Day of Wrath

CHAPTER THREE IN TRANSIT

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt glanced out a dirty window toward the harbor below. Pechenga, he thought smugly again, was perfect for his purposes.

Located twenty kilometers from the Norwegian border, the dreary little town lay huddled between inhospitable frozen tundra and the frigid Barents Sea. Its only asset was the sheltered harbor built for Soviet Army units and amphibious ships based there during the Cold War. When the U.S.S.R. collapsed, the soldiers left and the ships were either scrapped or left to rot at the, pier. Now the town’s few thousand inhabitants struggled to survive on coastal trade and a meager fishing industry.

With so little activity to distract Pechenga’s harbormaster, Reichardt had his full attention as well as the only other chair in the dingy office overlooking the bay. The German lounged casually in the stiff-backed chair, making himself as comfortable as possible in the squalid circumstances. He had left behind his expensive suits and dressed instead in gray slacks and a navy pullover with a black leather jacket to protect him from the chilly winds that always blew off the Barents.

He checked his watch, a Rolex. Expensive, perhaps, but admirably precise. It was also a name people associated with wealth, and power, and success. So much so that many of those Reichardt dealt with saw only the watch — and never the man.

And that was useful.

Reichardt tugged his sleeve back over the watch. There was still ample time to begin work. With luck, the ship he was here to see loaded would be underway by nightfall — by dinner, he corrected himself. So near the summer solstice and so far north, the sun would not set until almost 11:00 P.M. He glanced out the window again.

Star of the White Sea was a small, bulk freighter, sound in hull and engine, though she’d never win any beauty contests. Her dark gray hull had once been topped by a crisp blue-and white superstructure, but the paint had long ago succumbed to irregular patches of almost leprous rust and grime. A few men milled about on deck, while others, mostly Reichardt’s own security force, waited on the pier. The only other vessels in sight were a few fishing boats and an international environmental survey ship.

A muffled cough brought his attention back inside the cramped office.

The harbormaster, a stooped, elderly man named Cherga, was still leafing through Reichardt’s papers with evident interest.

Manifests, customs forms, and authorizations from the Russian Ministry of Defense covered his battered wooden desk. All except one had been acquired legitimately, though some had needed slight alterations on names, numbers, and dates. Reichardt’s own credentials identified him as the shipping agent for a company called Arrus Export, Inc. They were also genuine — although they showed his name as Mikhail Peterhof, a White Russian of German extraction.

He waited while Cherga studied each document intently, usually nodding, but sometimes setting a page to one side.

Reichardt hid his impatience. The Russian might be only a small-town bureaucrat, but he nevertheless wielded considerable power. In a country that still thrived on red tape, examining official documents was part procedure, part beloved ritual.

In any event, the German knew paperwork alone would not be sufficient to move his cargo out of the harbor. Whether lumber or refined metal or jet engines, a few palms needed to be greased first. For that reason the papers on Cherga’s desk included a plain envelope containing a wad of dollars and deutsche marks, equivalent to several months’ official salary for the older man. At the current rates of exchange, Russia’s miserably low wages were an open invitation to graft and corruption.

With a small sigh, the harbormaster opened the seal on the envelope.

His fingers riffled quickly through the notes, and he smiled with evident satisfaction. The bribe was big enough to win his cooperation without attracting too much attention.

Cherga glanced up at Reichardt. “As always, it is a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Peterhof.”

“Thank you, Harbormaster,” Reichardt said sincerely. Three decades of covert work first for East Germany’s feared state security service and later for himself had taught him to appreciate men whose services could be bought. It made life so much simpler. He nodded toward the papers on the other man’s desk.

“I assume you have found everything in order?”

“Of course,” the elderly Russian bureaucrat said. He carefully stamped the necessary permits and shipping authorizations, gathered all the documents into a neat pile, and then presented them to Reichardt with a flourish. “I wish your cargo a good voyage, Mr. Peterhof.”

Reichardt left the office just as the majority of Pechenga’s dockworkers and crane operators began straggling into view. He stepped onto the pier and signaled to his security team. Two scrambled up the Star’s gangplank, while others fanned out along the dock. All of them were armed, but none carried their weapons openly. His guards were there as a last resort only.

Reichardt nodded to himself. There would be no mistakes today. This phase of the Operation was too close to completion to permit any further errors. Not like that fool Serov at Kandalaksha.

