Day of Wrath

CHAPTER FOURTEEN POWER PLAYS

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

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

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

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

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

“Take a pew, Michelito.”

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

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

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

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

“Well, that would make it easier, of course. But I’m quite serious. I’d be very proud to have you on my team.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helen nodded.

“Then I’m just doing my sworn and solemn duty,” Stroud continued. “Nobody could fault me for that, could they?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was apparently the story,” Preston admitted.

“And you let them do this?”

The White House Chief of Staff shook his own head. “We didn’t let anybody do anything, Dick. Hell, this was an FBI operation. They don’t clear that stuff with us. Christ, I didn’t even know anything about it until you got on the horn!”

Garrett asked, “So John, you mind telling me precisely what this rogue FBI raid on one of my client’s legitimate business enterprises turned up?”

Preston looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well?” Garrett pressed.

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

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

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

“Not exactly.”

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

“Let me see if I add this up right, John: Acting on some wild-assed story about a blackmarket nuke, the FBI raids a warehouse leased by a respectable international corporation. A corporation that’s been damned generous to this president and his party. A corporation headed by a Saudi prince who’s known far and wide as a loyal friend of the United States, for Christ’s sake! Jesus, the President himself sat down for coffee with Prince Ibrahim just a couple of weeks ago! You with me so far?”

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

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

“Does that about sum it up, John?”

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

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

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

Preston colored. “Jesus, Dick. What the hell do you expect me to do? I run the White House staff. I don’t run the Department of Justice or the Bureau. They’re out of my bailiwick.”

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

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

“The FBI Director?” Garrett shook his head. “Use your brains, John. Leiter likes his job. Hell, he loves his job. But he’s got five or six congressional committees gunning for him right now. You think he’s going to want the White House piling on, too?”

“Maybe not.”

The former Commerce Secretary shook his head mournfully.

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

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

Garrett chuckled. “That Caraco employees decided to smuggle a nuclear weapon into Texas?” He laughed again, more scornfully this time. “I mean, think about it, John. The FBI’s all hot to trot. and why? Because some of our people got a little overzealous when they cleaned the place up before turning it over to the next tenants. Boy, that sure sounds like a criminal conspiracy to me …”

“I see your point,” Preston said slowly. “Put that way …”

Garrett nodded. “I suggest you do put it that way, John. Exactly that way.” He reached for his briefcase — conscious of another job well done. Prince Ibrahim al Saud paid him well to run interference for Caraco’s business operations in America, and the lawyer-lobbyist believed strongly in providing money value for.

The Special Agent Steve Sanchez grabbed the phone on the second ring, narrowly missing a teetering pile of reports. He’d flown back from Galveston only half an hour before, and he was still trying to dig down to the surface of his desk. “Sanchez.”

“This is Leiter,” the brusque voice on the other end said.

As in Director of the FBI David Leiter, Sanchez realized. He sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you alone?”

Still holding the phone, Sanchez moved around his desk and closed his office door. “I am now, sir.”

“Good.” Leiter took a deep breath. “Agent Sanchez, do you have any — and I mean, any — hard evidence of wrongdoing inside that Caraco Transport warehouse?”

“Not yet, sir,” Sanchez said. Hadn’t the Director read his latest report?

“Then I’m ordering you to close down your probe. Pull all your people off the case and inform the Galveston police that we’ve determined there’s no basis for any further investigation.”

Sanchez couldn’t hide his surprise. “What? You call an EMPTY QUIVER and then cancel it just two days later?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Agent Sanchez,” Leiter said. “Shut it down and send every scrap of paper and computer disk you’ve generated to this office immediately.”

Sanchez sat down, still stunned by the order he’d just received.

The Bureau lived on procedures and regulations, and the Director’s instructions bordered on the illegal. He felt pulled in two directions at the same time. Part of him, the “good soldier” half, just wanted to shut up and do as he was told. The other side, the stubborn truth-seeker that made him a topnotch detective, wanted to demand an explanation.

Leiter must have sensed, or guessed, his indecision. “I can’t tell you much, Agent Sanchez, but it appears that we’ve stumbled into a hornet’s nest here. Caraco has a lot of friends in very high places — and none of them are very happy with what we’re doing.”

