Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  The sentries waved them through the gate and outside onto Highway 113.

  Thorn sat back in the seat and tore open the envelope. He scanned the single sheet inside with intense interest. It was a list of economy-priced hotels and motels — all in the Washington, D.C area, and all on a Metro line. Each had been assigned a different code name.

  He smiled broadly. Trust Sam Farrell to do his homework.

  They pulled up to a major intersection.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

  Thorn handed the sheet to Helen. “What’s the best way to get to Wilmington, Corporal?”

  “You can hop a DART bus for about four bucks a head, sir. Should get you there in an hour and a half or so.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Thorn said. “Just drop us at the nearest bus stop, please.”

  Helen leaned closer. “Wilmington? We’re taking Amtrak south then?” she asked quietly.

  He nodded. The main New York-Washington rail line ran straight through the northern Delaware city. “Yep. We’re going cash-only from now on.

  No point in sending up flares.”

  “Good point,” Helen said.

  Although the FBI seemed to be focusing its search for them on Europe, it was a safe bet that the Bureau had the warrants necessary to trace all their credit card expenditures. If they rented a car, the odds were the agents looking for them would have the make, model, and license tag within an hour or so. The train would be slower and less comfortable, but it offered one priceless advantage — anonymity.

  JUNE 17

  Vienna, Virginia

  Sam Farrell snapped the afternoon news off and spun around to grab the phone on his desk. “Farrell.”

  “Sam, it’s Chris Carlson. My wife and I are in town for a conference, so I thought I’d look you up. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Farrell breathed an inward sigh of relief. He’d been waiting for hours to hear from Peter Thorn — always aware that any one of the half-dozen links he’d so carefully forged could easily have come undone. His worries had intensified after Colonel Stroud had let him know about the FBI warrants out for Thorn and Helen.

  “Damn, Chris,” he said honestly. “It’s sure good to hear your voice.

  Who’ve you two staying with?”

  “The Mcintyres.”

  Farrell pulled the coded list of hotels he prepared closer and ran his finger down it until he came to MCINTYRE. Peter and Helen had checked into the Madison Inn, a small bed-and-breakfast near the D.C. zoo. He nodded to himself: They’d made a good choice. That section of the city — Woodley Park — was quiet and almost entirely residential. Anyone conducting a search for them or trying to set up a surveillance net would stand out like a sore thumb.

  “The Mcintyres are nice people,” Farrell said. He eyed the clock on his wall. It was a little after three in the afternoon. “You two free for dinner tonight?”

  “Our social calendar is completely open, Sam,” Thorn said dryly. “Come by at your convenience. Will Louisa be with you?”

  “Not this time,” Farrell said. “I’m an acting bachelor just now.”

  He’d put his wife, Louisa, on a plane to visit their son and daughter-in-law as soon as he’d realized how many rules and regulations he was going to have to break to get Peter and Helen home safely and not in handcuffs. While he doubted the military or the administration would be too eager to try a highly decorated retired general for obstruction of justice and aiding fugitives, he didn’t see any point in making his wife an accessory to the crimes he’d committed.

  “You take it easy now,” Farrell warned. “It’s real hot out there right now. Real hot. Sunstroke weather, if you ask me.”

  There was a pause while Thorn digested the renewed warning.

  “Understood, Sam,” he said finally. “We’ll lie up here in the shade until the heat dies down.”

  “Smart move.” Farrell stood up. “I’m heading out the door now.”

  After hanging up, he went into the master bedroom and pulled open the nightstand drawer closest to his side of the bed.

  Inside lay a 9mm Beretta, a spare magazine, and a Milt Sparks holster that fit inside the waistband of his pants. As a former commander of all the U.S. military’s counterterrorist units, he’d found it remarkably easy to obtain a special federal concealed weapons permit.

  Sam Farrell strongly doubted he’d need the pistol, but he’d listened too closely to Peter Thorn’s accounts of the nightmare ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven to take anything for granted. And more than three decades of active Army service had taught him the wisdom of the old Boy Scout motto—“Be Prepared.” Hand-to-hand combat might work out okay for Peter and Helen in a pinch, but he preferred to be ready to meet trouble with three or four steeljacketed slugs.

  Planning Cell, Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia (D MINUS 4)

  Rolf Ulrich Reichardt listened intently, trying to ferret out the hidden subtext from the welter of moronic American banalities and idioms. He turned to Jopp. “Rewind the tape.”

  The wiry sound specialist nodded and flipped another series of switches on his equipment.

  Reichardt heard the conversation begin. Halfway through he saw Ibrahim appear at the door. The Saudi prince spent two or three hours each day at the complex now — monitoring each phase as the Operation came ever closer to fruition.

  The German said nothing and kept listening, letting the voices play their childish dance of secret codes all over again.

  When the tape ended he pulled off the headphones.

  “Well, Herr Reichardt, what is your report?” Ibrahim asked sharply.

  “Hashemi said you had news of our friend, General Farrell.”

  “Yes, Highness,” Reichardt said. He offered the other man the headphones and signaled Jopp to recue the phone intercept. “We picked up this telephone call on the American’s private line an hour or so ago.”

