crowded three-car electric tram and they immediately headed for the nearest station exit.

He signaled the allclear.

Helen Gray followed him out onto the platform just before the car doors closed.

With a low electric hum and a hiss of hydraulics, the
SBAHN
train slid away from the platform and sped off down the above.

ground tracks. It disappeared around a bend in seconds—lost in the darkness and urban sprawl.

Thorn strode toward the exit, still keeping a wary eye out for anyone who looked out of place. He went through the turnstiles and came out onto the poorly lit street.

Neukolln was not one of Berlin’s more scenic neighborhoods, he decided.

Half the street lamps were out—evidently smashed by vandals and left broken by an overworked city bureaucracy.

Trash and dog excrement littered the pavement. Most of the tenement-style buildings packed close together in all directions were liberally daubed with graffiti, soot, and torn and tattered political posters.

Most of the cars in sight were old and cheap—a mix of Volkswagens , Fords, Renaults, and even a few dented Trabants. Except for a few elderly men and couples out walking dogs, there weren’t many pedestrians on the streets.

“What do you think?” Helen said, skeptically eyeing their surroundings herself.

Thorn shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s too damned quiet.

This isn’t the kind of neighborhood I’d have picked for a rendezvous.

There’s not enough traffic. We’ll stick Out like a sore thumb.”

“Maybe the RP itself is busier,” Helen said.

“Yeah … maybe.” He summoned up a mental picture of the street map he’d memorized before they set out to meet Mcdowelli’s man. The
SBAHN
station was about five blocks north of the intersection they were aiming for. About a five-minute walk if they headed straight there.

Not that he had any intention of doing anything that stupid.

If nothing else, the ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven had again pounded home all the old lessons he’d learned as a combat soldier: Never move blind in unknown country. And never, ever, do the expected or the easy.

He turned back to Helen. “Feel like a little stroll?” He nodded up the street—directly away from the rendezvous point Mcdowell had specified.

She flashed a quick, thin smile. “My thoughts exactly, Mr. Thorn .”

Together, they turned and walked north—back the way the
SBAHN
tram had brought them—pausing often to check windows or the sideview mirrors of parked cars for any signs that they were being followed. At the first opportunity, they turned right down a narrower side street and picked up the pace. From time to time, they stopped suddenly—hoping to flush out anyone trailing them.

Nothing.

Ten minutes of hard, fast walking and several more turns brought them out onto a wider north-south avenue—one running just a block east of the intersection they were heading toward.

There were even fewer cars and fewer pedestrians out on the streets now.

Thorn took Helen’s arm and pulled her into a shadowed doorway with him.