His lips thinned, remembering the Russian Air Force general’s pale, frightened face. Reichardt had zero tolerance for incompetence, ideology, or sentimentality. The stakes involved in this venture were enormous. If need be, he would carry out the murderous threats he had made against Serov and his family.

The German suppressed the small shiver of pleasurable excitement evoked by the thought of what he could do to the Russian, his wife, and his daughters before finally killing them.

Neither pity nor morality would stop him from punishing those who failed him.

Reichardt had grown up in a system that valued power above any outdated bourgeois virtue. He had seen through the communist party’s other lies at an early age — a wisdom his foolish, deluded parents had never achieved. They had lived their whole wasted spans on earth as true-believing “servants of the State.”

But Reichardt understood that power over life and death was the ultimate power — the nearest approach to divinity possible in a cold, uncaring universe. And he enjoyed every chance to exercise that power.

He turned to watch the first truck roll up to the end of the pier. Two more vehicles followed close behind. Each truck carried two long metal crates. The local longshoremen, grateful for a day’s work and the extra bonus promised if they finished early, moved rapidly into position as the ship’s crane maneuvered its wire rope down to their level.

Reichardt stood where he could both see and be seen. His alert gray eyes missed nothing as the first crate rose high into the air and then swung slowly toward the Star of the White Sea’s forward cargo hold.

“Watcher Two to Control. Unknown crossing security perimeter.”’ The radio message from one of his observers crackled in Reichardt’s earpiece.

He turned and spotted a serious-looking young man in a cheap suit and bulky overcoat marching down the pier. After scanning the mix of longshoremen and plainclothes security personnel milling about, the man headed toward Reichardt.

“Mr. Peterhof?”

Reichardt nodded brusquely. “I’m Peterhof.”

The younger man inclined his head. “I’m Inspector Raminsky, with customs. I’ve just received your papers from Harbormaster Cherga. I came down as soon as I could.”

Reichardt frowned. What the devil was this? He’d already dealt with the clerks in customs yesterday. This Raminsky looked like potential trouble — probably fresh out of university and still full of energy and inflated self-importance. A young pup, then, and one too inexperienced to know when not to bark.

Carefully masking his displeasure, Reichardt calmly asked, “How can I help you, Inspector?”

“Well, Mr. Peterhof, as soon as I saw the, ah, nature of your cargo, I knew it would have to be personally inspected.”

Reichardt’s first impulse was to dismiss him; then he reconsidered.

Compliance would attract less suspicion. He called over the head longshoreman, a bearlike man in greasy coveralls.

“Very well. Which crate did you wish to examine, Mr. Raminsky?”

Reichardt gestured toward the truck currently being unloaded and two others that waited behind it with their engines idling.

Raminsky, obviously pleased at being given a choice, pointed to the remaining crate on the first truck in line. “That one.”

Reichardt nodded his agreement and then issued orders to the head longshoreman. “All right, Vasily. Open it up for the inspector.”’ The crates were standard Russian Air Force issue. They were designed to allow inspection without being totally dismantled, but it still required care to open the end panel. After several minutes of prying with a crowbar, the panel fell to the ground with a loud, metallic clang.

Raminsky stepped forward and shined a flashlight inside, revealing a bright, concave, metal surface with the center curving into a dark hole. The official shifted his beam slightly, illuminating the turbine wheel at the center.

“This appears to be a jet engine,” remarked Raminsky skeptically.

“Of course,” Reichardt snorted. “It is a Saturn AL-21 turbojet engine.”

He tapped the bundle of documents he still held in one hand.

“Just as stated on these custom forms. Forms which I must point out have already been signed by your own Minister Fedorov.”

If he was impressed, Raminsky hid it well. Instead he merely raised an eyebrow and examined the sizable cargo crate more carefully. It was seven meters long, two meters high, and three meters wide — just large enough to allow a man to squeeze alongside the engine, although the internal bracing required careful movements. Undaunted, the inspector took off his overcoat and crawled inside.

Reichardt resisted the urge to pace or look at his watch while the Russian tapped the jet engine’s metal skin and peered into tight spaces. Finally, the customs man clambered out, almost tripping on the brace and catching himself just in time.

After shaking himself off and retrieving his overcoat and paperwork, Raminsky looked the papers over again. He shook his head and announced, “There is no final destination marked on this export form, Mr. Peterhof.”

