Day of Wrath

by Larry Bond

  Hans Wolf or something like that?”

  “Heinrich Wolf,” Garrett corrected icily. “Who just happens to have been one of the topranking executives of the corporation I represent.”

  “Sorry.” Preston set the crumpled cloth napkin to one side. “I suppose you know they’ve identified the other body as a topranking FBI administrator.”

  Garrett nodded. Ibrahim had briefed him on that development before asking him to go to the White House. He assumed the Saudi prince had sources inside the FBI or the Loudoun County sheriff’s department.

  “Then frankly, Dick, I’m not sure what more I can tell you,” Preston said. He arched an eyebrow. “Fact is, I hear the FBI wants to find out just what on earth your man was doing with Mcdowell — before they both got shot, I mean.”

  Garrett nodded. “That’s understandable. And I plan to talk to them.”

  He leaned forward. “It’s like this, John. Right after that Bureau fuck-up down in Galveston, I got a pretty strange call from a General Samuel B. Farrell.”

  “Farrell?” Preston looked vague. “Don’t know him.”

  “Used to head the Joint Special Operations Command,” Garrett explained.

  “He retired a year or so ago. Before your time.”

  Preston nodded. After a short stint as a Cabinet deputy secretary during the administration’s first term, he’d gone home to Kentucky to tend the family business. He’d only surfaced as the new White House Chief of Staff after several of the other contenders tore each other to ribbons fighting over the job — mostly by leaking damaging revelations about their rivals to the press.

  His chief qualification for the post seemed to be that no one had thought enough of him to regard him as a serious contender.

  Most Washington observers thought he’d be chewed up, spit out, and sent packing in short order.

  Garrett suspected they were wrong. He’d known Preston and his family for a long time. He’d also seen the other man ride out the President’s frequent temper tantrums unfazed. Never underestimate the staying power of a good punching bag, he thought.

  “Anyway,” the Caraco lobbyist continued, “this retired general came to us with a really bizarre claim …” He rapidly sketched Farrell’s allegations that Caraco employees were involved in a deadly smuggling ring.

  When he was through, Preston commented, “That sounds exactly like the story that got the FBI all hot and bothered down in Galveston.”

  “It is the same damned story,” Garrett growled. “That’s why Prince Ibrahim asked Wolf to find out who was spoon feeding the general this crap. Turns out it was a couple of real loony-toon types — a Colonel Thorn and an FBI agent named Gray. You ever heard of them?”

  This time Preston nodded slowly. “I’ve seen a few pieces of paper cross my desk lately,” he admitted cautiously.

  “Like a pair of FBI-issued arrest warrants?”

  The chief of staff smiled thinly. “You do know a lot of things, Dick.”

  Garrett smiled right back. “That’s why people pay me so well, John.”

  “So what does this have to do with your man Wolf and this FBI guy, Mcdowell?” Preston asked.

  “Mcdowell was Special Agent Helen Gray’s superior officer,” Garrett said flatly. “We believe that Herr Wolf contacted him about Farrell, Thorn, and Gray — and arranged to meet him. And then something must have gone wrong.”

  “Something?”

  Garrett nodded. “Thorn and Gray, to be precise. We believe they murdered both Heinrich Wolf and Deputy Assistant Director Mcdowell — probably as part of some crazed, psychotic attempt to foil this nonexistent smuggling conspiracy they’ve dreamed up.”

  Preston shook his head. “That’s a real stretch, Dick. I’ve read the reports on Thorn and Gray. The FBI is sure they’re still on the run somewhere in Germany.”

  “Then the Bureau has its collective head up its collective ass.”

  Garrett scowled. “Unless you can think of some other pair of trained killers with a grudge against both Caraco and the FBI, I suggest you instruct Director Leiter to get off his own rear end and start looking for those two closer to home.”

  Preston looked back levelly at him. “I’m guessing there’s an ‘or else’ attached to that sentence.”

