Day of Wrath

CHAPTER TEN EXECUTION DOCK

Berkeley County Airport was a small, single-strip field twenty-five miles north-northwest of Charleston, just one mile from the town of Moncks Corner. Church spires dotted the town’s skyline.

To the northeast loomed the swampy forest of cypress and scrub pine that had sheltered Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” during the American Revolution. The olive-green waters of Lake Moultrie glittered in the distance.

Buildings clustered north of the runway, linked by dirt and gravel roads. The facilities of the general aviation firms based there — aircraft rental companies, an aerial surveyor, a flying school, and an air charter service — were dwarfed by Caraco’s three brandnew steel-frame hangars and two smaller buildings.

A forbidding chainlink fence surrounded the compound.

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt emerged from one of-the hangars and stood blinking in the bright morning sunshine. He mopped impatiently at his forehead, already finding the Southern heat and humidity oppressive. A small plane — a single-engine Cessna — droned low overhead, touched the runway, and trundled past, taxiing toward the rows of other private aircraft lined up on the lush green grass. Another Cessna circled lazily off in the distance — waiting its turn to land.

Berkeley had no control tower. Pilots using the field listened to a common radio frequency, Unicorn, and worked out any traffic control problems among themselves.

Reichardt turned to his escort, who stood waiting patiently at his side, completely attentive to his superior’s needs.

Dieter Krauss was one of Reichardt’s men from the old days.

He was reliable, if utterly unimaginative. Once he’d headed a Stasi Special Action squad, used to beat dissidents whose activities the State found inconvenient or irritating. But Krauss had aged poorly, and his strength had faded. Too many vices.

Now in his early fifties, he looked like a man fifteen years older.

He was still useful in a supervisory role, and in an operation of this magnitude, Reichardt needed every agent he could lay his hands on.

“You have had no trouble from the locals?” Reichardt asked.

He inclined his head toward the small shed that housed the airport manager. “No difficult questions?”

Krauss shook his head. “No. They have all accepted our cover story.”

Reichardt nodded. The county officials who ran the airport had been informed that Caraco intended its new facility as a transfer point for corporate executives flying in from its other U.S. enterprises to Charleston. Given the high landing, maintenance, and aircraft parking fees at Charleston International, none of them were surprised that Caraco viewed their field as a low-cost alternative. In any event, no responsible local official would turn up his nose at the promise of added revenues flowing into the airport coffers.

His pager buzzed. He checked the name and number displayed and pursed his lips. Interesting.

With a single, sharp nod, Reichardt dismissed Krauss and sent him back to work. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back through the gate to where he’d parked his rental can-a sleek, comfortable Monte Carlo.

Even though he’d parked in the shade, the car’s interior was already sweltering. Despite the sticky heat, the German pulled the car door firmly shut behind him. There was no point taking a chance that a local might overhear him, and absolutely no sense in allowing the man he was about to call to hear anything that might let him guess Reichardt’s location.

The Monte Carlo came equipped with a car phone, but Reichardt ignored that. Instead, he opened his briefcase and removed his own digital cellular phone. It contained an encryption chip that would prevent either casual or deliberate eavesdropping.

He keyed in a code and then the phone number displayed on his pager.

An automated system routed his call through several dummy numbers before dialing his contact — vastly complicating any attempt to trace the call.

A cautious voice answered. “Mcdowell.”

“This is Heinrich Wolf,” Reichardt said smoothly. “From Secure Investments, Limited. What can I do for you, Mr. Mcdowell?”

“You’ve got a problem,” Mcdowell said. “Two problems, in fact.”

Reichardt listened in silence and mounting irritation while the American FBI official filled him in on the fax he’d just received from Berlin. Although they’d survived Kleiner’s abortive ambush in Pechenga, he’d thought Special Agent Gray and Colonel Thorn were out of the picture-on their way home to the United States in disgrace. But now here they were again — popping up with data he’d believed completely secure. One of the loose ends he’d gone to enormous lengths to tie up had come unraveled again. Somehow the two Americans had tracked the cargo transfer in Bergen.

“Where are they now?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Mcdowell reluctantly admitted. “The fax is six hours old already. And they could have arranged for a delayed transmission.”

Reichardt scowled, thinking fast. With at least a six-hour head start, these two American troublemakers could be well on their way to almost anywhere. Chasing them would be futile, he realized. This would have to be an entirely different sort of hunt.

