Day of Wrath

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, Highness. 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.