Reichardt eyed him coldly, his patience finally wearing thin.

“I am aware of that, Inspector. The reasons for that are explained in the authorization letter from the Ministry of Defense. But again, this has already been approved by your own ministry in Moscow.”

Without looking up, Raminsky pressed the matter. “Nevertheless, it is highly unusual not to specify a destination. I may have to reconfirm this authorization with the ministry.”

Reichardt decided he’d allowed the loading to be delayed long enough.

He stepped close to the young man and spoke quietly, but menacingly.

“The destination of these engines is the business of my company, the Ministry of Defense, and no one else’s.”

The change in Reichardt’s tone caused Raminsky to look up with a startled expression on his face.

“You have heard of my employer before?” Reichardt demanded.

Reluctantly, Raminsky nodded.

Arms Export, Inc. was a major player in one of the fastest growing sectors of the post-communist economy — arms sales.

Arms specialized in buying surplus Russian weapons and military spare parts at significant discounts and then reselling them to various Third World countries. Several prominent former Russian military leaders served on the Arrus board, along with a number of influential Americans and Europeans. From time to time, some of Moscow’s new tabloids darkly hinted that substantial Arms funds often flowed freely into certain government officials’ personal bank accounts in exchange for a free hand inside the Russian armed forces. But nothing had ever been proven.

Satisfied that he had gotten the impudent fool’s complete attention, Reichardt continued. “These are matters for the State, and the State has promises to keep.”

The German paused. “It is not in your best interest to interfere with those promises, Inspector.” He glanced away from Raminsky and motioned to two members of his security team who were observing the exchange.

They closed in on either side.

Raminsky saw them and paled slightly.

“I have instructions to make sure that these engines reach their destination intact and on time. I am also authorized to take any measures necessary to accomplish that task. Any measures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandt nodded.

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

Brandt nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

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

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

Colonel Peter Thorn pushed aside the newest bag of personal effects recovered from the crash site and sat back from the worktable.

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

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

“You okay, Peter?” she asked softly.

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

‘“Just like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thorn arched an eyebrow. “You believe them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thorn laughed quietly. “Okay, that does sound kinda stupid. But you’ve got to admit, the guy is pretty slick.”

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

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

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

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

Helen pulled herself upright, already turning red.

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

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

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

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

Great, just great, Thorn thought bitterly.

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

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

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

Shit.

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

“My name’s Peter Thorn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Colonel Thorn!” Helen exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why, to your garden, Mrs. Carleton,” Ibrahim replied. “I’m sure you know that your beautiful roses are the talk of all Washington. Such natural beauty carries a special significance for those of us reared in the barren desert.”

She blushed. “Oh, how kind of you to say so, Your Highness. But really, I’m just an amateur, you know …”

Ibrahim listened to her prattle on with only half an ear. It was all too easy, really. A quip, a personal greeting, a reference to some favored hobby or interest — they all enabled Ibrahim to more easily play the part of a gracious, but charmingly informal, Arab prince of royal blood. As a young boy watching his father wheeling and dealing with Texas oilmen on their first visits to Saudi Arabia, he had learned the lesson that these Americans, for all their oft-professed egalitarianism, were always delighted to attract the attention of royalty.

Ibrahim smiled at that thought, though his smile never warmed the soul within his lean frame. There were other Americans, uglier Americans, who mocked anyone in whose body the blood of the Prophet flowed. He remembered such men from his boyhood, too. For an instant, his smile faltered and his fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Then he relaxed. This was not the time, or the place, to allow those memories free rein.

When the undersecretary’s wife had had her fill of his polite attention and moved on, he turned his gaze outward.

From across the room Ibrahim watched Richard Garrett smoothly working the crowd. Garrett was Caraco’s legal representative for its American division, an unassuming title for a very important role.

An amiable Yankee who had attended all the right schools and knew all the right people, the former Commerce Secretary was one of the capital’s most familiar and respected faces. He was also a personal friend of the President and a darling of the American media.

Before his stint at the Commerce Department, Garrett had headed an extremely successful law practice in Washington. His former clients ran the gamut from environmental groups to tobacco companies to financial organizations to foreign governments.

Each had found their interests advanced in return for sizable fees.