He gripped the cellular phone tighter. “I need more information on Thorn and Gray. Immediately.”

Mcdowell hesitated but only for an instant. Both he and Reichardt knew who held all the aces in the game they were playing. “I have photos and personnel files on both of them.”

“Good. Then you can fax them to me now.” Reichardt gave the American one of the dummy numbers that would ultimately connect with his phone, disconnected, and plugged a cable into the cell phone.

Within minutes, the portable fax machine he carried in his briefcase spat out two photos and several pages of personal and professional data — all stamped “FBI Confidential.” He rang Mcdowell back. “You’ve done good work, Mr. Mcdowell. I think I can promise you a high return on your latest investment.”’ “I don’t want more money,” the FBI agent said shortly. “I want out. I’m running too many goddamned risks here.”

“We all run risks, PEREGRINE,” Reichardt mockingly chided.

“There are no rewards without them. True?”

There was silence on the other end, and Reichardt knew Mcdowell was cursing himself. Every act he committed tightened the noose around his neck, giving the German more control.

Time to dangle some cheese in front of the rat. “Don’t worry so much, Mr. Mcdowell. Your assistance is valued. It reduces your debt to us. Soon, you will hear no more from me.”

The FBI official couldn’t hide the desperate hope in his voice.

“When?”

“Soon,” Reichardt repeated. He snapped the phone shut.

Ignoring the sweat trickling down his forehead in the stifling car, he scanned the papers he’d been sent. One eyebrow went up as he paged through the official records of the two Americans’ past exploits as members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. No wonder they’d bested poor Kleiner and his hired Russian bandits in combat.

This Peter Thorn and Helen Gray were dangerous, Reichardt reflected.

Too dangerous. And too damned persistent. They’d already pierced three layers of the elaborate veil he’d drawn over the Operation. If he left them on the loose much longer, they might get too close to the core — and draw too much official attention with them.

At least he now knew where they were headed next. The Americans had discovered that the ship they were chasing, Baltic Venturer, had sailed to Wilhelmshaven. From what he had learned from their files, Thorn and Gray would not abandon the chase. Not when they were hot on the scent.

Reichardt considered his options carefully, and then made several phone calls. The first was to his security team leader in Wilhelmshaven.

There would be no subtlety this time. The time was too short. This time he would demand certainty.

Heinz Steinhof alternated between pacing up and down Weserstrasse and standing across the street from the Port Authority office.

It was late in the afternoon, but he couldn’t bet on the two Americans arriving today-or ever. In fact, for all he knew, they’d already come and gone, and his men would be watching and waiting until the end of time.

Which they would, or at least until Reichardt told them to stop.

Reichardt’s phone call earlier that afternoon had surprised Steinhof.

The security team was almost through with its job of “sanitizing” the temporary Caraco export office in Wilhelmshaven.

Two of his best operatives had already left for the United States. Now all their work had to be set aside so they could hunt for two American snoopers.

It wasn’t the job that bothered Steinhof. Find two people and kill them. Easy enough. He’d done it before.

When Reichardt had found him almost thirty years before, he’d been an unwilling conscript in the East German National People’s Army.

Steinhof had been working as an enforcer for a gambler in the barracks — something that had brought him to the attention of his military superiors, and, as it turned out, to the Stasi as well.

Reichardt had solved the People’s Army’s discipline problem by recruiting Steinhof for secret work himself.

In the years since, the ex-soldier had conducted many different missions for Reichardt — murders, assassinations, bombings, and smuggling operations of different kinds. Most had been dangerous.

All had been difficult.

But Reichardt had carefully planned and painstakingly researched all those assignments. It was the other man’s strength and safeguard. By the time Steinhof tightened a wire garrote around someone’s neck, he not only knew the perfect time and place to do it, but why the garrote was better than the knife or the gun.

Now, though, all he had to work with were a pair of names and two photos — faxed once and then faxed again, growing muddier with each transmission. Reichardt apparently knew nothing about when this Thorn and Gray would arrive in the city, or indeed, if they would come at all. It was unsettling, but Steinhof knew better than to press his superior for more information. Men who called Rolf Ulrich Reichardt’s imperfections to his attention tended to have short life spans.

