Day of Wrath

“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.”