The Director’s voice dropped a level.

“The universal word I’m getting — from the Agency, the White House, and the Attorney General’s office — is that we’re barking up the wrong tree. Nobody believes Caraco would involve itself in any illegal activity, let alone something of this magnitude. And frankly, I think the source that triggered this EMPTY QUIVER is highly suspect. I’m tracking that back with the J.S.O.C myself.”

“Sir, I—” Sanchez said.

“The bottom line, Special Agent,” Leiter interrupted, “is that this investigation is more trouble than it’s worth. Without good, solid evidence of wrongdoing, we’re walking a high wire without a net. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I understand that somebody at Caraco is pulling some high-priced strings,” Sanchez said bitterly. He tamped down his temper. This was the perfect end to a perfect couple of days, but blowing up at the Director of the FBI wouldn’t be wise, polite, or career enhancing.

“Then you apprehend the situation perfectly,” Leiter replied. “So close it up, and call me when the material is on its way.”

Sanchez acknowledged and hung up. He paced back and forth in his tiny office, counting to ten, then counting again. Should he obey the order or not? If he really believed Caraco Transport had slipped a nuke into the U.S the answer was obvious. He’d have to disobey the Director — even at the cost of his own career.

But did he really believe that?

The FBI agent considered what he’d learned. The news that Leiter considered the EMPTY QUIVER source tainted wasn’t very reassuring. It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody had tried using the FBI to stick a shiv in a rival corporation’s ribs.

Was that what was going on here? What if Caraco Transport had only cleaned out its warehouse so thoroughly to protect some sort of trade secret? That seemed rather thin, but then so did everything else about this crazy case.

Sanchez grimaced. He just didn’t know enough. And that being the case, he decided to obey orders. Ultimately, Leiter was the boss, and it was his call. If the FBI Director didn’t think investigating Caraco more thoroughly was worth the price of admission, Sanchez would just have to trust his superior’s judgment.

“They’re shutting the Galveston investigation down?” Farrell said incredulously, staring across the table at the CIA analyst he’d invited to lunch.

Mark Podolski nodded. “I wish I’d known sooner what you were up to, Sam. I would’ve headed you off at the pass before you went galloping off to Fort Bragg.” He took a slug from his diet cola before explaining. “Caraco has connections all over town.

So when the FBI hit that warehouse, their top guy in D.C. started screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. And believe me when Dick Garrett gets pissed, the White House listens.”

“You think I jumped the gun?”

Podolski nodded. “Yeah.” He drank more of his soda. “I ran the data you gave me past my team. They all agree. There’s not enough solid stuff there to support the conclusion that somebody inside Caraco has his hands on a Russian nuke.”

Farrell pondered that. Podolski was one of Langley’s best analysts.

He never papered over holes in the data or ignored anomalies.

“So you don’t think anything strange is going on?”

The CIA officer shook his head. “I didn’t say that, Sam.” He folded his napkin and laid it beside the mostly untouched meal on his plate.

“There is a funny pattern there. And I buy the premise that those Su-24 engines were retagged and transshipped all over Europe — and probably into Galveston. But I just don’t see the motive for Caraco to smuggle nukes. If anything, the company’s Russian weapons subsidiary, Arms Export, may be doing a little aviation side business they’d like to keep quiet.”

Farrell frowned. “What about the possibility that those engines contained heroin?”

“That’s certainly more conceivable,” Podolski admitted. Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But I can tell you one thing for certain: Whether it’s drugs or nukes, I don’t think it’s something Caraco’s top echelon knows about.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

“Do you know much about Caraco, Sam?” the CIA analyst asked.

“Not as much as I’d like,” Farrell said. He nodded toward the cooling plateful of food in front of Podolski. “That’s why I’m picking up the tab at this fancy diner, Mark.”

Podolski looked down at his uneaten pasta, then continued.

“Well, the head honcho is a guy named Ibrahim al Saud he’s literally a prince, a member of the Saudi royal family. And he’s down in our books as a straight shooter.”

“A Saudi prince?” Farrell shook his head and frowned. He’d paid a number of official visits to Saudi Arabia as head of J.S.O.C.

