Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  “That’s the way the higher-ups like it, Agent Sanchez. It’s part of the whole new wave in corporate management — less topdown direction, more bottom-up innovation.”

  Sounds more like a recipe for potential chaos and ducked responsibility, Sanchez thought cynically. He was a Bureau man through and through, and good or bad the FBI ran on procedure and centralized control. He tried again. “Did you ever meet any of the people working at this facility, Mr. Wilson?”

  The Caraco executive shook his balding head ponderously.

  “Nope. But then I never had any reason to. Like I said, we’re separate outfits — and I’ve had a ton of work on my plate these past few weeks. We’ve got a big contract to build a pipeline in Central Asia coming up.”

  “What about any of your other employees, sir? Did any of them have any contact with the people running this warehouse?”

  “You’d have to ask them that question, Agent Sanchez. I sure don’t know.” The big man shrugged again. “I suppose some of my guys might have run across these folks in the bars after work, but I don’t make it my business to pry.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Look, Agent Sanchez,” Wilson said kindly. “If you want to know more about this operation, why don’t you contact Caraco Transport’s headquarters directly? I’m sure they’d be happy to answer your questions.”

  “I’ll do that, Mr. Wilson,” the FBI agent replied. “Any idea where exactly that might be?”

  “Sure. They’re based in Cairo.”

  “In Egypt?” Sanchez heard himself ask.

  Wilson chuckled. “Like I said, we’re a big company.”

  Already imagining the tangle of official forms, mounting phone bills, and foreign language translators he was about to wade into, Sanchez signaled one of his subordinates to take the Caraco executive away and get a written statement from him.

  He turned back to face the warehouse. Caraco employees or not, he knew the characters who’d leased this place weren’t just model tenants when they’d stripped this place down to the bare floor. They’d systematically tried to destroy any trace of their presence. Nobody did that without a damned good reason — like hiding illegal activity.

  The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was: What kind of illegal activity? An FBI addendum added to the EMPTY QUIVER alert questioned J.S.O.C’s HUMINT source — implying the goods being smuggled were far more likely to be some kind of illegal drugs than nuclear weapons.

  Well, Sanchez sure hoped the higher-ups in the Hoover Building were right, and the Army was wrong. Missing a big shipment of coke, heroin, or pot was bad. Missing a smuggled nuke … He waved his section leaders over and started issuing orders.

  “Okay, let’s start tearing this place apart. Check the Dumpsters.

  See when the trash was last collected. Calder, you start interviewing the businesses nearby. Find out what they’ve seen. I want every license number of every car or truck that’s ever been parked within a hundred yards of this place. And get the physical evidence teams in here ASAP?

  An agent speaking into a cell-phone caught his eye. “Do you want NEST?” she asked.

  The highly trained specialists of the Department of Energy’s Nuclear Emergency Search Team were standing by on high alert.

  If the FBI raid had turned up any evidence at all of illicit nuclear material, NEST would have come swooping in to find the stuff and remove it safely.

  Sanchez shook his head. “Tell NEST there’s nothing for them to do here.”

  He didn’t know whether that would make the DOE folks happy or unhappy.

  Sanchez moved outside — away from the fresh-paint stink and the maddeningly empty building. For now, he suspected they’d run into a dead-end. The Caraco Savannah herself was halfway across the Atlantic, bound for Germany again. It would be days before her crew could be questioned.

  Whoeever these people were, he thought, they’re pros. But nobody could vanish into thin air. They’d made the job of tracking them harden-but not impossible. If he had to, he’d interview everyone in Galveston until they found somebody who could give them a name or a description.

  Hell, if need be, he and his agents would scrape that goddamned paint off the walls a square inch at a time.

  Sanchez narrowed his eyes. Somewhere, somehow, they’d find something.

  It might take days, maybe even weeks, but he and his fellow FBI agents would find the trail. He pushed the thought that it might already be too late far to the back of his mind.

  JUNE 15

  Middleburg, Virginia (D MINUS 6)

  Prince Ibrahim al Saud’s habit after morning prayers was to check his e-mail, listen to the BBC news, and get caught up on the night’s developments in his various business enterprises. He never forgot that the world kept moving while he slept.

  The private study in his Middleburg home was actually a suite, with an office for his personal secretary, a meeting room wired for satellite teleconferencing, and his own palatial inner sanctum.

  Ibrahim’s desk faced a wide picture window that overlooked the lush, green Virginia countryside. Bulletproof glass ensured his personal security. Double panes and vacuum sealing offered protection for his personal secrets — thwarting any attempted hightech eavesdropping.