At least, he knew the two Americans would be seeking news of the Baltic Venturer. That gave a focus to Steinhof’s surveillance plan.

With just six men left, counting himself, the ex-Stasi agent could only cover the Port Authority office and the Customs House. But that should be enough. Assuming they came to Wilhelmshaven at all, the Americans would have to go to one or the other if they were interested in information about Baltic Venturer.

Steinhof glanced down at the pictures he still held in his hands.

Reichardt had warned him to handle this man and woman with care. And their records made it clear that they were deadly close-combat fighters.

He smiled thinly. If he and his men did their jobs right, the two Americans would never realize they were in a fight — not until that last instant before the light and life faded from their eyes.

Helen Gray took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Wilhelmshaven’s salt-scented air and trying to wake herself up. The fortyeight hours since she and Peter Thorn had ditched their ride home to the States had been a blur of short-haul plane flights, long train rides, and restless sleep snatched wherever and whenever possible.

After flying back into Berlin from Bergen, they’d passed what little was left of last night in a tourist hostel in one of the German capital’s cheaper districts. This morning they’d hopped the first passenger train heading here. They’d left their bags in a locker at the Wilhelmshaven train station. Neither of them wanted to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary.

She caught Peter suppressing a yawn of his own and nudged him gently.

“You up for this? Or do you want a nap first?”

He shrugged. “Aged, ancient, and weary as I am, I think I can hobble on, Miss Gray. How about you?”

Helen shook her head, checking her pockets for the fake business cards that identified her as an American journalist named Susan Anderson.

Satisfied, she squared her shoulders and led the way across the street.

The Port Authority office occupied the entire ground floor of a commercial building on the south side of the Weserstrasse. Inquiries at the front counter finally produced a drab brunette named Fraulein Geiss, who spoke enough English to answer their questions.

The German woman tapped the counter impatiently. “How may I help you, Fraulein Anderson?”

Helen did all the talking again. “We’re looking for information on a Wilhelmshaven-registered ship, Baltic Venturer. Specifically, the dates of her last arrival and departure, where she docked, and what cargo she carried.”

The brunette studied Helen’s business card curiously. “You are a reporter, yes?”

“That’s right.” Helen nodded.

“May I ask, why do you want this information?”

“Of course.” Helen smiled politely. “We’re doing research for a business news story on the North Sea trade — analyzing the effects of the new open markets in Russia and Eastern Europe. I’m especially interested in seeing how the growing competition from former Soviet bloc merchant ships is affecting established Western routes and customer relationships …” She watched the German woman’s eyes glazing over and hid a smile. Answering potentially awkward questions with a flood of information — all of it boring — was often an effective way to make sure no more awkward questions were asked.

After several more seconds, Fraulein Geiss held up her hand.

“Enough, please, Fraulein Anderson. I understand your need.

Allow me to check for you.”

The German woman turned to a computer mounted on the counter and typed in a few lines. Numbers and letters flashed onto her screen. “Ja, we have that ship in our database.” She tapped the screen with a pen.

“She arrived six days ago on the fifth — and docked at S43.”

Helen leaned over the counter. “Is the ship still in port?”

Fraulein Geiss entered another code and studied the new set of symbols on her monitor. She shook her head. “No. She sailed again on the seventh-bound for Portsmouth in England.”

“Can you tell us what cargo she offloaded?” Helen asked, quickly scribbling the ship’s berth and her arrival and departure times on a notepad.

The German woman shook her head stiffly. “I do not have this information. That is not our function here. You must obtain that from the Customs Office.”

Helen thought fast for a moment. There were three possibilities facing them. First, that the crew of the Baltic Venturer had unloaded her cargo of contraband jet engines here in Wilhelmshaven.

Second, that she’d carried them away with her on the next leg of her journey. Or, the third possibility: that whoever controlled the engines had shifted them to another vessel — just as they’d apparently done in Bergen.

She flipped to another page of her notebook. “Do you have some way to find out what other ships were berthed next to her while she was in port?”

“Of course.” Fraulein Geiss nodded humorlessly, apparently a bit nettled that an American reporter would doubt the efficiency of the Wilhelmshaven Port Authority office.

This time the German woman produced two lists. One was for S42, the berth to port of the Venturer. The other was for S44, to starboard.

S44 had been empty when the Baltic Venturer arrived, but a “reefer,” a refrigerated cargo ship, had steamed in the next day.