Some of his contacts with the royal family there had left a bad taste in his mouth. A few of the princes were energetic. A great many more were either indolent or just amiably corrupt.

“Ibrahim’s not typical,” Podolski insisted. “I pulled up his dossier before I came here. He’s sharp, shrewd, and tough.

Caraco’s his baby from start to finish. Together with all its subsidiaries, the company’s probably worth somewhere on the order of ten to fifteen billion dollars. He’s not going to rock the boat to smuggle in heroin.”

“And he’s prowestern?”

“Totally,” Podolski said. “He ran a little close to the radical edge as a university student at Cairo, but his family straightened him out — sent him off to Oxford, and then to business school at Harvard. Since then, he’s been a consistent supporter of our interests.”

The CIA analyst idly poked at his pasta dish with a fork and then looked up. “Look, I wouldn’t invite Ibrahim to an Israel Bonds fund-raiser, but he’s a solid guy otherwise. There was even a rumor a couple of years ago that one of the homegrown Saudi terrorist movements had him on a death list.”

Farrell sat up straighter. “Rumor? Or fact?”

“Nothing ever happened. But just in case, he’s built up a pretty reliable little private security force — mostly out of the best troops in the Saudi Royal Army. I’m telling you, Sam, Ibrahim al Saud is not your mysterious Mr. X smuggler.”

Farrell pushed his own virtually untouched plate away. “Okay, I see what you mean. But if Ibrahim hasn’t got a motive to run drugs or nukes into the U.S who else in his company does?”

Podolski shrugged. “You tried the backdoor route with Mayer and the FBI and wound up with nothing. This time, why not just knock on the front door and ask? Caraco has an office in downtown D.C. If somebody on their payroll is padding his salary by running a smuggling operation, they’re gonna want to find the guy and shut him down before it hits the front pages and sends the shareholders screaming for the exits.” Farrell nodded slowly. What the CIA analyst said made sense.

Why not give Caraco’s top management the information they needed to track down their own bad apples?

Prince Ibrahim al Saud surveyed the busy room — one of the two large working spaces in the building’s basement — with a measure of satisfaction. Desks and computer consoles filled the center of the room, and all four walls were lined with maps — maps of the entire United States and detailed plans of individual cities and towns. Most of the activity right now centered on a giant black-and-white weather map.

He watched closely as the planning cell’s meteorologist began updating the chart with the next day’s predicted weather. Until now, the former East German Air Force meteorology officer had only been able to provide statistical information. Now the man was dealing with near-term forecasts — ironically using data supplied by the U.S. National Weather Service.

Ibrahim swung around on Reichardt, who stood close by his shoulder.

“You’re sure that Major Schmidt can provide the accuracy we need?”

“Yes, Highness.” Reichardt shrugged. “But America is a vast country — with widely variable weather. It might be better if we could provide Schmidt with another qualified assistant for this last phase.”

Ibrahim considered that. The German’s suggestion was logical if a bit late in the game. For an instant, he wondered uneasily what else Reichardt had let slip while going after those interfering Americans, Thorn and Gray. “Very well. Assign one of the pilots. Who better to ensure that the major fully understands our requirements?”

Reichardt nodded.

Ibrahim turned back to check the work of the rest of his staff with a careful eye. Several of the computers were set to monitor the Internet and other information services continuously — constantly tracking the routine movements of American military forces and the operations of the major state and federal law enforcement agencies.

Members of the team evaluated the raw information they gathered at regular intervals — discarding any clearly irrelevant data immediately and sifting the rest for any news that might affect his master plan.

“Highness, a phone call has been forwarded from the estate,” announced the clipped, British-accented voice of Hashemi, his chief private secretary. “Mr. Garrett is on line one.”

Ibrahim grunted a reply and waved Reichardt over to one of the other phones so that he could listen in. Whatever news Garrett had would surely be of interest to both of them.

Ibrahim lifted the phone in front of him. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to trouble you again so soon, Your Highness,” Garrett said smoothly. “But I’ve just had a very interesting call from a retired Army officer. He claims to have important information about this supposed large-scale smuggling ring operating through some of our subsidiaries.”

