Day of Wrath

CHAPTER NINE BREAKING STRAIN

The captain’s announcement came over the loudspeaker in Russian, German, and, finally, English. “We are now on final approach to Tegel International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened until we have reached the terminal and you are instructed to release them.”

Colonel Peter Thorn felt Helen Gray grip his hand tightly.

“You still want to do this?” he asked. He tried to put as much feeling into the question as he could, as if extra emphasis could pull Helen’s real desire out of her.

“We don’t have any other choice, Peter.” She was equally emphatic, but that didn’t reassure him. “You know that nobody else is going to do a damned thing more about this case. There’s just us, and we owe it to Alexei. Hell, we owe it to ourselves.”

Thorn shook his head. They’d had the same discussion, and the same arguments, for the entire two-hour flight from Moscow.

What had seemed reasonable late at night in the privacy of her empty apartment seemed a lot less sensible in broad daylight. His theory that they might be chasing a loose Russian nuclear weapon suddenly appeared the stuff of nightmares — and about as substantial.

The worst of it was that all the real risk of what Helen proposed would fall on her shoulders. Following his travel orders to the letter wouldn’t change his own fate one iota. No matter what he did, he was slated for the Army’s dust heap — for forced retirement.

But failing to report on time might give Helen’s own enemies inside the FBI hierarchy the excuse they needed to bounce her out of the Bureau altogether. He was risking a minor black mark on a service record already headed for the inactive list. She was risking her paycheck, her pension — everything that was left of her whole career.

It seemed a huge bet to make especially when the odds against getting to the truth were stacked so high. If they failed, or if the smuggled jet engines proved to be just that, smuggled jet engines, she was facing an unalterably bleak professional future.

And even if they faced it together, that wasn’t a future either of them could look forward to.

The passenger jet shuddered as its wheels touched concrete. Thorn took a deep breath. The first leg of their journey home was over.

He stood up, pulled a sport coat out of the overhead compartment along with his travel bag, and handed Helen her own carry-on suitcase. At the embassy’s insistence, he was traveling home in civilian clothes.

And from long habit, they were both traveling light.

They got off the plane and cleared German customs quickly.

No German bureaucrat felt much like wasting time on American travelers — not when they were confronted by a planeload of Russians, Ukrainians, Georgians, Kazakhs, and a host of other ex-Soviet ethnic minorities.

As always, Tegel was packed, jammed wall-to-wall with arriving and departing passengers.

Thorn took his stamped passport back and suddenly felt Helen nudge him gently in the ribs.

“George Patton, Jr at five o’clock,” she muttered.

He looked up, spotting who she meant with ease. A young Army captain wearing a crisply starched Class A uniform stood to one side of the hall leading to customs-craning his head as he searched the crowd. The captain was their ride to Ramstein Air Base, where they’d be spirited into the States aboard a military passenger plane.

Thorn squared his shoulders instinctively and then relaxed. It was time to doff the military habits of a lifetime. He glanced at Helen.

“Right, here we go.” He motioned her ahead. “You first, Miss Gray.”

She nodded and merged with a clump of other passengers — careful to stay on the far side of the group.

Thorn waited another thirty or forty seconds and then did the same thing. He walked right past the young captain without making eye contact and turned the corner.

Their would-be escort never saw them. He was looking for a man and woman traveling together — not apart. More to the point, Thorn realized, the younger man was expecting them to be looking for him just as hard as he’d been searching for them.

Helen joined him right around the corner. “How long have we got?” she asked.

“Unless they’ve bred all initiative out of junior officers, I’d say we’ve got about five minutes before he starts looking for us,” Thorn replied with a wry smile.

Helen started walking even faster.

It took them another few precious moments to sort through the welter of signs for Scandinavian Airlines System once they reached the main terminal and ticketing area. Thorn glanced back the way they’d come.

No sign of pursuit. Not yet, at any rate.

He shook his head. It felt damned strange to be relieved not to see an American army uniform. He didn’t like it. Like Helen, he’d always been secure in his actions — taking risks, but always sure of his course. His years of service with Delta Force had offered him the chance to escape the dull, grinding routine of the peacetime Army, but he’d still had the sense of being part of a larger whole. But now they’d both jumped completely outside the hierarchies that had provided purpose and direction for so much of their adult lives.

They got into line at the S.A.S ticket counter and scanned the monitor showing the airline’s scheduled departures.

Helen nodded toward the flickering display. “There’s a direct flight for Bergen at eight.”