She’d unloaded her goods for the next three.

S42, the portside berth, had been busier. A container ship, the Caraco Savannah, had been moored there, but she’d left almost immediately.

Another ship had taken her place later that same day, taken on cargo, and then sailed right after Baltic Venturer on the seventh.

Fraulein Geiss waited until Helen’s pen stopped moving. “Is that all, Fraulein Anderson?”

Helen smiled at the dour woman. “That’s all, Fraulein. But I do want to thank you for your time and effort.” She put a hand on her pocketbook.

The German shook her head primly. “Such thanks are not necessary. I do my work, that is all. Now, if you will excuse me … “Of course,” Helen said. “So the Customs House is …” She produced the pocket map they’d picked up at the train station’s tourist kiosk.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Fraulein Geiss circled the location for her.

From across the Weserstrasse, Heinz Steinhof watched the serious-looking man and pretty woman emerge from the Port Authority office. They stood on the pavement, studying something the woman held in her hands. A map?

He turned to the big, darkhaired young man beside him. “You were right to signal me, Bekker. This looks promising.”

Sepp Bekker grunted in reply. Steinhof had recruited him several years ago from the dissolving ranks of East Germany’s Border Command. Bekker was just short of two meters tall, with broad, almost.Slavic, features.

He was in his early thirties, strong, quick, and utterly without principles. He also had wild tastes, evidenced by the cobra’s head tattoo that peered over the edge of his shirt collar.

The ex-border guard bragged about his tattoos whenever he could — idly boasting to his fellows that he had one for every would-be escapee he’d shot before the Berlin Wall crumbled.

Steinhof thought he needed seasoning.

Steinhof himself was almost as tall as the younger man, but his own hair had turned silver and he kept it close-cropped. A casual observer might mistake the two of them for father and son, but the older man’s face held more intelligence than the young, tattooed thug’s ever would.

The two Americans had turned away now — walking west toward the Customs House.

“Wait here.”

Bekker nodded, settling back into the shadow of the building.

Staying on his side of the street, Steinhof passed them at a rapid clip, then crossed over at the next intersection. This close to the end of the working day, there was plenty of foot traffic, and he was one of a half dozen others waiting at the light when the two Americans reached it.

He studied them carefully at close range — making sure he stayed out of their direct line of vision. No doubt about it. These two were the quarry Reichardt had assigned him Thorn and Gray in the flesh and within easy reach.

Steinhof shifted slightly on the balls of his feet. He could feel the weight of the Walther P5 Compact hidden by his jacket.

There they were, less than two meters away, totally unaware and unguarded. He had the sudden urge to draw his pistol and kill them now, here, immediately.

The urge passed.

Murder on a public street in broad daylight was far too risky.

No matter how badly he wanted these Americans dead, Reichardt would not thank him for getting himself locked up by the police.

Steinhof lagged further and further behind Thorn and Gray — watching as they turned off the sunlit street and entered the Customs House. He spotted the man he’d placed outside the building and casually signaled him over. Their watching and waiting were over. It was time to begin setting the stage for the last act in the two Americans’ lives.

Holding the heavily laden tray in both hands, Colonel Peter Thorn carefully maneuvered his way through the crowded, noisy tables at the little outdoor restaurant overlooking the Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz — a small park separated from the Wilhelmshaven waterfront by a few short blocks. Across the way, a stern statue of Kaiser Wilhelm seemed to stare disapprovingly down at the frivolous antics of his former subjects. When they weren’t busy working, Wilhelmshaven’s citizens indulged their three favorite pastimes — eating, drinking, and boating.

Thorn neatly dodged an overweight German businessman with an overflowing beer stein exuberantly making a point to his dining companions and sat down across from Helen Gray.

With a dramatic flourish, he waved a hand over the tray he’d set between them. “Two coffees, madam. Black. No cream. No sugar. And for nourishment — a delicious assortment of breads, cheeses, and hard salami.”

A twinkle crept into Helen’s eyes — replacing the hunted, worried expression he’d seen all too often since they’d cut out on their own.

She reached for one of the coffees. “You do show me the nicest places, Peter. I’ve got to say this is exactly how I dreamed of taking the grand European tour.”

Thorn grinned back. “Touch.”

