Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

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

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

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

  Mcdowell shoved the bourbon bottle back into his desk.

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

  Near Middleburg, Virginia (D MINUS 10)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The limousine stopped just inside the gates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He studied the two men for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Very well. What is it?”

  The groundskeeper stepped forward, moistening his lips.

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

  So it was a personnel matter.

  Ibrahim turned to his security chief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where is this Pakistani?” Ibrahim snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The man screamed as the bag slammed into his chest.

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

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

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

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

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

  It took another thirty seconds before all movement ceased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER TEN

  EXECUTION DOCK

  JUNE 11

  Berkeley County Airport, Outside Charleston, South Carolina (D MINUS 10)

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

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

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

  A forbidding chainlink fence surrounded the compound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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