“No good.” Thorn checked his watch. “We’re not going to get away with hanging around here for two hours. If we’re going through with this, we need to put some airspace between ourselves and our Army watchdog back there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward customs.

“True.” Helen narrowed her eyes. “There, Peter.” She pointed to a string of letters and numbers at the top of the monitor. “There’s a flight to Oslo in half an hour. It’ll be boarding any time now.”

Thorn reached out and gently turned her to face him. She didn’t pull away.

“Look, Helen. This is where it gets real. We can still find that captain and make up some excuse for missing him at customs. We’d be home by tomorrow morning.”

“There’s no time for this, Peter,” she protested softly. “I’ve made up my mind.” Shifting in his grasp slightly, she pulled him toward the counter as the line moved forward.

“What?”

Deputy Chief of Mission Randolph Clifford stared at Charlie Spiegel in disbelief.

Spiegel could only restate what he’d already said. “I saw them to the airport. I saw them board the plane.”

“Then why weren’t they on the plane when it landed in Berlin?”

The CIA officer shrugged. “I can’t answer that, sir. If the Army’s telling the truth about having somebody there to meet them, then Colonel Thorn and Special Agent Gray obviously got past him somehow.”

“Why? And where did they go?”

Spiegel grinned. “I understand Bavaria’s nice in the summer.”

Clifford was not amused. “You assume this disappearance was voluntary. What if they were abducted?”

Spiegel turned serious. “Unlikely, given their background. You saw my report on Pechenga, sir. If somebody tried to take Helen Gray or Thorn off that plane against their will, believe me, we’d have heard of it by now.”

Clifford nodded stiffly. He rubbed at his temples, evidently fighting the beginning of a world-class headache. “I can’t believe this. A senior Army officer. Hell, and a senior FBI agent! Violating travel orders, vanishing off the face of the earth …” He looked up at Spiegel in disbelief. “Have Thorn and Gray both gone crazy?”

“It doesn’t sound like they’ve got much to lose by going off on their own,” the CIA officer responded. “Have you notified the German authorities?”

“No.” The diplomat rubbed harder at his forehead. “We won’t get any help there. Thorn and Gray haven’t committed any crimes — none that matter to the Germans anyway. The most I could do was get our own embassy and military to agree to report to us if they turned up.” The frustration in Clifford’s voice was clear.

“If I’d been through what they’ve been through, I’d take some time off before going home to face the music,” Spiegel said flatly. “This may be their way of telling us all to go to hell.”

Clifford reddened. “I suggest you get back to work, Mr. Spiegel.” He nodded toward the door. “Just figure out what Thorn and Gray are doing. And why.”

Spiegel headed back to his own office suspecting that the other man wasn’t going to like the answers he would probably come up with. He’d worked long enough with Helen Gray to appreciate just how stubborn and determined she could be once she had her sights on an unsolved puzzle — or an enemy. What he couldn’t figure out was what she hoped to accomplish. Drug trafficking was a major crime, but it was so widespread that blocking one smuggling route just pushed the stuff somewhere else. Trying to stop it completely was as futile as good old King Canute ordering the tide back with a wave of his royal hand.

Besides, Helen and Peter Thorn weren’t going to be allowed back into Russia — not legally. So where were they going to pick up the trail they’d followed so disastrously to Pechenga?

The CIA officer closed the door to his office and turned toward the wall map pinned up behind his desk. His eyes fell on Norway and he nodded to himself. He’d bet that Helen and the colonel were on their way to the only link left in the chain they’d been tracing — to Bergen.

Well, Spiegel decided, he’d take some time before reporting back to Clifford. The Agency didn’t have many people on the ground in Norway — certainly not enough to waste their time and efforts looking for a couple of government employees who’d only broken a few travel regs. Besides, he thought, Helen Gray might just get lucky.

The high northern sky over Bergen glowed a deep, rich golden orange — a color that touched the steep green slopes above the city with fire.

The same golden hue danced across the waters of the harbor — softening the outlines of the oil tankers, container ships, and fishing trawlers packed along Bergen’s piers. Although it was already evening, only a few lights gleamed from the windows of the city’s red-gabled houses, shops, bars, and restaurants.

Helen Gray glanced toward the moored ships and then back along the narrow street stretching up from the harbor toward the mountains. The season was working to their advantage. This close to the start of summer, Norway’s warm eighteen-and twenty-hour days attracted streams of tourists. To the casual observer, she and Peter would be just two more vacationers eager to take in the spectacular scenery and amble through the historic sites.

She turned to Peter. “All set?”

He showed his teeth in a quick grin and tapped the Canon EOS camera he’d purchased that afternoon. “You bet.”