Ibrahim turned away from the planning cell. “Oh? Who is that?”

“A Major General Samuel B. Farrell, Highness. He headed the Joint Special Operations Command until a year or so ago.”

Ibrahim exchanged a significant glance with Reichardt. Now they knew who Thorn had used as a conduit to the American authorities. He cleared his throat. “This is interesting news, Richard. I suggest you invite General Farrell to your office this evening to discuss his information.”

Garrett hesitated. “Are you sure that’s wise, Highness? We’ve already gone to considerable trouble to quash these rumors. Meeting Farrell may lend them unnecessary credence.”

Ibrahim shook his head, looking straight across at Reichardt.

“That’s a risk we must be willing to run, my friend. Rumors or not, these are extremely serious allegations. I don’t want to paper them over. Let’s act as the good corporate citizens that we are and offer General Farrell a fair hearing.”

Caraco’s Washington offices occupied the two top floors of a twelve-story building right in the city’s nerve center. The elevator only went up to the eleventh floor.

Sam Farrell stepped off and found himself confronted by both a receptionist and an armed security guard. The receptionist was a stunningly beautiful Asian-American woman.

The guard, with a crew cut and in his mid-thirties, looked like a professional — definitely a step above the usual moonlighting policeman or cop wannabe.

“Good evening, General Farrell,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Garrett is on the phone at the moment, I’m afraid. If you’ll wait in the lounge, I’ll let you know as soon as he’s free.” She indicated a door to the right.

The lounge was designed to impress visitors — and it worked.

One entire wall was glassed in, offering a spectacular view of the White House, the Washington Monument, and Lafayette Park. The taupe carpet was so thick that Farrell left footprints, and the other walls were covered with original oils by contemporary American artists — Hopper, Wyeth, Stella, and Thiebaud not the generic corporate prints for sale at office furniture stores.

Farrell had just started picking out landmarks in the city below when the receptionist appeared at the door. “Mr. Garrett can see you now, General.”

She led him through the reception area, through a pair of double doors, and then up a spiral staircase.

Garrett’s penthouse office had the same magnificent view. The man himself, white-haired and perfectly attired in a crisply tailored business suit, turned away from the window and strode over to greet him.

“I’m very glad to meet you, General Farrell,” the lawyer said. He gestured toward a small group of chairs clustered around a coffee table. “Please take a seat.”

Farrell followed him over and sat down. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Garrett. Especially under the circumstances.”’ The other man showed a set of perfect white teeth in a quick, humorless smile. “But the circumstances are what bring us together, General.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I can assure you that we take your allegations regarding Caraco Transport and its employees seriously — very seriously indeed. In fact, I’ve—” Suddenly, Garrett broke off and got to his feet, facing the spiral staircase. “Your Highness! This is an unexpected honor …”

Farrell turned his head and then followed suit.

A tall, slender man with jet-black hair and dark, hooded eyes had just appeared at the top of the stairs.

Garrett hurriedly introduced him. “Your Highness, I present Major General Farrell. General, this is His Highness, Prince Ibrahim al Saud, the chairman and chief executive officer of Caraco.”

The Saudi prince waved them down as he drew nearer.

“Please, sit down. I’m very sorry to interrupt.”

Another man followed him into Garrett’s office. He was about Farrell’s height and weight, with graying dark hair. Gray eyes gleamed behind a pair of black-frame glasses.

“General, this is Heinrich Wolf,” Ibrahim said, nodding toward the newcomer. “Herr Wolf is the chief of security for our European enterprises. I hope you don’t mind my including him in this meeting.”

“Not at all, sir.” Farrell held out his hand as Wolf stepped closer.

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt deliberately softened his grip as he shook hands with the retired American soldier. He wanted to project the image of a business executive or a bureaucrat. Or just another harmless paper pusher. Let Farrell think he was the only warrior in the room.

After they were all seated, Ibrahim leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Now, perhaps you could give us more details of these claims of yours, General Farrell. From what little I’ve heard, you’ve made some very grave charges against several of my subsidiary companies.”