Three years ago, Ibrahim had been introduced to Garrett by a mutual friend from Harvard. It seemed to the friend they might speak the same language of prestige and power. Ibrahim paid Garrett well to advocate free trade, Arab-American cooperation, and any other cause that might advance Caraco’s business and political needs.

Ibrahim watched the elegantly attired, white-haired lawyer weave in and out of the crowd, smiling and pumping hands, laying the groundwork for future deals. He was good at what he did and was one of the few Americans the Saudi prince respected. Of course, respect was not trust, so the lobbyist would never know the true nature and depth of Caraco’s corporate operations.

Garrett worked his way back to Ibrahim and took another glass of champagne. He grinned. “Things are moving our way, Your Highness. We shouldn’t have any trouble getting expedited approval for the Kazakhstan pipeline contract.”

“Oh?” Ibrahim asked. “So your fabled charm bears fruit again, my friend?”

“Bushels of it,” Garrett confirmed. His grin grew wider.

“Helped along by generous infusions of Caraco cash, of course. You have many friends in this room, Your Highness.”

“Naturally.” Ibrahim smiled again to himself, more warmly this time, thinking with pleasure about all those who could not detect the venomous hatred that lay beneath his polished, Western mannerisms.

Education did have its uses.

He spotted a young, serious-looking presidential aide in a conservative gray suit making his way through the slowly milling crowd — coming straight toward him. Ah, he thought, at last.

The young man stopped at his side and cleared his throat importantly.

“Your Highness? The President asks if you would join him in the Library. If you’ll follow me?”

Ibrahim nodded. The social aspects of this evening were over.

Now it was time for business. He and Garrett followed the young presidential aide out of the Blue Room, into a short hallway, and then down a flight of stairs. Since both of them had met the President before, they knew where they were headed.

At their destination, the aide stepped aside to open the door and then closed it silently behind them.

The White House Library was less formal than the grand public rooms upstairs, but it was ideally suited for quiet, private meetings.

Elegantly proportioned wood chairs and bookcases lined the walls — many inlaid with representations of the American eagle, its wings open full in triumph. The books on its shelves represented the best of American literature, as well as collections of presidential papers. The Library was intended for the private use of the President and his family.

Being invited there was a mark of special favor.

The President himself stood waiting to greet Ibrahim as he entered flanked by the current Secretary of Commerce. A second man, this one somewhat heavyset and in his mid-fifties, stood off to one side.

Ibrahim shot a questioning glance at Garrett, who whispered, “That’s Dan Holcomb. With the CIA.”

The Saudi ran his eyes over the stranger with more interest.

He welcomed the chance to compare the reports he’d studied with the flesh-and-blood man. Holcomb was the Deputy Director of the CIA — and reputedly the real mover and shaker inside the American spy agency.

The current Director was rumored to be more interested in editing position papers than in actively pursuing operations. Left to his own devices, Holcomb had apparently jumped into the leadership vacuum with gusto. His presence at this meeting was a good indication that the administration valued its “special relationship” with Caraco and its founder.

Ibrahim also noted with some amusement the absence of several other men who would have been there just months before.

None of the President’s political fund-raisers were anywhere in sight.

Evidently America’s current chief executive and his advisers had learned to be more cautious — though they were clearly still just as interested in amassing campaign and legal defense funds.

He strode forward to shake hands with the President and the other men, then took the offered seat and cup of coffee. He sipped without pleasure. A weak, thin brew — as always.

After several minutes of polite and meaningless chitchat — shared memories of student days at Oxford and Harvard and the like — Ibrahim leaned forward. “I know that your time is limited, Mr. President, so I will try not to waste any of it.”

The President’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “I appreciate your concern, Your Highness. Don’t you worry about that, though. I’ve got an army of bright-eyed aides who keep me running on schedule.”

Ibrahim allowed the polite fiction to pass unchallenged. This American president had a long and well-deserved reputation for tardiness.

Choosing his words carefully, he continued. “Very well, then. I’m sure you know how much my companies and I support your administration — in all its endeavors, both domestic and international.”

The President nodded seriously. “Naturally. And we’re very grateful for your corporation’s assistance, Highness.”

The CIA Deputy Director, Holcomb, nodded just as seriously.

Much of Caraco’s support was financial. Although present American law made direct political contributions from foreignowned businesses illegal, the President and his party organizations had received hundreds of thousands of dollars of “soft money” donations — all ostensibly made by American-born executives of Caraco and its subsidiaries. The fact that Ibrahim made those contributions possible by paying his subordinates special bonuses was left carefully unstated.