With Peter tagging along a couple of steps behind her, Helen walked toward the first waterfront tavern they’d located earlier in the afternoon — after arriving by train from Oslo. They’d waited until now, after the dinner hour, when the men they were looking for would be relaxing, gossiping, and griping after their day working on the docks.

The Akershus was named after the historic fortress that guarded Oslo’s harbor. This was no tourist attraction, though.

The bar’s exterior was weathered, clearly not painted since the winter’s passing, and winters in Norway could be very hard.

Aside from the sign, a small anchor and a Viking longship painted on the front window were the only decorations. Still, it looked clean, and large enough to give them a good chance of finding the witnesses they needed.

Inside, a bar ran along one wall, down the full length of the room. It was surfaced with scarred dark wood. The room was paneled in matching wood, and ten or twelve tables filled the rest of the space.

Even this early in the evening, it was already half full. Some of the men were finishing meals, others were playing cards, and a few were already into their third beers, to judge from the empties.

Helen noticed that there were no women in the room at all.

This was clearly an all-male preserve. Only two men stood at the bar, talking soberly to each other and the barkeep, a large, blond, bearded man, who only needed a horned helmet to resemble one of his Viking ancestors.

Helen and Peter drew a few long looks from the patrons when they first entered. But once they’d ordered beers and taken a table in the corner, they were ignored.

Helen sipped her beer and studied the customers over her raised glass.

A few were young — in their twenties, perhaps. The others ranged up to sixty or so. Most were solidly middleaged.

And all of them were dressed in work clothes — dark-colored overalls, often stained, or ripped and mended. Their scuffed boots and the hard hats dangling from the chairs behind them hinted that these were exactly the sort of men the two Americans were looking for.

Finally, Helen nodded to Peter and got up, approaching a man in his mid-fifties. He sat alone at a table, nursing a beer. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

“Nei.” Well, so much for him. She turned to a younger man at the next table, scruffy, but with an alert look. “Do you speak English?”’ she repeated.

“Ja, a little.”

Helen offered her hand and flashed a smile, trying to turn on the charm without making it too obvious. “I’m Susan Anderson, with the ETS News Service.” She handed him a business card, imprinted with the false name she was using, the name of the fictional news service, a phone number, and an Internet address.

She still felt somewhat awkward about operating under a phony identity.

But years as an FBI agent had taught her the annoying truth that witnesses who often clammed up when questioned by someone with a badge were only too happy to spill everything they knew to the first journalist who came strolling along — especially one who was an attractive woman. Besides, flashing her American FBI credentials in a Norwegian port city was far more likely to generate the kind of official interest they wanted to avoid.

The airport hotel they’d checked into immediately after arriving in Oslo catered largely to international businessmen. Its facilities included a fully equipped computer center — complete with PCS for rent, laser printers, and the latest software. So an hour’s work with some word processing and graphics programs had produced a small set of what appeared to be professionally printed business cards for each of them — Helen’s as a journalist and Peter’s as a photographer.

“You are a reporter?” The young Norwegian dockworker seemed curious, and a little interested, although she couldn’t tell if he was responding to her smile or her occupation.

“I’m doing a story on a tramp freighter that sailed from here to Russia a week ago. Have you heard of the Star of the White Sea? She was moored at Pier 91A.” Helen and Peter had spent the afternoon puzzling over back issues of the local newspaper’s Shipping News section to dig up that piece of information.

“So? What is so special, this ship?” The man was interested, but seemed cautious.

Helen ignored his question and pressed on. Telling him that the entire crew had been murdered might make him clam up altogether.

“I just want to talk to men who might have seen her.”

She let the corners of three hundred-kronr notes show in her hand. At current exchange rates, that was worth about fifty dollars enough to loosen a few tongues without raising too many eyebrows, she judged.

He waved it back. “Knut and Fredrik, they work on the docks. I am inside, in a warehouse.” He fired a string of Norwegian at a pair of men sitting three tables over. They perked up, obviously curious about the attractive foreigner, and answered.

The first man broke off the conversation after about three exchanges and turned back to Helen. “I am sorry. They do not know this ship.”

She smiled again. “That’s all right. But do you know anyone else we can ask? It would be a real help to my story. We could even take his picture for the article,” she added, gesturing to her photographer.

Peter fiddled with the Canon’s lens, trying to look professional.

The Norwegian looked around, then asked another older man, and then another group of three. All replied, “Nei.”

He shrugged and smiled at Helen. “I am sorry.”

Helen smiled back, grateful for his efforts. “Never mind. Thank you anyway.”

