Day of Wrath

Sweating now, and enjoying the exertion, Ibrahim piled a fourth and fifth bag atop the writhing Pakistani. By now only the young man’s legs were visible. They kicked at the floor, wildly at first, and then slower and slower.

Ibrahim stood back, watching and waiting. Even after a full minute by his watch, the Pakistani’s legs still quivered spasmodically.

It took another thirty seconds before all movement ceased.

He turned to Talal. The security chief stood impassively waiting by the door. “Clear this mess up. And get rid of the body tonight.”

There were plenty of lonely places in rural Virginia, and Ibrahim knew Talal would bury the body deep.

“What do we tell the rest of the workers, Highness?” the security chief asked quietly.

“That he was caught stealing, and that we have turned him over to the American police.”

Talal nodded silently and bent to begin hefting the bags back into place.

Ibrahim stepped past him and headed for the main house — eager to read Reichardt’s latest report. Pleasurable or not, he’d wasted enough time on trivial matters for now.

CHAPTER TEN EXECUTION DOCK

JUNE 11

_{Berkeley County Airport, Outside Charleston, South Carolina (D MINUS 10)}

Berkeley County Airport was a small, single-strip field twenty-five miles north-northwest of Charleston, just one mile from the town of Moncks Corner. Church spires dotted the town’s skyline.

To the northeast loomed the swampy forest of cypress and scrub pine that had sheltered Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” during the American Revolution. The olive-green waters of Lake Moultrie glittered in the distance.

Buildings clustered north of the runway, linked by dirt and gravel roads. The facilities of the general aviation firms based there — aircraft rental companies, an aerial surveyor, a flying school, and an air charter service — were dwarfed by Caraco’s three brandnew steel-frame hangars and two smaller buildings.

A forbidding chainlink fence surrounded the compound.

Rolf Ulrich Reichardt emerged from one of-the hangars and stood blinking in the bright morning sunshine. He mopped impatiently at his forehead, already finding the Southern heat and humidity oppressive. A small plane — a single-engine Cessna — droned low overhead, touched the runway, and trundled past, taxiing toward the rows of other private aircraft lined up on the lush green grass. Another Cessna circled lazily off in the distance — waiting its turn to land.

Berkeley had no control tower. Pilots using the field listened to a common radio frequency, Unicorn, and worked out any traffic control problems among themselves.

Reichardt turned to his escort, who stood waiting patiently at his side, completely attentive to his superior’s needs.

Dieter Krauss was one of Reichardt’s men from the old days.

He was reliable, if utterly unimaginative. Once he’d headed a Stasi Special Action squad, used to beat dissidents whose activities the State found inconvenient or irritating. But Krauss had aged poorly, and his strength had faded. Too many vices.

Now in his early fifties, he looked like a man fifteen years older.

He was still useful in a supervisory role, and in an operation of this magnitude, Reichardt needed every agent he could lay his hands on.

“You have had no trouble from the locals?” Reichardt asked.

He inclined his head toward the small shed that housed the airport manager. “No difficult questions?”

Krauss shook his head. “No. They have all accepted our cover story.”

Reichardt nodded. The county officials who ran the airport had been informed that Caraco intended its new facility as a transfer point for corporate executives flying in from its other U.S. enterprises to Charleston. Given the high landing, maintenance, and aircraft parking fees at Charleston International, none of them were surprised that Caraco viewed their field as a low-cost alternative. In any event, no responsible local official would turn up his nose at the promise of added revenues flowing into the airport coffers.

His pager buzzed. He checked the name and number displayed and pursed his lips. Interesting.

With a single, sharp nod, Reichardt dismissed Krauss and sent him back to work. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back through the gate to where he’d parked his rental can-a sleek, comfortable Monte Carlo.

Even though he’d parked in the shade, the car’s interior was already sweltering. Despite the sticky heat, the German pulled the car door firmly shut behind him. There was no point taking a chance that a local might overhear him, and absolutely no sense in allowing the man he was about to call to hear anything that might let him guess Reichardt’s location.

The Monte Carlo came equipped with a car phone, but Reichardt ignored that. Instead, he opened his briefcase and removed his own digital cellular phone. It contained an encryption chip that would prevent either casual or deliberate eavesdropping.