Other corporations offered larger sums, but few made their contributions so freely and so discreetly.

And campaign finance reforms that would plug the loopholes Ibrahim was exploiting were still bottlenecked in the Congress by partisan infighting.

There was another side to Caraco’s relationship with the administration, however — one that Holcomb and the President were both clearly aware of. From time to time, Caraco or its subsidiaries provided quiet assistance to the CIA and other U.S. intelligence organizations. Useful items of economic intelligence gathered in the course of its business operations flowed occasionally into U.S. databases. At other times, Caraco’s various enterprises provided convenient cover for covert CIA activities in the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

Enjoying this little dance of deliberate ambiguity, Ibrahim smiled.

Bargaining had its own long-established traditions — both in his own country and in the President’s native South.

Chief among them was that gifts were never true gifts. They always carried a hidden price tag. From the expectant looks on the faces of the President and his advisers, they were waiting for him to name Caraco’s price. So was his own man in this room, Richard Garrett.

Idly, he wondered whether any of these American politicians would really care if they knew they had already repaid his modest cash investment in their goodwill a hundred times over.

Washington, D.C was a city that lived on rumor, gossip, and influence.

Just the fact that he’d been invited to this private meeting with the nation’s top leaders would enhance Ibrahim’s reputation and smooth his way in any future dealings with American bureaucrats, regulators, and law enforcement officials.

Shifting slightly in his seat, the Saudi prince decided to move directly to his stated reason for seeking this meeting. He looked firmly into the eyes of the American leader. “Much as it saddens me to say so, Mr. President, I am concerned that the new congressional free trade bill with Russia is not being endorsed by your administration as strongly as it might be. I earnestly hope you will reconsider this position.”

The legislation, designed to lower trade barriers with Russia and Eastern Europe, had been sponsored by a bipartisan coalition, but administration support had been lukewarm — at best.

The President and the others in the room nodded gravely.

Since the end of the Cold War, Caraco and its various subsidiaries had been expanding rapidly into the territories of the former Soviet Union.

Caraco-owned companies were busy pursuing a wide range of enterprises — involving themselves in everything from modernizing Russian oil production and refining to importing Western-made consumer and electronic goods.

Given the huge sums his corporation had invested in the region, Ibrahim’s acute interest in U.S. policy there was easy to understand.

The President leaned forward, his manner becoming more animated and less formal. He clearly enjoyed discussing and debating even the smallest details of policy. “Well, now, Highness, I’ll agree with you that this Russian free trade bill is a fine idea — in principle. But let’s speak practically for a moment, shall we? The truth is, most of the old Eastern bloc countries are critically short of the hard currency they’d need to buy our products. And some of my advisers are worried that lifting all trade restrictions now would just open up another source of cheap labor — draining away more American jobs.”

In translation, Ibrahim knew, that meant that the American labor unions which were among this administration’s most ardent backers were unwilling to tolerate yet another free trade pact they believed would put their members’ jobs at risk.

He smiled warmly. “Ah, but Mr. President, you and I both know the benefits of fair and aboveboard trade far outweigh any such risks. Surely you’ve seen Dr. Wohlmayer’s most recent analysis of the subject?”

As Ibrahim intended, that sparked a prolonged debate on the advantages and disadvantages of tariffs and free trade — one that eminently suited this president’s tendency both to show off his own knowledge and to micromanage all aspects of his administration.

Fifteen or so minutes later, the Saudi prince noticed the eyes of the others in the room drifting to the clock or to their watches. Without batting an eyelash, he gracefully brought the conversation to a close, leaving the President with a calm, final request that “your administration study the matter intently and offer as much support for this legislation as possible.”

“Your Highness,” the President responded politely, “you can rest assured we’ll do everything we can to accommodate you in this matter.”

Which meant nothing, Ibrahim knew. Not that he really cared one way or another. Meeting the President privately — and, more important — being seen to meet the President privately — had been his primary objective.

His interest in the free trade bill for Russia and Eastern Europe was purely academic. After all, who knew better than he that America’s days as the economic and political arbiter of the world were numbered?

Once upstairs in the Blue Room again, Ibrahim said good night to Garrett and asked one of the White House staff to summon his car.

He’d done what he had come to do. He had no need to rub elbows with any more American politicians.