Peter had already gotten up. She turned toward the door, then changed her mind and went over to the bar. The Viking bartender took the bill she offered, and evidently understood her instructions to get her translator another beer and make it the best he had. No point in leaving sour feelings behind them.

Once outside on the street again, they turned toward the harbor.

Helen shook her head. “Well, that was a bust.”

“Isn’t this what you law enforcement types call legwork?” Peter asked.

He shrugged. “Hell, we knew this wasn’t going to be fast, Helen. This place must see dozens of ships come and go in the space of a week. Finding some of the guys who unloaded the Star, and who remember doing it, could take some time.”

She drew a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. I just think of how easy it would have been to go straight to the port authorities, flash my badge, and ask to see the Star of the White Sea’s cargo manifests.”

“We can still do that. You’re still an FBI agent,” Peter reminded her.

Helen grimaced. “Jesus, I get bad vibes at the thought. The last time we went barreling into a harbormaster’s office, we got shot at.”

They went on to another tavern, misnamed the Grand Cafe Smaller than the Akershus, its clientele was similar. Workingmen gathered around tables to play cards and drink. This time, Helen was immediately successful in finding someone who spoke English.

Arne Haukelid was a college student, studying literature, who’d taken a job at the docks to earn money between semesters.

He also watched the news, and was well versed on current affairs.

“You want to know if any of us saw the Star of the White Sea, Miss Anderson? The one where they killed everyone and they found the drugs?”

His voice carried in the quiet room, and Helen winced inwardly, then remembered Haukelid was still speaking English.

The young Norwegian let her buy him a beer, then circulated around the room, asking here and there. She couldn’t follow the conversations, but headshakes and “Nei” were easy to understand.

Another bust.

Peter and Helen left the Grand Cafe and headed for another bar, Ole Bull, and after that a place called Sjoboden. By this time it was almost ten at night, and she was getting worried that anyone with a day job would be heading home.

Sjoboden was another pub with nautical decorations scattered around.

It looked a little rougher than the other places they’d been in, but it was also the most crowded, nearly filled with strong-looking men.

The buzz of conversation did not change when Peter and Helen entered, and a few of the dockworkers, sizing Helen up, even greeted her with “Goddag” and a smile. It looked to her like they’d had more than a few beers, but they still had an eye for a pretty woman.

One of them spoke English, but to Helen’s consternation he’d heard all about the Star of the White Sea, and the fate of her crew.

To her relief, though, her informant knew someone who actually helped unload her.

He pointed to a pair of men who willingly made room at their table for Helen and Peter when they came over. She let the conversation run on for a while, hoping to steer the talk in a useful direction.

The oldest, Olaf Syverstad, had the most to say. “This is a bad business. We haven’t had too much drugs here. But soon these criminals and smugglers will be squeezing us.”

In his sixties, Olaf was concerned more for his son, Karl, who still worked at the docks.

Karl Syverstad had been translating for his father, and was delighted to have a chance to practice his English. Blond like his father, Karl’s back and shoulders were as broad as a house. He’d been a longshoreman for five years.

“Ja, I worry now. Now that I know what is going on. Then, I liked working on the Star. They paid us overtime to stand by, and unload her as soon as she came.”

“What did she carry?” asked Helen.

“Mostly scrap metal and fish,” the younger Syverstad answered.

“And they were in a hurry to unload that?” Helen didn’t have to act puzzled.

“Not all of it,” the big Norwegian said. “There were five metal crates that came off first. They went straight across the pier to another ship, and that ship left right away — less than an hour, I think.”

“What ship was that?” Helen forced herself not to sound too eager.

Her story was supposed to be about the murders on the Star.

“Baltic Venturer. She was bound for Wilhelmshaven. In Germany.”’ “How do you know that?” Helen asked.

“It was her home port. Painted on her stern. And I heard the crew talking.”

Helen looked over at Peter, who was listening intently, but seemed content to let her do the talking. She continued. “So you only saw them unloading scrap metal, fish, and these crates?” She held out her hands, as if to describe the size of a box.

The younger Syverstad nodded. “Ja, pretty much. But those crates were big things, big enough for an auto maybe.”

Bingo, Helen thought. His description matched the rough sizes of the Su-24 engines Serov had showed them. She leaned forward. “And what did the Star carry back to Russia?”

The Norwegian shook his head. “Nothing, she went back empty. I was on her for two days unloading. I saw nothing.”

His father tapped the table for emphasis. “And a good thing, too, boy. Or you might have wound up dead — just like those poor Russian sods.”

