Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  A cautious voice answered. “Mcdowell.”

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

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

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

  “Where are they now?” he demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “There are no rewards without them. True?”

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

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

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

  “When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Wilhelmshaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  All had been difficult.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Port Authority Office, Wilhelmshaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That’s right.” Helen nodded.

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

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

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

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

  Allow me to check for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She’d unloaded her goods for the next three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Steinhof thought he needed seasoning.

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

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

  “Wait here.”

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

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

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

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

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

  The urge passed.

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

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

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

  Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz, Wilhelmshaven

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

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

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

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

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

  Thorn grinned back. “Touch.”

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

  “What’s the problem?” Thorn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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