Helen put her cup down and started paging through the information they’d gathered at the Customs House. The types of cargo carried by ships entering and leaving German ports were a matter of public record — although the owners, final destinations, and tonnage remained closely held proprietary data. She shook her head, clearly frustrated by something.

“What’s the problem?” Thorn asked.

“This.” Helen slid the page she’d just read — a copy of the cargo manifest for the Baltic Venturer — across the table to him.

“According to that, the ship wasn’t carrying jet engines. Not one.”

She frowned. “Could she have stopped somewhere else between Bergen and here?”

Thorn scanned the form himself and shook his own head. “I don’t think so. Her last port of call is listed here. And it was Bergen.” He pointed to a line halfway down the page.

“Then where the hell are Serov’s engines?”

Thorn couldn’t see them listed anywhere on the sheet, either.

According to German customs, the Baltic Venturer’s cargo consisted entirely of timber, paper pulp, and titanium scrap.

His mouth twisted downward. Had the Norwegian dockworker in Bergen sold them a bill of goods? Had the man just made up a story to please a pretty American woman reporter?

Were he and Helen really just on some kind of self-inflicted snipe hunt?

He rubbed his jaw, still studying the cargo form. “The engines could have been brought in covertly. Maybe they weren’t reported to customs at all,” he speculated.

“Possibly,” Helen acknowledged.

Thorn nodded, as much to himself as to her. “Look, I’d rather believe a human being than a piece of paper. Karl Syverstad was damned positive when he described those crates he saw shifted from the Star of the White Sea to the Venturer. Dozens of ships go in and out of this port every week. How much time do customs inspectors really have to dot every I and cross every T on these forms, anyway?

“Not much,” Helen said slowly.

“What else have we got?” Thorn asked.

She pushed over the rest of the forms.

Three other ships had been berthed alongside the Baltic Venturer at one time or another during her stay in Wilhelmshaven.

The reefer moored at S44 had carried beef from Argentina as its sole cargo. The first of the two ships anchored at S42, the Caraco Savannah, had brought in iron ore and bauxite — and she’d left carrying automobiles and auxiliary electric generators. The second had arrived empty, and then sailed with a cargo of machine tools.

Not much help there.

Thorn slid the papers back to Helen’s side of the table. “Say the engines aren’t listed anywhere on those forms. Where does that leave us?”

She looked up from the notes she’d taken at the Port Authority office.

“Looking hard at Caraco Savannah, I think.”

“Why?”

“Because she left Wilhelmshaven roughly three hours after Baltic Venturer pulled in,” Helen argued. “The pattern’s the same one we found in Bergen. Bring the contraband in, off load it right away, and get it back out of port before anyone official starts poking around.”

“Easy to say, but damned hard to prove. It’s just as likely those jet engines were offloaded straight into a truck,” Thorn countered.

Helen’s theory made sense to him, but playing devil’s advocate was the best way he knew to make sure they stayed on track.

They were trying to analyze this situation with far too few solid facts — something he found akin to playing pin the tail on the donkey in a pitchblack room you weren’t even sure had a donkey in it. Their training taught them to be intuitive, to look for links and hidden relationships. But their training also taught them the need to confirm hunches with hard evidence. So where was that confirmation?

While Helen riffled through the customs forms, Thorn sat back in his chair-trying different pieces of the puzzle in different combinations.

Suddenly she looked up at him. “Baltic Venturer was carrying titanium scrap, right?”

“Right.”

“Don’t jet engines contain a lot of titanium?” Helen said slowly.

The light dawned. “They just changed the label! Jesus, it’s simple.

Grease a palm somewhere and one tiny line changes on one lousy form.”

“And then changes again when the engines are transferred for the second time?” Helen asked.

“Maybe,” Thorn said. He pulled the customs forms back again.

“Let’s take a closer look at exactly what the Caraco Savannah was carrying when she left port.”

This time it stood out like a sore thumb. The remarks column of the German manifest described the “auxiliary electric generators” more fully as gas turbines.

Helen followed his pointing finger. “A jet engine could also be called a kind of gas turbine, couldn’t it?”

“Yep,” Thorn agreed. He scanned the report again. “Now let’s see where she was taking those generators.”

He was silent for a moment, then turned his head to look directly at Helen. “Galveston. Whatever Serov and his boys put in those engines, it’s headed for the U.S.”

