Day of Wrath

“That’s a risk we must be willing to run, my friend. Rumors or not, these are extremely serious allegations. I don’t want to paper them over. Let’s act as the good corporate citizens that we are and offer General Farrell a fair hearing.”

Caraco Offices, Connecticut Avenue, Washington, D.C. Caraco’s Washington offices occupied the two top floors of a twelve-story building right in the city’s nerve center. The elevator only went up to the eleventh floor.

Sam Farrell stepped off and found himself confronted by both a receptionist and an armed security guard. The receptionist was a stunningly beautiful Asian-American woman.

The guard, with a crew cut and in his mid-thirties, looked like a professional — definitely a step above the usual moonlighting policeman or cop wannabe.

“Good evening, General Farrell,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Garrett is on the phone at the moment, I’m afraid. If you’ll wait in the lounge, I’ll let you know as soon as he’s free.” She indicated a door to the right.

The lounge was designed to impress visitors — and it worked.

One entire wall was glassed in, offering a spectacular view of the White House, the Washington Monument, and Lafayette Park. The taupe carpet was so thick that Farrell left footprints, and the other walls were covered with original oils by contemporary American artists — Hopper, Wyeth, Stella, and Thiebaud not the generic corporate prints for sale at office furniture stores.

Farrell had just started picking out landmarks in the city below when the receptionist appeared at the door. “Mr. Garrett can see you now, General.”

She led him through the reception area, through a pair of double doors, and then up a spiral staircase.

Garrett’s penthouse office had the same magnificent view. The man himself, white-haired and perfectly attired in a crisply tailored business suit, turned away from the window and strode over to greet him.

“I’m very glad to meet you, General Farrell,” the lawyer said. He gestured toward a small group of chairs clustered around a coffee table. “Please take a seat.”

Farrell followed him over and sat down. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Garrett. Especially under the circumstances.”’ The other man showed a set of perfect white teeth in a quick, humorless smile. “But the circumstances are what bring us together, General.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I can assure you that we take your allegations regarding Caraco Transport and its employees seriously — very seriously indeed. In fact, I’ve—” Suddenly, Garrett broke off and got to his feet, facing the spiral staircase. “Your Highness! This is an unexpected honor …”

Farrell turned his head and then followed suit.

A tall, slender man with jet-black hair and dark, hooded eyes had just appeared at the top of the stairs.

Garrett hurriedly introduced him. “Your Highness, I present Major General Farrell. General, this is His Highness, Prince Ibrahim al Saud, the chairman and chief executive officer of Caraco.”

The Saudi prince waved them down as he drew nearer.

“Please, sit down. I’m very sorry to interrupt.”

Another man followed him into Garrett’s office. He was about Farrell’s height and weight, with graying dark hair. Gray eyes gleamed behind a pair of black-frame glasses.

“General, this is Heinrich Wolf,” Ibrahim said, nodding toward the newcomer. “Herr Wolf is the chief of security for our European enterprises. I hope you don’t mind my including him in this meeting.”

“Not at all, sir.” Farrell held out his hand as Wolf stepped closer.

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt deliberately softened his grip as he shook hands with the retired American soldier. He wanted to project the image of a business executive or a bureaucrat. Or just another harmless paper pusher. Let Farrell think he was the only warrior in the room.

After they were all seated, Ibrahim leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Now, perhaps you could give us more details of these claims of yours, General Farrell. From what little I’ve heard, you’ve made some very grave charges against several of my subsidiary companies.”

Farrell nodded somberly. “That’s true, Your Highness. But I’m afraid there are very real indications that some of your people are involved in either illegal arms or narcotics smuggling …”

Reichardt listened carefully as the American outlined the evidence he must have been given by his protege Thorn and that damned woman FBI agent. Farrell’s version dovetailed reasonably well with the information already provided by Mcdowell.

Nevertheless, it was irksome to hear again in detail just how deeply his operational security had been breached.

When Farrell had finished, Ibrahim sat back, shaking his head in apparent dismay. “I see your point, General. This certainly looks bad.”

The Saudi turned toward Reichardt. “This unpleasant situation seems to fall mostly in your jurisdiction, Heinrich.

Do you have any comments or questions?”