Helen let them talk for a while longer, about drugs, other ships to Russia, crime in Bergen, but finally found a graceful pause in the conversation and made their goodbyes.

It was chilly outside, the midsummer twilight holding only a little warmth and a sea breeze from the west stripping even that away. Helen shivered slightly, but then glanced at Peter. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think we head for Wilhelmshaven, don’t you?” he replied quietly.

“Yep.” She couldn’t hide the satisfaction in her voice. The trail left by the people who’d ambushed them and murdered Alexei Koniev hadn’t grown completely cold after all. They’d found another link in the chain.

“What do you think about passing this information back to the Bureau?” Peter asked.

Helen thought about that a moment. She doubted they had enough hard data to penetrate the FBI’s bureaucratic inertia yet, but that shouldn’t stop them from trying to prod Washington into taking official notice that something very strange was going on with whatever material Serov and his officers had smuggled out of Kandalaksha. At a minimum, it wouldn’t hurt to leave a paper trail of their findings — just in case they ran into trouble somewhere along the line.

She looked back at Peter and nodded. “Fine. But I’d rather not give the Bureau a chance to zero in on us just yet.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Not to worry, Special Agent Gray. We’ll be the very soul of discretion.”

Leiter, a trim, telegenic man in his early forties, read the document intently.

Lawrence Mcdowell handed the fax he’d received only an hour before to the Director, careful to hide his resentment from the other man. David Leiter had been a hotshot prosecutor before he’d been picked by the President to head the FBI, but he’d never served a day as a field agent. Mcdowell was prepared to kowtow to anyone above him, but it irked him to realize how far down the FBI’s totem pole he still was — despite all his years of service and ass-kissing.

“That’s it?” demanded Leiter.

Mcdowell felt his palms starting to get damp. The Director had a reputation for backing his subordinates to the hilt — as long as they were producing. But he had zero tolerance for inefficiency.

Mcdowell knew if he didn’t give Leiter the right answers, he could be on his way to Billings, Montana, as a junior G-man before the day was out.

He cleared his throat. “The cover sheet was from a commercial fax service in Berlin, sir. It was sent earlier today, which places Special Agent Gray and Colonel Thorn in Germany some fortyeight hours after they missed the meeting with their Army escort.”

Leiter frowned.

“I can read a calendar, Assistant Director Mcdowell.” He slapped the fax down on his desk. “Do you have any goddamned idea about what they’ve been doing in the meantime?”

“No, sir. Not exactly,” Mcdowell reluctantly admitted. “But I’ve dispatched an agent from our Berlin office to this fax service.

We’re also checking out airline and passport records to see if they actually went to Bergen to obtain this information — or if Agent Gray is simply trying to pull rabbits out of her hat to save her own hide.”

Leiter’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what do you mean by that, Mr. Mcdowell?”

“What I mean, sir, is that Special Agent Gray is obviously still chasing after this Russian drug smuggling ring — despite the fact she’s been pulled off that case. So now, having violated your directive to return here, she’s running around Europe — presumably with her Army boyfriend.”

Mcdowell grimaced. “I’m afraid that she’s completely out of control.”

“You’re her supervisor. Are you telling me you didn’t see any sign of this coming?”

Mcdowell tried to sound concerned and distressed. “I believe Special Agent Gray is under massive stress, sir. She hasn’t done very well in the Moscow office”—the poor performance reviews he’d given her would document that — “and then she involves herself in that crazy shoot-out in Pechenga.”

He shook his head. “Add that together with her memories of that bloody counterterrorist raid here in the D.C. area two years ago, and I think we’ve got an agent who may be coming apart at the seams.”

Leiter nodded gravely, clearly remembering the details. The HRT section under Helen Gray’s command had lost four out of ten agents while successfully attacking a heavily fortified terrorist safe house.

She’d been badly wounded herself. Nobody could walk away from a bloodbath like that psychologically unscathed.

Mcdowell pressed his point. “Plus there’s her association with this guy Thorn, whose only real ability seems to be to disobey orders.”’ He frowned. “Frankly, I think she’s become a liability to the Bureau and to you, sir. You’ll remember I recommended revoking her law enforcement powers when we recalled her from Moscow—” Leiter broke in.

“And I still won’t approve it, Mr. Mcdowell. Agent Gray hasn’t committed any offense serious enough to justify such action — especially when we haven’t heard her side of the story.”

Mcdowell shrugged. “What can she say in her own defense?”