  Garrett spread his hands. “This is a very serious matter, John. And Prince Ibrahim is not pleased by the slapdash way it’s been handled so far. You tell the FBI they’ve got just fortyeight hours to nail Thorn and Gray, or we’re going public with our suspicions. I really don’t think the Director wants the kind of bad press we can generate with a story about a deranged Army colonel and his FBI girlfriend running wild inside the U.S.”

  Preston winced. “I’ll talk to Leiter. If Thorn and Gray are back home, we’ll find them.”

  “You’ve got forty-eight hours,” Garrett reminded him, already getting up to go. “After that all hell’s going to break loose.”

  Planning Cell, Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia (H MINUS 40)

  Prince Ibrahim al Saud stared down at the blank screen on Reichardt’s laptop computer. He looked up. “What does this mean?”

  Saleh, his computer wizard, swallowed hard. “The German protected his files with an unusually sophisticated security program, Highness. I was able to penetrate one level — but an autodestruct sequence was triggered on the second-“

  “And now the files are gone,” Ibrahim interrupted.

  “Yes, Highness.” The Egyptian cleared his throat. “There are methods for recovering data in such instances. With enough time, I could—”

  Ibrahim glared at him. “Get out.”

  Saleh fled.

  Ibrahim stared down at the maddening little machine. For a split second he had the urge to toss it against the nearest wall.

  The urge receded. Saleh was right. Something might yet be recovered. But not in time.

  The computer had included all of Reichardt’s information on the two American agents who had caused them so much trouble including the FBI and U.S. Army dossiers and photographs the German had obtained from the traitor Mcdowell. All hard copies had already been destroyed as part of the ex-Stasi officer’s strict security regimen.

  The system Reichardt had established was admirably efficient, if typically rigid. As little as possible about the Operation was committed to paper. For those few documents deemed essential, shredders were placed at strategic locations throughout the complex.

  The waste was collected twice a day and burned.

  Ibrahim approved of the German’s security system — in theory.

  In practice, it was proving far less satisfactory.

  Since Reichardt had been in charge of hunting down the two Americans — Thorn and Gray — he alone had kept permanent records on them.

  And now all those records were gone — wiped into some form of electronic gibberish. Which meant he would have to rely on the FBI to hunt them down for him. Unless, of course, the Americans came to him … “Captain Talal,” Ibrahim snapped.

  The former Saudi officer moved closer. “Highness?”

  “Issue another alert to all the airfields. Warn them that the two Americans, and possibly this General Farrell, may make some further attempt to disrupt the Operation. They may attempt to destroy some of our aircraft or to gather additional evidence. Include the descriptions I gave you earlier in your alert message.”

  Ibrahim had racked his brains for those descriptions. Farrell’s had been the easiest of all. They’d actually met. But he’d only seen photos of the other two briefly — and only black-and-white photos at that.

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “I also want security tightened here.” Ibrahim closed Reichardt’s laptop with one hand — shutting off the meaningless, blinking C: prompt that seemed to mock him.

  He looked up and began snapping out his orders. “Deploy a patrol around this building-beginning at sunset. And I want our guard force strengthened. Most of Reichardt’s people have East German military or secret police train
ing. Issue them with sidearms for use in an emergency.”

  “Should I electrify the fence, Highness?” Talal asked.

  “Not yet.” Ibrahim smiled mirthlessly. “I might find that difficult to explain to our American employees in the rest of the complex. The fence can wait for another day.”

  To clear the compound of all nonessential personnel on the Operation’s crucial final day, the Saudi prince had arranged a series of motivational seminars at one of Washington’s finer hotels. All the region’s legitimate Caraco employees were expected to attend. Call it a special kind of severance package, he thought coldly.

  When Talal had gone, he turned his gaze back on Reichardt’s computer.

  Who could say how much potentially damaging information was still hidden deep in its recesses? Certainly the German had known far too much about Ibrahim himself, the terrorist organizations he funded, and his methods. Ibrahim made a note to take the machine with him when they evacuated this facility. He would keep it safely in his grasp until Saleh or some other expert pried all its secrets loose.