Strolling into the warm, Washington night, he spotted his limousine waiting at the curb and got in. As it pulled away, he poured himself a cup of strong Middle Eastern coffee and scanned the faxes waiting for him on the tray. As usual, there were numerous fires to extinguish.

Then one caught his eye.

Prince Ibrahim al Saud settled back into the comfortable leather seat and smiled broadly.

FBI Deputy Assistant Director Lawrence Mcdowell slipped off his suit jacket, examined it for unsightly creases, and then carefully hung it up in the spacious closet of his hotel room. Then he padded across the plush carpet and pulled open the door of the room’s minibar. Smiling, he took out a small bottle of Scotch and examined the label. It was Glenfiddich, of course.

Newly renovated and supervised by consultants from Forte Hotels, the Hotel National believed in serving its guests the very best of everything. Originally built in 1903, the National’s gilt chandeliers and frescoed ceilings had survived the Revolution intact. And, over the decades, its luxuries had prompted any number of the famous and infamous to stay there — H. G. Wells, Anatole France, and John Reed, to name a few. Even Lenin.

Still amused at the thought of sharing quarters once enjoyed by the founding father of the Soviet state, Mcdowell dropped ice into a glass and poured two fingers’ worth of Scotch over the cubes. Then, savoring his drink, he ambled back to the large windows and stared out across the Kremlin’s red-brick walls, gold-domed cathedrals, and palaces. No doubt about it. The Hotel National had the best accommodations and view in Moscow. Well worth the $450 a night price tag. Especially since his bill was being covered by the U.S. taxpayer.

Mcdowell raised his glass in a mock toast to his absent fellow citizens and took another sip of the smooth, smoky Glenfiddich.

Thank God for his expense account and that ever-useful phrase “necessary official expenditures.” He’d been offered a room in the U.S. Embassy’s guest quarters — an offer he’d hastily declined.

Why suffer through government-issue State Department hospitality when you could live like a czar? His stay here might even make up for the exhausting, whirlwind trip he’d been forced to make to that godforsaken air crash site.

Well, he thought smugly, at least the trip hadn’t been a complete waste. He’d been able to take Helen Gray and her soldier boy down a notch or two. His comments on that relationship in her personnel file should make damning reading at her next promotion review.

The phone rang, abruptly ending that pleasurable train of thought.

Mcdowell scooped it up, expecting it to be the concierge confirming his dinner reservation for the evening. One of the National’s four restaurants was the Moscow offshoot of Maxim’s of Paris.

He was wrong.

“Is this Mr. Mcdowell? Mr. Lawrence Mcdowell?” It was a middleaged man’s voice, smooth, assured, educated, and with just the trace of an accent.

“This is Mcdowell.”

“Mr. Mcdowell, my name is Wolf, Heinrich Wolf. I represent Secure Investments, Limited. I’m calling about your local commodities account.”

The FBI official flushed angrily. Jesus, he’d heard that Moscow was turning into a center for wild and woolly capitalism, but he’d never expected a salesman to get through the Hotel National’s switchboard.

This guy probably had a standing bribe out to the operators for info on any high rollers who checked in.

Still scowling, he growled, “Look, Mr. Wolf, or whatever your name is, I don’t have an account with your company. And I don’t want an account. So you can just save your sales pitch.”

The man on the other end simply chuckled. “Of course you’ve done business with us, Mr. Mcdowell. We worked together years ago. In fact, we invested quite heavily in you — and in your career.

Don’t you remember your PEREGRINE account?”

PEREGRINE? Mcdowell paled. It couldn’t be. Not now. Not after all these years. He was safe. He should have been safe. He clutched the phone tighter. “What did you say?”

“You heard me very clearly: PEREGRINE,” the voice said calmly. “So you do remember us, then?”

Suddenly cold and dizzy, Mcdowell sat down in a chair. He licked his lips that felt as dry as bone. “But you don’t exist anymore!

You’re all gone. Dead. Finished. Kaput.”

“Come now, Mr. Mcdowell,” the other man chided. “Old firms may go under or change hands. but you know that debts and obligations never disappear. They must always be paid — sooner or later.”

Lawrence Mcdowell sat silent in his chair, still holding the phone with numb fingers — listening in mounting fear while the man who called himself Heinrich Wolf calmly outlined just what he would have to do to meet his old obligations.