“That’s for Agent Gray to establish, not you,” Leiter growled. “In the meantime, I want all FBI offices to watch for her and Colonel Thorn. If they’re found, I want them escorted back here. They’re not to be arrested or placed in custody of any kind. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Mcdowell knew when to get out. The meeting hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, but at least Leiter had been diverted from asking specific questions about the fax’s contents.

Five minutes later, Mcdowell closed the door to his own office and moved to the window — staring blindly down at Washington’s bustling streets while pondering his situation. He was uncomfortably aware that his neck was in a noose — a noose largely of his own making.

He scowled. It had seemed so easy back in the 1980s. His salary as a field agent hadn’t been high enough to match his expensive tastes.

After all, why drive a Chevrolet when you could take a spin in your very own Porsche or BMW? So he’d gone looking for a little extra something to pad his paycheck. And he’d found it.

Mcdowell found himself wanting a drink. He turned away from the window and found the bottle of bourbon he had stashed in his bottom desk drawer. He poured a generous dollop into a water glass and downed it in one go.

When East Germany’s secret intelligence service, the Stasi, offered him fifty thousand dollars — as a simple retainer, but with the promise of more to follow — he’d jumped at the money. And why not? Pure patriotism was for suckers, the kind of all-American idiots he’d left gasping in his tracks ever since entering the FBI Academy. East.

West. Communism. Capitalism. None of the grand causes mattered much.

Not when you were looking out for the only interests that were really important in the end — your own.

Besides, Mcdowell thought angrily, he’d never done a damn thing wrong for the money. Since the East Germans hadn’t contacted him again before the Wall came tumbling down, he’d never actually betrayed his country. All he’d done was redistribute a little wealth from an enemy spy agency into his own back pocket. And where was the real harm in that?

He grimaced, pouring another slug of bourbon. But now this ex-Stasi son of a bitch Heinrich Wolf, or whatever his real name was, had come crawling back from the shadows to blackmail him. The man’s confident use of the code name the East Germans had assigned Mcdowell, PEREGRINE, proved he had access to their secret files. He swallowed the liquor, feeling the warm glow burn down his throat and into his stomach.

His orders from Wolf were clean — report back on the movements of Helen Gray and deflect her inquiries whenever possible.

Mcdowell shook his head. He certainly didn’t mind throwing a stick into that bitch Gray’s spokes. And he didn’t give a damn about the heroin Wolf and his men must be smuggling inside those Russian jet engines — although he wouldn’t have minded a cut of the money they were likely to make. Let the dope addicts drip the goddamned poison into their veins. It was no skin off his nose.

But what he really didn’t like was the knowledge that an ex-Stasi drug trafficker had him by the balls. Mcdowell was under no illusions. No matter what happened to Helen Gray or Peter Thorn, Wolf wasn’t going to back off not now. The bastard too clearly enjoyed having a senior FBI official at his beck and call.

Mcdowell shoved the bourbon bottle back into his desk.

Maybe he should start asking a few questions of his own about this Baltic Venturer and its mysterious cargo. The more he knew about Wolf’s covert business arrangements, the more chance he might be able to figure out some way to turn the tables on the double-dealing German.

Prince Ibrahim al Saud glanced out the window of his speeding limousine. They were still several minutes away from his estate deep in the heart of Virginia’s hunt country — a lush green landscape of rolling hills, woods, horse farms, quaint historical towns, and luxury homes. It was an alien vista to one raised in the vast, arid reaches of the Arabian Peninsula. All the land around him was a single, all-encompassing oasis of peace and plenty. But it was a soft, weak land — without the harsh, intervening stretches of rock and sand that tempered a man’s soul and taught him endurance and faith in God.

His eyes fell on a group of horses contentedly cropping grass in a field by the side of the road. What magnificent beasts, he thought, admiring their proud profiles. Once again he regretted the march of time and technology that had rendered the horse a luxury — a plaything for the idle rich, instead of a weapon of war.

Images of the Prophet’s cavalry galloping to victory over the infidel floated across his mind — the green banners of Islam fluttering in the wind, scimitars flashing in the sun, the clatter of hooves, the dust rising heavenward in great billowing clouds.

With regret, Ibrahim pushed those heady images back into his subconscious. Wars were waged with other weapons now — explosives, automatic rifles, rocket launchers, and, most of all, with the money that purchased those weapons. The funds and the orders he dispatched could hatch plans to blow up an Israeli school bus one day, and to down an American airliner the next.

Ibrahim leaned forward and poured himself a glass of mineral water from a carafe kept carefully chilled and waiting for him whenever he used this car.

He frowned. Despite the joy he felt when his enemies grieved, he could not hide a growing belief that the secret war he was waging was being lost.