  He turned away and stalked through a gray, unmarked fire door into the room just beyond the planning cell.

  The lights in the Operation’s control center were kept dim — to avoid any interfering glare on the multiple television and computer monitors that were placed strategically around the room. Two rows of four aircraft control consoles occupied most of the space, but communications equipment took up one entire wall, and metal workbenches filled nearly all of another. The benches were littered with tools, electronic components, and circuit diagrams.

  Ibrahim noticed that the screens on one of the control consoles were dark. He frowned and moved up behind the two technicians who were crouched peering into an open panel in the back. They were speaking softly to each other in German — probably debating some technical point.

  “What is going on here?” he asked sharply. “Why wasn’t I notified of this equipment malfunction?”

  Startled, both men spun around and then hurriedly straightened up.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this just happened. A video board failed,” the senior technician answered quickly. “We’ve identified the problem and we expect to have the unit back up in a few minutes at most.”

  “This equipment is all new, sir,” the younger man added. Even the control center’s dim lights gleamed off the German’s smooth-shaven head. A small gold loop piercing his left eyebrow waggled when he spoke. “The components are still burning in. These ‘infant mortality’ cases are quite common at this stage. But we’ll sort them out.”

  Ibrahim kept his temper under control. With Reichardt dead, he had to take up the reins — and that included tolerating grubby, dirty-fingered mechanics like these.

  “The technical details do not interest me, gentlemen,” he ground out angrily. “The fact that a piece of equipment failed does. I expect to be informed instantly of such an event in the future. Is that clear?”

  Both technicians nodded rapidly.

  “Very well, then. Finish your repairs.”

  Ibrahim turned away, focusing his attention on one of the working aircraft control consoles. It was built around two monitors — one a television, the other a color computer display.

  The television screen was blank. So was the computer monitor. In use, the TV would show the pictures taken by one of the cameras his crews had mounted on each attack plane.

  The computer screen would display the position, altitude, speed, fuel status, and other relevant flight data of up to four separate aircraft.

  Ibrahim ran his eyes over the rest of the console. A custom-designed electronics panel augmented a standard computer keyboard.

  The panel held UHF radio controls, jacks where headsets could be plugged in, basic flight instruments, and a series of selector switches. A joystick, black cable coiled around it, perched on top of the console.

  He nodded, satisfied by what he saw. These consoles were for use only in an unforeseen emergency. Barring that, his aircraft would fly to their targets entirely on their own — using the preset flight plans loaded into each autopilot. Once they were airborne, nothing could stop him from plunging the United States into a cleansing nuclear fire.

  JUNE 20

  Super 6 Motor Lodge, Near Falls Church, Virginia (H MINUS 22)

  Helen Gray finished laying out the first wave of their newly purchased equipment and stood back to look it over. The gear completely covered one of the room’s two queen-size beds. Acquiring it had taken several trips and a sizable chunk of their cash reserves.

  The big-ticket items they’d picked up had come from one of northern Virginia’s police supply stores. To get them, she’d had to show her FBI credentials and fill out a form — but that piece of paper should take several days to make its way far enough up the official ladder to set off alarms. She was sure the store owner had been surprised when she’d plunked down close to three thousand dollars in cash, but nobody questioned the FBI too closely.

  Helen moved closer to the bed and hefted the heavy tactical assault body armor she’d bought. These bulky Kevlar vests had been among the most critical pieces of gear on their wish list. No matter how she and Peter got inside the Caraco compound, they were going to be heavily outnumbered. Armor tough enough to shake off pistol and light rifle rounds might give them at least a fighting chance to last long enough to do some good.

  She put the assault vests back down and moved on to unwrap the radios she’d purchased at the same store. They were police-issue, two-way “vox,” or voice-activated, sets. Each weighed about a pound or so and came with a headset. She installed the batteries and then adjusted all three radios to a common frequency.

