Day of Wrath

“I have instructions to make sure that these engines reach their destination intact and on time. I am also authorized to take any measures necessary to accomplish that task. Any measures.

Do you understand me?” Reichardt waited for his message to sink in.

With his eyes darting back and forth between the two hardfaced men standing beside him, the young Russian customs official hurriedly nodded again.

“Good,” Reichardt said calmly and dismissively. “Our papers are in order, and you have inspected the cargo to confirm that it contains the jet engines we are authorized to export. We will now proceed with the loading.”

Without a second glance, he stepped aside and turned away.

Raminsky started to say something more, but it came out only as a strangled cough. Then he turned on his heels and fled quickly down the pier, clutching his paperwork to his chest.

The longshoremen, who had all observed Raminsky’s humiliating retreat, returned to their work reenergized. The last crate was secured in the Star of the White Sea’s hold by midafternoon.

After shaking hands with the captain and wishing him a safe voyage, Reichardt sought out one of his security team, a darkhaired, powerfully built man. “Is the plane ready, Johann?”

“Yes, sir. And your luggage is already aboard.” Johann Brandt had served under Reichardt in the Stasi. He was competent, efficient, and completely loyal to his superior. Like his fellow operatives in Reichardt’s Revolutionary Movements Liaison Section, Brandt had gone underground just before East Germany collapsed-emerging with a new identity and a much fatter bank account.

All of Reichardt’s subordinates would obey any command he gave them.

They had all made the same Faustian bargain — selling their souls for vast sums of money.

“Good. And our people on the Star know what to do?”

Brandt nodded.

“And the others are ready to close our office here?”

Brandt nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

For several weeks Reichardt’s men had operated out of a rented flat near Pechenga’s small harbor — guarding shipments, keeping track of port officials and local law enforcement, and watching for strangers.

Now that this phase of the Operation was complete, it was time to move his men to new posts in other cities. There was other work to be done.

Investigation Base Camp, Northern Russia Colonel Peter Thorn pushed aside the newest bag of personal effects recovered from the crash site and sat back from the worktable.

He stripped off the pair of latex surgical gloves he wore when handling potential evidence and rubbed at sore eyes. Too little sleep and too much close work in bad light had left them feeling gritty, almost raw.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and looked up into Helen Gray’s worried face.

“You okay, Peter?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.” He covered her hand with his.

‘“Just like you.”

They were all on the edge of exhaustion. Since Alexei Koniev had found nearly two kilos of pure heroin in Colonel Anatoly Gasparov’s luggage, the three of them had been working almost around the clock to try to pin down just what had gone wrong aboard the An-32 carrying Gasparov, John Avery, and the rest of the O.S.I.A inspection team.

Although neither the NTSB nor the Russian Aviation Authority experts were willing to label the crash as anything but an accident yet, finding a million-plus dollars of illegal drugs aboard the downed aircraft added up to one hell of a potential motive for sabotage.

Helen and the Russian MVD major spent most of their time on the secure communications channel to Moscow or poring over the voluminous police and surveillance files faxed to them.

Operating on the working theory that Gasparov might have fallen afoul of a rival drug-dealing Mafiya gang, they were trying desperately to trace his most recent movements and any suspicious contacts.

Which left Thorn with the painstaking grunt work of sifting through the rest of the crash victims’ personal effects — looking for something, anything, that might shed some light on the situation.

He was still puzzled by the discrepancy between Avery’s inspection logbook and the other two they’d recovered so far. Faint alarm bells went off whenever he saw the circled weapons serial number, but he couldn’t make it connect with Gasparov’s apparent heroin smuggling. In any event, both Washington’s and Moscow’s records were quite clear.

Avery and all of his teammates had given the Kandalaksha special weapons storage depot a clean bill of health before boarding the doomed An32.

Helen pointed her chin toward the bag he’d set aside. “Find anything more?”

“Nope.” Thorn shook his head. “A couple more wallets. Part of a key chain. Pieces of a couple of paperback books. Nothing significant.”’ He looked up at her. “How about you? Any progress?”