Farrell nodded somberly. “That’s true, Your Highness. But I’m afraid there are very real indications that some of your people are involved in either illegal arms or narcotics smuggling …”

Reichardt listened carefully as the American outlined the evidence he must have been given by his protege Thorn and that damned woman FBI agent. Farrell’s version dovetailed reasonably well with the information already provided by Mcdowell.

Nevertheless, it was irksome to hear again in detail just how deeply his operational security had been breached.

When Farrell had finished, Ibrahim sat back, shaking his head in apparent dismay. “I see your point, General. This certainly looks bad.”

The Saudi turned toward Reichardt. “This unpleasant situation seems to fall mostly in your jurisdiction, Heinrich.

Do you have any comments or questions?”

Reichardt nodded. “One or two questions, Highness.” He looked intently at Farrell. “Your evidence seems compelling, General, but I would like to know the source of this information. Naturally, we need to verify its accuracy.”

Farrell answered him flatly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Herr Wolf. You’ll have to take my word that I consider my source unimpeachable.”

“I see.” Reichardt looked down at his fingertips. “I only wondered whether or not your source might be a man named Colonel Peter Thorn. I’ve studied the Russian police reports on the original Pechenga incident, and I know that the colonel served under your command just before you retired. The logic seemed inescapable. But then two and two do not always add to four in the human equation.” He looked up.

“Have you spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”

“No.” Farrell’s tone was steady and he looked Reichardt straight in the eye.

The German shrugged. “No matter.” He glanced at Ibrahim. “I assure you, Highness, if there is such a smuggling ring operating within our bounds, my men and I will ferret them out for you.”

“See that you do,” the Saudi said coolly.

Farrell cleared his throat. “Not that I want to interfere, Herr Wolf, but I’d like to know how exactly you intend to proceed. Now that you’ve been instrumental in pulling the FBI off the case, I mean.”

“A fair question,” Ibrahim commented. He smiled broadly in Reichardt’s direction. “What precisely are your plans for this investigation, Heinrich? This unimpeachable source of General Farrell’s already seems to have done half your work for you.”

Reichardt ignored the dig. “I’ve ordered Arrus Export’s Moscow office to cease all operations while we audit their accounts and question every employee. If one of our workers provided this Peterhof with his false Arrus credentials, I’ll have his skin.”

Ibrahim nodded his approval. “Good. I will not countenance corruption — anywhere.”

“Of course, Highness.”

“You should also contact the master of the Caraco Savannah. Tell him to hold his crew aboard ship once they dock in Wilhelmshaven. I want them all interrogated,” Ibrahim ordered.

“Sir.”

“And dispatch investigators to Bergen to try to pin down the connection between the cargoes carried by the Star of the White Sea and Baltic Venturer.”

“Of course, Highness,” Reichardt said.

Ibrahim glanced at Farrell. “I hope our plan of action meets with your approval, General.”

The American nodded. “It seems thorough enough, Your Highness, but …”

His voice trailed away.

“But you must still wonder why we asked your FBI to stop carrying out the same work?” Ibrahim finished for him.

Reichardt froze in his chair. The prince was playing dangerously close to the edge — too close for his own tastes.

“I prefer to clean up my own messes, General Farrell,” the Saudi continued. “You say that some of my people have abused my trust and engaged in a criminal conspiracy. If that is so, then I am ultimately at fault — and I must be the one to take action. It is a matter of personal honor. Can you understand that?”

Farrell nodded again, firmly this time.

Reichardt felt himself starting to relax. Trust Ibrahim to find the avenue of approach best guaranteed to appeal to the American military man. He listened while the Saudi steered the conversation away from contraband cargoes and toward his worldwide enterprises. By the time the prince was through with Farrell, the American would probably be ready to buy Caraco stock.

After all, Ibrahim’s persuasive abilities had worked on Reichardt himself.

As head of the Stasi’s Revolutionary Movements Liaison Section, Reichardt had worked with dozens of different terrorist groups — providing them with false identity papers, safe houses, weapons training, and special equipment. Although there were no formal links between most of the different terrorist organizations, there were places where their paths crossed. Communist East Germany had been one of those places.

The desperate need for money was another common ground.