  Ibrahim heard it through himself in growing impatience. He looked up.

  “What of it? Farrell arranges dinner with this man Carlson and his wife? Of what possible significance is that?”

  “That is what we are meant to think, Highness,” Reichardt said calmly.

  He nodded at Jopp. “But then our clever friend here ran the conversation through his little black boxes — as a precaution.”

  “And?”

  “Both men are lying,” Reichardt answered.

  “To each other?” Ibrahim sounded surprised.

  The ex-Stasi officer shook his head. “To any potential eavesdroppers.”

  He smiled, a hunter’s grim smile. “General Farrell knows that the FBI wishes to arrest his two friends. Given that, he must suspect his telephones have been tapped by the authorities.

  These cheerful idiocies are obviously a rough, shorthand code to arrange a rendezvous.”

  “You believe this Carlson is actually Colonel Thorn? And that he and the woman Gray are now quartered in a safe house somewhere in this area?”

  “Yes, Highness, that is what I believe,” Reichardt said. Nothing else made sense. Somehow Farrell had smuggled his proteges back into the United States — evading the arrest order issued by the FBI.

  “And their intentions?”

  “I cannot predict precisely what they will do next,” Reichardt admitted. “We can hope that your assurances to General Farrell will delay any further effort on their part. But prudence demands we assume they will again try to contact those with power in their own government — undoubtedly using Farrell as a go-between.”

  Ibrahim shook his head. “I find that possibility unacceptable, Herr Reichardt. There is an old proverb, “News shouted loudly enough from the rooftops will not always fall on deaf ears.”

  The ex-Stasi officer nodded grimly. “True, Highness. And General Farrell’s evident ability to smuggle these two back into the United States, right under the nose of the FBI, testifies both to his persistence and his residual power. Such a man is very dangerous.”’

  He turned as
Johann Brandt approached. “Well?”

  “The American is definitely on his way to a covert rendezvous, sir,” the tall, powerfully built man replied. “He left his house forty-five minutes ago and drove to the closest Metro station.”

  Reichardt read the faint hesitation in his subordinate’s voice.

  “Harzer lost him there, didn’t he?”

  Brandt nodded reluctantly. “Yes, sir. Parking was difficult. By the time Max got to the platform, Farrell had already boarded a train. The American apparently timed it perfectly.”

  Unfortunate. The Metro system sprawled over two states and the entire District of Columbia. There were dozens of stations along its five interconnecting lines. Essentially, Farrell had now vanished into one of the world’s largest haystacks. Reichardt risked a quick glance at Ibrahim.

  The Saudi prince stared back at him dispassionately — an expression the German found somehow more worrying than even an open display of anger.

  “What now, Herr Reichardt? Do we simply admit defeat and pray to Allah that our enemies sit idly by until it is too late?”

  “No, Highness,” Reichardt said, thinking rapidly. The outline of a basic plan flowed into his consciousness with lightning speed.

  “Farrell will reemerge. He must — if he is to function as a go-between. More to the point, the general is still a lawabiding man — despite his recent defiance of the FBI. Given that basic fact, PEREGRINE should prove of great use in persuading Farrell to bring Colonel Thorn and his female associate within our reach.”

  The German smiled coldly. “After all, why not kill four birds with one stone — instead of just two?”

  Ibrahim nodded in both understanding and approval. “Let it be so. And do it today. These people have already diverted too much of our time, energy, and resources.”

  The Madison Inn, Washington, D.C.

  The Madison Inn had rooms spread across three adjoining Victorian town houses — all located on the same treelined culdesac within blocks of the Woodley Park Zoo. The bed-and-breakfast was quiet, discreet, and reasonably priced. Peter Thorn and Helen Gray had managed to secure a third-story corner room with a good view of the whole street.

  Sam Farrell took the staircase two steps at a time — pleased to notice that he wasn’t winded when he reached the top landing.

  All those years of calisthenics were paying off — even in retirement.

  Thorn opened the door at his first knock and ushered him inside with a strained smile and a quick, firm handshake. Helen turned from the window where she’d obviously been keeping watch. She hurried over and hugged him tightly with a whispered “Thank you” in his ear.

  Farrell took the chair they offered him and waited until they were both sitting down. He studied them carefully, noting the signs of surface fatigue and deep-seated worry. “You two look a little wrung-out. Something go wrong on the way from Ramstein?”

  “Almost,” Thorn said quietly. “I nearly walked us right into the Dover brig …”

  Farrell listened while they filled him in on their narrow escape and the comparatively uneventful train trip down to Union Station.

  When they finished, he shook his head. “That was a little more nip-and-tuck than I’d planned. You were lucky, Pete.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you’re here and that’s what counts.”

  “Does it?” Helen asked in a soft voice. “We’re still wanted by our own people. And we’re not any closer to nailing the bad guys we’re chasing — not unless you’ve pulled a rabbit out of the hat in the last couple of days, Sam.”

  “No magic, I’m afraid,” Farrell admitted. “But I haven’t been sitting on my hands, either.”