Helen stared back at him. “Christ, Peter. If that ship sailed on the fifth, she could already be close to the States right now.”

Thorn nodded grimly, considering the possibility that a freighter might be drawing ever nearer to the U.S. with a smuggled Russian nuke on board.

“We’ve got to call this in, Peter,” Helen said flatly.

“Yeah.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after quitting time on the docks. And we’re going to need confirmation before Washington will take any action. We’ve got to find somebody who saw those crates shifted from ship to ship with his own eyes. Somebody who’ll swear to it under oath, if it comes to that.”

Helen nodded. “So we go pub crawling again?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.” Thorn drained his cold coffee in one gulp and stood up. “In a tearing hurry, Helen. I’ve got a really bad feeling that we’re running against the clock now.”

The last light was fading across the Jadebusen by the time they settled on a likely spot to begin their search — a waterfront bar close to berth S43 named Zur Alten Cafe The bar turned out to be one large room laid out with long tables running almost its entire length. What little light made it through the smoke was soaked up by the dark paneling and dark wood floors. Knots of men sat close together at the tables, eating from plates piled high with food and drinking from massive glass beer steins.

Helen Gray stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking as she felt her eyes starting to smart from all the cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

She was instantly aware that once again she was the only woman in the whole place, and that her light colored business suit stood out like a beacon against the rough, oil-stained work clothes worn by the longshoremen crowding the room. Even Peter’s jeans and sweatshirt looked out of place in here.

She slipped through the crowd to the bar itself, aware of Peter pushing right behind her. The bartender spoke only a little English, enough to understand that she was American and that she was interested in a “schiff”—a ship. Anything more complicated faded into mutual incomprehensibility.

Helen swung around as one of the other patrons, an older, silver-haired man, came to her rescue.

“Excuse me, please, but I speak a little English. May I help you?” he asked, speaking loudly over the hubbub in the packed room.

Helen turned on the charm, favoring the German with a dazzling smile.

“That would be wonderful, Herr …?”

The silver-haired man smiled back. “Steinhof. Heinz Steinhof.”

He listened intently to her explanation, but held up a hand as soon as she mentioned berth S43 and the Baltic Venturer. “I am a supervisor for cargo, but that is not one of my berths. However, my friend Zangen handles that area of the harbor. He is a meticulous and thorough man.

So I am sure that he would remember this ship and what she loaded and unloaded.”

“Where can we find Herr Zangen?” Helen asked. “Is he here this evening?”

Steinhof seemed amused. “Zangen?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. Fritz Zangen is a most responsible man — a family man. He will be at home with his wife and children at this hour.”

Damn. Helen hid her disappointment. “Is there any way we can contact Herr Zangen? Perhaps make an appointment to speak with him? Tonight, if possible?”

“This is a matter of some urgency, then, Fraulein Anderson?” the older German asked, clearly curious now.

“It is, I’m afraid.”

Steinhof looked at his watch and seemed to consider something.

Then he looked up. “Zangen and his family live close by.

Why don’t I take you to his apartment myself? I’ am certain he would not mind.”

“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble.” The silver-haired man shook his head. “Less beer for me tonight means less fat here tomorrow,” he said, patting his stomach.

“Come.” Steinhof gestured toward the door. “A ten-minute walk and then you can ask Zangen all your questions.”

With a nod to the bartender, the two Americans followed Steinhof out of the door. He immediately turned north, away from the waterfront.

This close to sunset the traffic was heavy along Banter Weg Strasse, but they soon turned off onto a smaller street, Bremer, and then a still smaller one, Kruger. The car and foot traffic thinned with each turning. Most of Wilhelmshaven had been leveled by American B-17 bombers trying to hit Nazi sub pens during World War II. Now they were in a part of the city that had not been bombed out or reconstructed, and the streets twisted and curved. The buildings were older, too — sometimes in need of work, but more often neat and well maintained.

They crossed into a residential area — mostly larger nineteenthcentury town houses that had been broken up into flats — and it was getting difficult to keep their bearings. Helen made the effort, though, because it would be dark by the time they finished talking to Steinhof’s friend.

She spotted a man following them while craning her head around to double-check a landmark for later reference. He was tall, darkhaired, and no more than twenty feet behind them.

She’d caught him in the midst of turning his own head-swinging around to look back the way they’d just come.

Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She knew exactly what the stranger was doing. She’d done it herself on a dozen different close surveillance assignments. The man behind them was making sure they weren’t being followed.

Her gaze swept out in an instant — tightly focused on the area around them. Shit. Besides the big man behind, there were at least three others. Two were out in front, strolling casually while conversing.

The third was across the street, easily keeping pace with them while pretending to read the evening paper.

She and Peter were caught in a moving, ready-made ambush — pinned in plain view. She grimaced, angry at herself for getting sloppy. After Pechenga, she should have realized that paranoia was the only sane course.

The only other person in sight was well behind them and across the street — an old woman tottering homeward under the weight of a single grocery bag. No help there. They were on their own.

Helen turned her head forward. Peter was a little ahead, still chatting with the ever-talkative Steinhof. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the seemingly helpful German had set them up.

How he’d known where they would be wasn’t important. Not at the moment. What mattered most was where she and Peter were being led now.

She took an extra half step forward, catching up with the two men, and slipped her arm through Peter’s. After a few more steps, she casually laid her head on his shoulder. He glanced down at her.

“Trap. Box pattern,” Helen whispered softly. “Four, plus Steinhof.”

She felt Peter stiffen momentarily, then his hand slipped down into hers and squeezed.

Steinhof turned his head toward her, still smiling. “You said something, Fraulein Anderson?”

“Just that it was awfully nice of you to bring us all this way, Herr Steinhof,” Helen lied, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

Their guide smiled broadly. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you. We in Wilhelmshaven pride ourselves on treating our visitors as honored guests.”

Helen gritted her teeth. Somehow she doubted that the average tourist was slated for a bullet in the back of the skull and a quick, anonymous burial somewhere out in the North Sea. It was agony to walk casually down the street, knowing that they were in the jaws of a trap that might close at any moment.

Peter let her hand go, but not before exerting a gentle pressure against her palm — pushing her back behind him. He was getting ready to move.

Helen dropped back half a pace.

Steinhof nodded to a narrow, dimly lit side street just ahead.

“There we are. Zangen and his family live only a few doors down.”

The two men pacing them in front turned left and headed down that street — disappearing around the corner. Helen tensed.

They must be nearly in the planned kill zone.

Thorn saw the first two men vanish around the corner. For the next several seconds, it would be two against three — instead of five. They weren’t going to get a better chance. He spun toward Steinhof, yelling, “Now!”

Helen whirled toward the man following right behind them and disappeared out of Thorn’s field of view.

Despite being taken off guard, Steinhof blocked his first strike easily — sweeping it away with his left arm. And then the German’s own right hand flickered out — as quick as a striking serpent.

Christ! Thorn yanked his head aside, feeling displaced air slap him in the face as Steinhof’s rigid palm flashed right past the bridge of his nose. A fraction of an inch closer and he would have been dead.

Attack followed attack, and parry followed parry, all in a dizzying blur of instinctive actions and reactions, too fast for conscious thought. A second passed. Another.

Thorn drifted toward the street, sweeping his open left hand in defensive circles — ready to strike with his right the instant he saw an opening. The other man mirrored his movements. Part of Thorn’s brain knew that he was running out of time and options fast. He had to move — to break clear before the rest of the ambush team closed in. But he didn’t dare leave Steinhof alive and whole behind him. The German was deadly at close quarters.

Helen Gray sprinted straight toward the big, darkhaired man who’d been tailing them. He was already reaching under his coat for a weapon. No time for anything fancy, then. Just close the distance and pray … She slammed straight into the younger German’s stomach. It was like hitting a concrete wall. His arms tightened around her waist and heaved.

Helen felt herself being lifted off the ground and thrown toward a parked Audi. She curled into a ball in midair, hit the side door, and rolled away — aware of the fire running all down her side and left leg.

She scrambled to one knee and froze, staring into the big man’s drawn Walther P5 pistol. He was barely a foot away — so close she could smell the sweat on him and see the tattooed cobra’s head poking above his shirt collar.

He smiled nastily at her and tightened his finger on the trigger.”

“Wiedersehen, schon Fraulein—” Helen chopped at her attacker’s hand, knocking the pistol away just as it fired. A 9mm slug tore into the pavement by her knee and screamed away. Before the big German could pull his weapon back on line, she struck again — this time aiming for his empty left hand.

