Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  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  Reichardt had grown up in a system that valued power above any outdated bourgeois virtue.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 complet
e 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.

  Investigation Base Camp, Northern Russia

  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.