Day of Wrath

He keyed in a code and then the phone number displayed on his pager.

An automated system routed his call through several dummy numbers before dialing his contact — vastly complicating any attempt to trace the call.

A cautious voice answered. “Mcdowell.”

“This is Heinrich Wolf,” Reichardt said smoothly. “From Secure Investments, Limited. What can I do for you, Mr. Mcdowell?”

“You’ve got a problem,” Mcdowell said. “Two problems, in fact.”

Reichardt listened in silence and mounting irritation while the American FBI official filled him in on the fax he’d just received from Berlin. Although they’d survived Kleiner’s abortive ambush in Pechenga, he’d thought Special Agent Gray and Colonel Thorn were out of the picture-on their way home to the United States in disgrace. But now here they were again — popping up with data he’d believed completely secure. One of the loose ends he’d gone to enormous lengths to tie up had come unraveled again. Somehow the two Americans had tracked the cargo transfer in Bergen.

“Where are they now?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Mcdowell reluctantly admitted. “The fax is six hours old already. And they could have arranged for a delayed transmission.”

Reichardt scowled, thinking fast. With at least a six-hour head start, these two American troublemakers could be well on their way to almost anywhere. Chasing them would be futile, he realized. This would have to be an entirely different sort of hunt.

He gripped the cellular phone tighter. “I need more information on Thorn and Gray. Immediately.”

Mcdowell hesitated but only for an instant. Both he and Reichardt knew who held all the aces in the game they were playing. “I have photos and personnel files on both of them.”

“Good. Then you can fax them to me now.” Reichardt gave the American one of the dummy numbers that would ultimately connect with his phone, disconnected, and plugged a cable into the cell phone.

Within minutes, the portable fax machine he carried in his briefcase spat out two photos and several pages of personal and professional data — all stamped “FBI Confidential.” He rang Mcdowell back. “You’ve done good work, Mr. Mcdowell. I think I can promise you a high return on your latest investment.”’ “I don’t want more money,” the FBI agent said shortly. “I want out. I’m running too many goddamned risks here.”

“We all run risks, PEREGRINE,” Reichardt mockingly chided.

“There are no rewards without them. True?”

There was silence on the other end, and Reichardt knew Mcdowell was cursing himself. Every act he committed tightened the noose around his neck, giving the German more control.

Time to dangle some cheese in front of the rat. “Don’t worry so much, Mr. Mcdowell. Your assistance is valued. It reduces your debt to us.

Soon, you will hear no more from me.”

The FBI official couldn’t hide the desperate hope in his voice.

“When?”

“Soon,” Reichardt repeated. He snapped the phone shut.

Ignoring the sweat trickling down his forehead in the stifling car, he scanned the papers he’d been sent. One eyebrow went up as he paged through the official records of the two Americans’ past exploits as members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. No wonder they’d bested poor Kleiner and his hired Russian bandits in combat.

This Peter Thorn and Helen Gray were dangerous, Reichardt reflected.

Too dangerous. And too damned persistent. They’d already pierced three layers of the elaborate veil he’d drawn over the Operation. If he left them on the loose much longer, they might get too close to the core — and draw too much official attention with them.

At least he now knew where they were headed next. The Americans had discovered that the ship they were chasing, Baltic Venturer, had sailed to Wilhelmshaven. From what he had learned from their files, Thorn and Gray would not abandon the chase. Not when they were hot on the scent.

Reichardt considered his options carefully, and then made several phone calls. The first was to his security team leader in Wilhelmshaven.

There would be no subtlety this time. The time was too short. This time he would demand certainty.

Wilhelmshaven Heinz Steinhof alternated between pacing up and down Weserstrasse and standing across the street from the Port Authority office.

It was late in the afternoon, but he couldn’t bet on the two Americans arriving today-or ever. In fact, for all he knew, they’d already come and gone, and his men would be watching and waiting until the end of time.

Which they would, or at least until Reichardt told them to stop.

Reichardt’s phone call earlier that afternoon had surprised Steinhof.

The security team was almost through with its job of “sanitizing” the temporary Caraco export office in Wilhelmshaven.

Two of his best operatives had already left for the United States. Now all their work had to be set aside so they could hunt for two American snoopers.

It wasn’t the job that bothered Steinhof. Find two people and kill them. Easy enough. He’d done it before.