She jammed her fingers into the fold of skin between the darkhaired man’s left thumb and index finger, and-squeezed, crushing the nerve ending there with every ounce of strength. Her left hand gripped the wrist of the hand holding his pistol.

The tattooed German’s eyes opened wide in shock and agony as he screamed.

Using her grip as a lever, she rose from her knees — simultaneously forcing the screaming man downward. His broad, flat-featured face bent closer.

Now!

Helen shoved his weapon hand out of the way, spun back, and then drove her left elbow straight into his nose with all her might. She felt the crunch as shards of sharp-edged cartilage speared upward and into his brain. He dropped like a stone and lay facedown in a spreading pool of blood.

Thorn tried another strike, felt Steinhof’s left arm drive him off target, and gave ground. The older German countered instantly — driving in with lightning speed, aiming for his throat this time. He blocked it and fell back further.

Steinhof followed, still attacking — hammering against his defenses, probing for that one weak spot that would let a killing blow slip through.

Thorn deflected another strike with his left arm and felt the German’s jacket brush past his open fingertips. He grabbed desperately, curling his hand around the other man’s sleeve. Cloth tore through his fingers as Steinhof wrenched the arm out of his grip.

But for an instant, the older man staggered off balance, open, and vulnerable. Thorn lashed out — throwing his entire weight into the attack. His palm slammed heel-first into Steinhof’s forehead.

Blood sprayed out of the German’s nose and eyes as his brain ruptured under the massive impact. He crumpled to the pavement — dead before he even finished falling.

Recovering quickly, Thorn spun around, heading toward Helen.

The whole melee had lasted less than ten seconds.

Helen looked up and saw Peter sprinting toward her … Crack!

And ducked as safety glass sprayed through the air from the shattered windshield of a parked car. The third German in Steinhof’s ambush party — the one flanking them from across the street-had his pistol out and was shooting.

Bent low, Peter raced up to her. “Let’s move! Move!”

Still breathless, Helen scrambled up and took off down the street the way they’d come — crouching to keep the row of cars between her and the gunman. She could hear more shouts behind her. The rest of Steinhof’s team must have finally tumbled to the fact that their plan had gone sour. She also saw the little old lady standing rigid with shock, spilled groceries jumbled at her feet. The woman was pointing straight at them — screaming something in high-pitched, frantic German.

Another pistol round tore past her head — showering brick dust and fragments across the pavement.

They rounded a corner and kept running, faster now. There were no more shots.

Two more corners brought them out onto a major street — Bismarckstrasse.

Mercedes, Flats, Audis, and Volkswagens roared past in both directions.

After snapping a quick look back in the direction they’d come, Peter flagged down a passing cab and bundled Helen inside.

He rapped on the partition separating them from the driver.

“The Bahnhofi Schnell, bitte!” Then he swung around to face her. “You okay?” Still breathing hard, Helen nodded.

“You’re sure?” Peter persisted. Truth be told, her left leg hurt like hell. The sudden explosion of violent hand-to-hand combat had strained her old injury. But she was alive.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “What about you? Who the hell was that guy Steinhof?”

He grimaced. “Definitely pro.”

“You think we should leave Wilhelmshaven …” Helen let her voice trail off.

He nodded again, still grim-faced. “Yeah. Don’t you?”

Helen ran over the events of the last few minutes in her mind.

They’d left two men lying dead in the street. Plus, they’d left a witness — the elderly German woman — whose testimony was bound to indicate that she and Peter had made the first hostile moves in the brief, bloody confrontation. She frowned. “You don’t trust the German police?”

“Not much. Not under the circumstances.” Peter looked out at the brightly lit buildings flashing past. “It might take days to clear up exactly what happened. And I don’t think we have many days left. Even if the embassy managed to spring us sooner, home we’d go, under airtight security this time — looking like fools.”

“Plus, we know there are still at least three of those bastards alive out there — alive and looking for us,” Helen said slowly.

“And they’ll be waiting for us out at the docks.”

The cab stopped in front of the busy, bustling train station, and they hurried inside to retrieve their bags from the lockers.

The next train for Berlin wasn’t due to leave for another few hours — far too long to loiter inconspicuously, even on the crowded station concourse. Instead they hopped the first train out — one headed for Hannover.

By the time the Wilhelmshaven police started interviewing witnesses, they were rolling south at eighty kilometers per hour.