  He briefed them on his trip to Fort Bragg and the EMPTY QUIVER alert he’d managed to trigger. Both Helen and Thorn smiled at that. But their faces fell when he broke the news that the FBI’s first raid hadn’t netted any hard evidence. And they grew longer still when he told them how Caraco’s senior executives had used their political influence to shut the FBI probe down cold. He finished up with by recounting the meeting he’d had with Prince Ibrahim al Saud and Heinrich Wolf, his European security chief.

  “What did you think of this Ibrahim character?” Thorn asked.

  Farrell thought about that for a moment, looking for the best way to summarize his impressions of Caraco’s chief executive.

  “He’s formidable,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t want to bet against him in a fight.”.

  “And this guy Wolf?”

  Farrell frowned. “A nasty piece of work.” He thought back to the meeting. “He was holding back — trying to make me think he was just Ibrahim’s lapdog. But I’d lay odds that there’s a lot more to Herr Wolf than appears on the surface.”

  “Have you heard anything from either of them since?” Helen asked.

  “No.” Farrell shrugged. “But that was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  “True.” She got up and walked over to the window, standing with her arms crossed while staring down at the street.

  The silence dragged uncomfortably. Farrell felt the tension building in the room, and suddenly realized that both he and Thorn had turned to watch Helen.

  At last she looked back at him. “Do you trust those two men, Sam? And I mean really trust them — the way you’d trust Peter or me?”

  That was an easy question. “No. Not really.” Farrell shrugged. “I don’t like people who have so much political pull and use it to play God so easily.”

  “Careful, Sam,” Thorn muttered. He grinned. “Some people might say you’ve been playing God a little bit these past few days yourself!”

  Farrell chuckled. “Watch it, Colonel. You forget that I was a two-star general just last year. Divine powers are part of my retirement package.”

  For just an instant Helen looked as though she wanted to bang their two heads together. “When you boys are finished playing word games, I’d like to get back to the real world,” she said.

  “Sorry, Helen,” Farrell heard Thorn say meekly.

  He sneaked a glance at the younger man. Oh, brother, Farrell thought.

  A leader of men, a rough, tough combat soldier, and now Colonel Peter Thorn is outnumbered ten to one — by one woman. He smiled inwardly — knowing exactly how the other man felt. He’d fallen for Louisa the same way.

  “Sam …”

  Farrell snapped out of his reverie in a hurry. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “That’s better,” Helen said, with the faint trace of a smile.

  Then her smile faded. “What I’m trying to get us to focus on is our next move.”

  Some of the happiness Farrell had felt for his two friends disappeared.

  He’d known this question was coming, but he’d been dreading it. Well, it was better to get everything out in the open.

  He sighed. “I’m not sure there is a next move. Not beyond finding a good lawyer for you and Pete, that is.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that, Sam?” Thorn asked, staring back at him.

  “He means we’ve hit a dead-end, Peter,” Helen said quietly.

  “When the Bureau came up dry in Galveston, the last little shred of credibility we had went up in smoke.”

  “Is that right, sir?” Thorn asked.

  “Is what right, Colonel?” Farrell said. He felt himself bristling a bit at the younger man’s tone of voice.

  “That you think we sold you a bill of goods when we claimed somebody was trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into this country?”

  Farrell shook his head wearily. “I don’t think you sold me a bill of goods, Pete. Look, you and Helen walked into something damned nasty aboard that Russian freighter in Pechenga — whether it was a heroin ring or a stolen atomic bomb. The problem is: You’ve really got no proof. Zero. Zip. And I’m fresh out of Pentagon contacts we can prod into action on my unsupported word. Hell, I hear the White House is so mad at me that George Mayer may lose the J.S.O.C post!”

  Helen interceded. �
��So, what do you think we should do, Sam?”

  “Let Ibrahim and this Wolf guy sort this mess out,” Farrell argued.

  “I may not like them, but that doesn’t mean I think they’re incompetent. Caraco has a lot to lose if some of its employees get caught running a smuggling ring using company assets.”

  Thorn grimaced. “Jesus, Sam! I hate sitting on my ass doing nothing. And I really hate doing nothing while hoping that some corporate security boss does the work our own people should be doing!”

  “So do I, Pete,” Farrell said firmly. “You show me something else we can do — anything — and I’ll be right in there with you. But until you can do that, I suggest you and Helen just lie low — real low — and wait.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  REVELATIONS

  Shafter-Minter Field, Kern County, California (D MINUS 4)

  The two planes touched down within five minutes of each other. Both were Jetstream Super 31 models — twin-engine turboprops with room for a crew of two and eighteen passengers. The first carried Caraco colors — white overall with a broad black stripe and the company’s name superimposed in gold. The second plane was a rental from an air charter company.

  One after the other, the two turboprops taxied smoothly past the ranks of small, single-engined private aircraft and larger crop dusting planes. Ground crewmen waved them to a stop outside the first of Caraco’s two brandnew hangars. Others hurried forward to chock their wheels as soon as the propellers stopped turning.

  The ferry crews, two men per aircraft, wasted no time deplaning. They expected quick payment and a quick return to their home base. They’d been hired for a one-way trip — not as part of a long-term contract.