The West had proved more resilient than he and those under his control had ever imagined. Over the past several years, terrorists had struck hard at Israel, the United States, and their allies — planting bombs in cars, buses, buildings, and airplanes around the world. And yet, already the scars were healing.

Ibrahim shook his head and took another sip of his water.

He had learned from his earlier failures. America could not be brought to its knees solely by plastic explosives, assault rifle bullets, or shoulder-launched missiles.

The limousine turned off onto the treelined private road leading to his estate — driving through a rippling sea of sunlight and shadow.

Five years ago, Ibrahim had purchased a substantial parcel of prime Virginia countryside. Since then, he’d lavished considerable sums on architects, interior decorators, and landscape designers to ensure that the house and its grounds reflected his intellect, his will, and his traditions. The Middleburg estate would never be more than one of several residences he owned around the world, but it pleased him to occupy ground so close to America’s political and military nerve center.

In total, the grounds covered thirty acres — all walled and patrolled.

Sturdy steel gates barred access to the estate propen-gates manned by armed guards belonging to his own private security force. None were American. All were fellow Arabs — veterans of Saudi Arabia’s Airborne Brigade released into his service by royal command. Their residence visas and weapons permits came courtesy of his intimate political ties to the current American administration.

The limousine stopped just inside the gates.

Ibrahim watched in satisfaction as two guards moved in on either side of the vehicle — carefully inspecting both driver and passenger to make sure they were who they claimed to be. A third man checked the trunk, exempting only his personal baggage from his search. Still another ran a handheld monitor over the car, scanning for any electronic eavesdropping devices that might have been planted while it sat at Dulles International Airport.

Prudence was the Saudi prince’s watchword in matters pertaining to personal safety. He believed himself unknown to his enemies. He saw no point, however, in staking his life and fortune and future on that belief.

Once the guards had finished their security sweep, the limousine pulled away — heading uphill toward the main house. The heavy steel gates swung shut behind it and latched. As a further security measure, a row of sharpened spikes whirred up from the pavement.

The house itself sprawled across one hilltop, almost reaching another nearby crest. Dazzling white walls, a red-tiled roof, and arched promenades gave it a Mediterranean appearance. Smaller outbuildings had the same design features. Flower gardens covered the lawns immediately surrounding the house. They not only suited his personal tastes, but served as better concealment for the battery of electronic warning devices that guarded the building.

The key members of Ibrahim’s household staff were lined up outside the main entrance — waiting to greet him. Two personal assistants, his majordomo, the groundskeeper, the head of his maintenance staff, his stable manager, and the estate’s security chief bowed in unison when he stepped out of the limousine.

Ibrahim coolly acknowledged their deferential greetings and then dismissed them. But two, the groundskeeper and the security chief, lingered.

The prince arched an eyebrow. Anything that needed his personal attention this quickly must be a problem, and a serious one at that.

He studied the two men for a moment.

The head of security, a tough, former Saudi paratroop captain named Talal, stood confidently — waiting for permission to speak.

From his body language, he evidently didn’t think himself to be in any trouble.

On the other hand, the groundskeeper, a young Egyptian, was clearly worried — almost frightened.

Ibrahim had seen nothing on the drive in that would imply the man had been derelict in his duties. The flowers were in bloom. The trees were trimmed. And the lawns were immaculate.

This problem must be a personnel matter. He summoned one of his assistants. The aide hurried back out from the house, took his briefcase, bowed deeply, and hurried away.

He turned back to the two men, still waiting silently for his commands.

“Very well. What is it?”

The groundskeeper stepped forward, moistening his lips.

“Highness, I am afraid that one of my workers, a Pakistani, tried to leave the compound last night.”

So it was a personnel matter.

Ibrahim turned to his security chief.

“The man was caught almost immediately,” Talal reported calmly. “Our security cameras spotted him leaving the dormitory area, and one of the dog patrols apprehended him before he could cross the wall.”

“You have questioned this man?” Ibrahim asked coldly.

Talal nodded. “Thoroughly, Highness.” The security chief continued his report. “We’ve also searched his personal effects and interviewed the rest of the grounds staff.”

“And?” Ibrahim demanded. “Why did he attempt to flee?”

“He’s been here for one and a half years, and now he says he just wants to go home,” Talal replied. “I found nothing in his letters or other possessions that would indicate another motive.”

Ibrahim considered that a good sign. Harboring an ungrateful wretch was bad enough. Harboring an enemy spy would have been much worse — especially now, with his plans coming to fruition.