Every group needed it for recruitment, training, intelligence, supplies, operations, everything. Terrorism might be “the poor man’s nuclear weapon,” but it still wasn’t cheap.

One source of funding for many of the various movements had been a man known only as “the Paymaster”—a shadowy figure who’d provided huge sums of cash, but always at arm’s length.

The money handed out to pay for bombings, hijackings, and murders all over the world always came through a different front organization — an organization that vanished once the gift was accepted. For years, Reichardt had kept his ear to the ground — hoping to learn the Paymaster’s identity.

His search had taken on a new urgency after East Germany collapsed under the weight of its own inefficiency and corruption. He and his fellow Stasi operatives had taken considerable sums of cash with them when they’d gone underground, but not enough to last them forever. To Reichardt, the so-called Paymaster seemed like somebody who might value a man with his rather specialized skills.

Somewhat to his surprise, Ibrahim had contacted him first — arranging a series of preliminary meetings between go-betweens. Still hiding behind his agents, the Saudi prince had hired Reichardt and his team to organize a number of smuggling operations, terrorist attacks, and assassinations in Russia and Western Europe. In retrospect, the ex-Stasi officer realized those operations had been tests of his ability, ruthlessness, and reliability.

At last, apparently satisfied by the results, Ibrahim had introduced himself directly — to Reichardt’s admitted astonishment.

He’d never imagined that the Paymaster might actually be the CEO and founder of a large, Western-oriented international conglomerate. It was the perfect disguise — the ideal masquerade.

A subtle change in Ibrahim’s tone signaled his intention to end this meeting. The German turned his full attention back to the present.

“So you must understand, General Farrell,” the Saudi prince said. “I have every incentive to keep my own house in order. Caraco’s prosperity — both now and in the future — depends upon its absolute reputation for honesty and integrity. Rest assured that Herr Wolf and I will get to the bottom of this matter.”

Ibrahim smiled grimly. “If our findings confirm your suspicions, I promise you that heads will roll.” He rose to his feet. “But now, if you and Mr. Garrett will excuse us, Herr Wolf and I have a number of calls to make.”

Their farewells took a few minutes more, but Reichardt and Ibrahim were soon down the spiral staircase. A door marked “Private” opened up into a long hallway lined with offices. Another door, this one locked and unmarked, let them into a small space filled with wire recorders and other electronic equipment. A German specialist named Jopp sat at the only chair in the tiny room — turning ceaselessly back and forth between one of the recorders and the laptop computer it was connected to.

Jopp acknowledged their arrival with a bare nod but kept working.

Reichardt’s voice filled the room, coming from a speaker next to the computer.” … spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”

“No.” Jopp killed the tape after Farrell’s reply, then studied the wave pattern displayed on his computer screen.

The technician spun around to face them. “The American is lying.”

“You’re sure?” Reichardt asked.

“Positive,” Jopp said. “He’s talked to Thorn since Pechenga.”

He punched a key, focusing the display on a smaller part of the voice pattern. “Judging from the spike in emphasis here, I would guess they’ve been in contact within the past several days.”

That was good enough for Reichardt. Jopp was a master of sound, of voices. When they’d both worked for the Stasi, he’d watched the little electronics technician change a man’s voice into a woman’s — and the words of a loyal servant of the State into those of a traitor. Telling whether an American was telling the truth or not was child’s play for Jopp.

Ibrahim nodded. “Excellent work, Herr Jopp. Finish up here and then return to your normal assignment.”

Jopp bobbed his head, clearly pleased by the compliment. The Saudi prince was generally sparing in his praise.

Ibrahim crooked a finger, summoning Reichardt back out into the deserted corridor. “So Thorn has told Farrell, and Farrell has told the American military, and through them, the FBI. Where will this news of our plans travel next? The Washington Post, perhaps?”

The prince’s tone hardened with every word. What had started as a summary ended as an indictment.

Reichardt said nothing, knowing that anything he said would only be turned against him.

“You are satisfied that Farrell is the conduit for the information obtained by Thorn and that woman of his?” Ibrahim asked finally.

“Yes.”

“Very well,” the Saudi said coldly. “You know what to do. Handle the matter promptly and efficiently this time.”