  A military surplus store had supplied the web gear and ruck sacks they would need to carry everything they were taking in with them. The same place had also sold them a tube of black camouflage grease paint.

  The packs of firecrackers next to the web gear had come courtesy of one of the Fourth of July fireworks booths already springing up on what seemed like every open street corner.

  Helen put the firecrackers down as the door swung open and Peter Thorn came in, weighed down by shopping bags.

  “Success,” he announced. “I put a couple of hundred miles on the car, and I had to run through two hardware stores, an autobody shop, a gun store, a chemical supply house, a Radio Shack, and a building supplies place — but I got everything.”

  “Any trouble?”

  Peter shook his head. “Nope. I only had to show my handydandy Chris Carlson armed forces ID two times. Once at the chemical supply place and the second time when I picked up the Primacord and detonators from the building supply store.”

  “Nobody asked what you wanted those for?” Helen asked.

  “Sure,” Peter said. “I told ‘em I wanted to clear some stumps off a piece of property I’d just bought. No muss, no fuss.”

  “And you paid cash?” she finished for him.

  Peter grinned. “Yeah. And I paid cash.” He set one bag carefully apart from the others and in a corner of the room. “That one’s got the nitric acid in it.”

  Helen nodded.

  He started unloading the rest of his purchases, building a pile on the other bed: plastic pipe sections and caps, glue, duct tape, a sack of nails, black powder, a container of the putty auto body shops used to repair dents, and other ingredients.

  When Peter was done, he started sorting them into the order in which he would need them. He picked up the auto body putty and frowned.

  “There’s going to be one hell of a stink when I start mixing this stuff up. Let’s hope the bathroom exhaust fan can handle it.”

  Helen nodded. The resiny putty, the black powder, and a few other common household chemicals could be combined to make a low-grade equivalent of C4 plastic explosive. But it was a dangerous process — one that required precise measurement and timing.

  It was also a process that was notoriously hard on the olfactory nerves.

  She caught
the pair of tiny digital cooking timers he tossed her and laid them beside the firecrackers and some small lengths of tungsten filament. “Houston, we have liftoff,” she murmured to herself.

  Peter disappeared into the bathroom with the bulk of his purchases.

  Helen was just finishing her preparations when Sam Farrell returned from his own various expeditions. His arms were full, and she had to go back to the car and help him carry in the rest of his plunder.

  Farrell had drawn the best part of the shopping list — at least as far as she was concerned. He’d bought the extra weapons and ammunition they would need for the assault. While he’d joked about “pulling rank” to get the job, the plain truth was that neither of them could have done it. To buy firearms you needed to show a driver’s license and other forms of ID. Their phony armed forces badges wouldn’t have cut it. There was also the fact that some of the more expensive purchases could only be made by credit card.

  Swiftly, efficiently, with the expertise of people trained to use them, Helen and Farrell unwrapped and examined three Winchester 1300 Defender pump-action, 12-gauge shotguns. The general had also picked up bandoliers, speedloaders, and two hundred rounds of shotgun ammunition — plus more ammo for his Beretta and Mcdowell’s SIG-Sauer P228.

  The shotgun ammo came in five-round boxes. Most of it was triple-ought, three-inch magnum loads holding nine pellets the size of pistol bullets, but there were also several boxes of solid slugs and sabot.

  The solid slugs were just that — one lead round filling the entire shotgun shell. They were terribly inaccurate when fired from an unrifled barrel, but they made very good “doorbreakers.”

  The Winchester sabot rounds were more exotic. Each shell carried a smaller, finned projectile. Using them allowed a shotgun to be fired accurately at a distant target — and with enough punch to go through a steel door.

  They’d almost finished when Peter emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of noxious vapor.

  Farrell coughed. “Any problems?”

  “Aside from my stinging eyes?” Peter shook his head. “The stuff’s curing now in the tub.” He took in the arrayed weapons with a satisfied smile — a smile that grew even broader when he saw the aluminum suitcase Farrell had set beside the bed. A small, embossed plate above the handle read “Mossberg.”