Most of the estate’s groundskeepers, house staff, and other menial workers were illegals hired in Pakistan, Jordan, Syria, Sudan, and other Islamic countries-ostensibly on one-year contracts.

They were slipped into the U.S. on student or tourist visas. The Immigration and Naturalization Service turned a blind eye to this activity — again thanks to his generous support of the American political establishment. After all, if a wealthy and well connected Saudi prince wanted to surround himself with fellow Muslims as his servants, why rock the boat?

Ibrahim made sure his servants were given reasonably good quarters and decent meals. But most of their pay was sent home, and when their year-long contracts were up, they found it very difficult to leave.

Expenses were charged against their pay, or the promised immigration papers were delayed, or they were simply threatened with arrest by the local police if they strayed off the estate. Poor, undereducated, and utterly ignorant of American law, they stayed put. Those few who tried to steal away were always caught.

“Where is this Pakistani?” Ibrahim snapped.

“In the equipment shed, Highness,” the groundskeeper said nervously.

“Very well. Then get back to your work. Talal and I will handle this matter ourselves. Nothing more will be said. Nothing. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Highness!” The groundskeeper bobbed his head, obviously relieved, and then disappeared.

The equipment shed housed the gardening tools used by the grounds staff. It stood well off by itself on one side of the main house, screened from view by a stand of trees.

Talal unlocked the door. “I’ve confined the grounds staff to their quarters, Highness. They believe we are conducting a search for missing items believed stolen by this Pakistani.”

Ibrahim nodded his approval. It was a good cover story one that would discourage any sympathy for the missing man. Theft was a serious crime in the Islamic world.

The shed’s interior was all steel and fiberglass on a concrete foundation. Workbenches lined two walls with pegs and tools for maintaining the other equipment, while the floor was taken up by several tractors and power mowers. Bags of fertilizer and grass seed were stacked against one wall.

The Pakistani lay facedown on the concrete floor— huddled against the bags. He was bound hand and foot. The young man raised his head weakly when Ibrahim and Talal came in, but he didn’t speak. His eyes were unfocused — though whether from fatigue or from the security chief’s “questioning,” the Saudi prince couldn’t tell at first. One side of his face looked wrong somehow.

Talal stepped over and roughly pulled the Pakistani up to a sitting position — propping him against the stack of fertilizer and seed bags.

Now Ibrahim could see that his security chief had been very thorough in his questioning. Blood matted one side of the young man’s head, and the eye on that side was puffy and swollen.

Ibrahim’s anger, so carefully controlled in front of his subordinates, now sprang to the surface. He was a scion of the Prophet and a prince of the royal blood. And yet this worm, a man who had eaten his salt, had defied him — challenging his authority, abusing his hospitality. No excuse could justify such betrayal or mitigate the punishment he must exact.

In a cold rage, Ibrahim stepped closer to the Pakistani. He grabbed one shoulder and threw the dazed young man flat on his back. Without stopping to think he snatched one of the bags from the neatly stacked pile nearby, felt himself stagger slightly under its weight, and then hurled it down on top of the prostrate Pakistani.

The man screamed as the bag slammed into his chest.

Ibrahim looked more closely at his handiwork and smiled icily as he considered the hundred-pound bag of grass seed he’d just thrown onto the traitor.

The Pakistani struggled vainly to escape the weight slowly crushing the breath out of his body. “Forgive me, Highness,” he whispered painfully. “I beg you …”

Ibrahim ignored him. He picked up another heavy bag with both hands and tossed it on top of the first. The added weight drew another scream of agony from his victim. A third bag — this one hurled onto the man’s face — muffled his cries. Blood trickled out onto the concrete floor.

Sweating now, and enjoying the exertion, Ibrahim piled a fourth and fifth bag atop the writhing Pakistani. By now only the young man’s legs were visible. They kicked at the floor, wildly at first, and then slower and slower.

Ibrahim stood back, watching and waiting. Even after a full minute by his watch, the Pakistani’s legs still quivered spasmodically.

It took another thirty seconds before all movement ceased.

He turned to Talal. The security chief stood impassively waiting by the door. “Clear this mess up. And get rid of the body tonight.”

There were plenty of lonely places in rural Virginia, and Ibrahim knew Talal would bury the body deep.

“What do we tell the rest of the workers, Highness?” the security chief asked quietly.

“That he was caught stealing, and that we have turned him over to the American police.”

Talal nodded silently and bent to begin hefting the bags back into place.

Ibrahim stepped past him and headed for the main house — eager to read Reichardt’s latest report. Pleasurable or not, he’d wasted enough time on trivial matters for now.