  Like the rest of the house, the study reflected his heritage, position, and wealth. Priceless handwoven Hamadan rugs covered the floor — matched by other rugs on the walls. Dozens of precise, colorful geometric patterns covered the rags and wall hangings, each hiding a single flaw that served to remind the viewer that only Allah could attain true perfection. Tables of beaten, handworked brass held bowls of fruit and dates, and a coffee urn.

  Ibrahim scanned the front page of the New York Times. Nothing of great interest, he thought. Only one item caught his eye.

  Algeria’s Islamic rebels had slaughtered another four French nuns — this time in the capital city itself. He made a mental note to funnel more money into the rebel leadership’s secret accounts.

  Even civil wars were expensive, and good work should be rewarded.

  The phone rang. He snatched it up. “Yes.”

  “This is Reichardt. We’ve had some trouble.”

  Ibrahim slid the newspaper aside. “I’m listening, Herr Reichardt.”

  “The FBI raided our Galveston facility an hour or so ago.”

  Ibrahim felt a cold calm settle over him. “And?”

  “The Americans found nothing, Highness,” Reichardt assured him. “I took the precaution of accelerating our operation there two days ago. I’ve prepared a full report.”

  Ibrahim swiveled in his chair to face the low table behind his desk.

  It held a highspeed fax machine. “Send it.”

  Within moments of his order, the fax machine clicked and hummed — spitting out several typed sheets. Reichardt remained silent during the transmission, and Ibrahim quickly skimmed each page of the report before dropping them, one at a time, into the shredder next to the machine.

  Reichardt’s report was thorough at least. It summarized everything the ex-Stasi officer had learned about the progress and intent of the FBI’s investigation. But very little of the news was good.

  Caraco Transport’s Cairo headquarters reported receiving an urgent query from the American embassy about the Galveston warehouse. They were requesting instructions. And the master of the Caraco Savannah had radioed that he had received orders from both the American and German authorities to proceed at his best possible speed to Wilhelmshaven — where agents of the two governments would board his ship and interview his crew.

  Worst of all was the news from Reichardt’s contact inside the FBI itself. The Americans had been looking for a smuggled nuclear weapon, and the initial alert had come from a source reporting to the U.S. D.O.D counterterrorist command — the J.S.O.C.

  “So this Colonel Thorn is still causing trouble for us,” Ibrahim said softly. “Despite your best efforts to silence him.”

  Reichardt hesitated. “Yes, H
ighness. It appears so.”

  “And where are this irritating American and his woman now? Still on the loose somewhere in Germany?”

  “Yes,” the ex-Stasi officer admitted. “But they are being hunted by the German police — and now by their own people as well.”

  Ibrahim frowned. “And yet somehow they seem able to bring all our plans to an end. I find that. interesting. Don’t you, Herr Reichardt?”

  “The weapons are safe, Highness,” Reichardt replied. “And I promise you that this latest FBI investigation will hit a dead-end.”

  Ibrahim felt his temper flare into rage, stung beyond restraint by the German’s smug self-assurance. “These investigations should have hit a dead-end at Wilhelmshaven, or Pechenga, or Kandalaksha!” he roared.

  A shocked silence greeted his sudden outburst.

  Ibrahim wrestled for self-control, anger at Reichardt warring with anger at himself for showing such weakness before the other man. “Your failures are endangering my plans, Herr Reichardt,” he said icily at last. “I will not tolerate that.”

  “I understand, Highness,” the German said stiffly.

  “When your government collapsed in ruin, I took you and your people under my protection. I provided you with employment, with power, and with a new purpose,” Ibrahim said. “In return, I expect success — not excuses.”

  “I understand,” Reichardt said again.

  “Good.” Ibrahim swept the pile of shredded paper into a wastebasket.

  It would be burned later in the day. “Now then, you agree that this FBI investigation could be … inconvenient?”

  “Yes, Highness,” the other man said. “I believe the time is too short for the Americans to learn anything significant, but their inquiries could put pressure on us at an awkward time.”

  “Very well.” Ibrahim swiveled back to his desk. “Perhaps I can repair the damage your overconfidence has caused.” Reichardt wisely said nothing.

  “Have you finished your round of inspections?” Ibrahim asked.

  “I have, Highness,” Reichardt replied. “Everything is in order.

  All will be ready on the appointed day:. I fly back to Dulles this evening.”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Confer with me on your return.” He hung up and buzzed his private secretary. “Connect me with Richard Garrett. At once.”

  He leaned back in his chair, contemplating the rolling landscape outside with hooded eyes. It was time to tighten the chains.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  POWER PLAYS

  JUNE 15

  Kaiserlautern, Germany, Near Ramstein U.S. Air Force Base

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

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

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

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

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

  “Take a pew, Michelito.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Helen nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

  The White House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That was apparently the story,” Preston admitted.

  “And you let them do this?”

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

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

  Preston looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Well?” Garrett pressed.

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