Day of Wrath

The older man stepped forward to meet them. He growled something in terse, guttural Russian to their interpreter, folded his arms, and stood waiting — silent and apparently utterly uninterested in any response.

“This is First Deputy Director Leonid Mamontov of the Federal Aviation Authority,” the interpreter said hurriedly. He hesitated and then went on. “The Deputy Director welcomes you to Russia and looks forward to close cooperation in this important investigation. He has’ prepared a preliminary briefing in the headquarters tent.”

While Nielsen made his own introductions, Thorn carefully eyed the short, stocky, unsmiling man in front of them, sure that the interpreter had massively shaded his translation. Mamontov looked more likely to welcome close-quarters combat with his American counterparts than cooperation.

The Russian official raised a single bushy eyebrow when Nielsen introduced him. Then he simply grunted, shook his head in disgust, and swung away, stomping toward the largest tent across the clearing.

Nielsen shrugged apologetically to Thorn and hurried after the Russian — followed closely by the interpreter and the rest of his team.

Terrific, Thorn thought grimly. This mission was off to a bangup start. If others at the accident scene shared this bureaucrat’s evident disdain, they were all in for a very rough ride.

A polite cough broke his bleak train of thought. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, he quickly turned back to face the man and woman who had accompanied Mamontov to meet the helicopter.

They were still standing close by, waiting to be noticed.

“I apologize for Director Mamontov’s behavior, Colonel,” the man said quietly in almost flawless English. Then he grinned, showing white, perfect teeth. “But I assure you it is nothing personal.

The minister does not like soldiers or policemen of any sort. Whether they are American or Russian is immaterial.”

Still smiling, the younger Russian held out his hand. “I am Major Alexei Koniev of the Ministry of the Interior, by the way.

So I, too, am one of Mamontov’s untouchables.”

Careful to hide his surprise, Thorn shook hands with the slender, fair-haired man. “Glad to meet you, Major.”

He wouldn’t have suspected Koniev was a plainclothes policeman — especially not one with such a high rank. He looked too young and his clothes seemed wrong somehow. The Russian’s jacket, shirt, and jeans, though clearly rugged and durable, were also immaculately tailored and expensivelooking.

Faint warning bells rang in Thorn’s mind. MVD officers were charged with protecting Russia against everything from outright rebellion to organized crime — a sort of National Guard and FBI all rolled up into one. But they were also notoriously poorly paid.

So how could this Koniev character afford the latest Western outdoor wear?

He knew one of the possible answers to that question. The need to pad their skinflint salaries led a lot of MVD officers down the road to corruption. Russia’s powerful criminal syndicates were only too willing to distribute generous bribes to bury their hooks deep inside the government and its law enforcement agencies.

He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Koniev. His first impressions of the MVD officer were favorable. But first impressions could get you killed. And even old friends could betray you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Iran two years before.

“Permit me to introduce you to my American colleague, Special Agent Helen Gray of your FBI,” Koniev continued.

Thorn turned to the slim, pretty, darkhaired woman at the Russian major’s side, noting the faint smile she was trying unsuccessfully to conceal. Her eyes seemed even bluer than he remembered.

“Thank you, Major,” he said gravely. “But Special Agent Gray and I already know each other fairly well.”

She nodded calmly. “I thought you might try to poke your nose under this tent, Colonel Thorn. But I didn’t see your name on the flight manifest. How exactly did you manage to swing an invitation from the NTSB?”

“Held my breath. Refused to eat my lunch. Threatened to wire their office coffeepots with C-4. All the usual stuff,” Thorn said flatly.

He shrugged. “They finally caved in.”

Helen laughed softly. “I see you’re still as smooth and charming as ever, Peter.”

Koniev had been swinging his head from one to the other in growing puzzlement. Now he snapped his fingers. “Ah!

Now I understand. You are old friends, yes?”

Without taking his eyes off Helen Gray, Thorn answered quietly, “Yes, Major, that’s right. We’re old friends. Very old friends.”

An-32 Crash Site, Near the Ileksa River, Northern Russia Colonel Peter Thorn wearily pushed back the hood of the rubberized chemical protection suit he’d been given. He wiped the sweat and dirt off his brow. After spending two hours tramping across the crash site with Major Koniev, he needed a breather.