Day of Wrath

When Reichardt had found him almost thirty years before, he’d been an unwilling conscript in the East German National People’s Army.

Steinhof had been working as an enforcer for a gambler in the barracks — something that had brought him to the attention of his military superiors, and, as it turned out, to the Stasi as well.

Reichardt had solved the People’s Army’s discipline problem by recruiting Steinhof for secret work himself.

In the years since, the ex-soldier had conducted many different missions for Reichardt — murders, assassinations, bombings, and smuggling operations of different kinds. Most had been dangerous.

All had been difficult.

But Reichardt had carefully planned and painstakingly researched all those assignments. It was the other man’s strength and safeguard. By the time Steinhof tightened a wire garrote around someone’s neck, he not only knew the perfect time and place to do it, but why the garrote was better than the knife or the gun.

Now, though, all he had to work with were a pair of names and two photos — faxed once and then faxed again, growing muddier with each transmission. Reichardt apparently knew nothing about when this Thorn and Gray would arrive in the city, or indeed, if they would come at all. It was unsettling, but Steinhof knew better than to press his superior for more information. Men who called Rolf Ulrich Reichardt’s imperfections to his attention tended to have short life spans.

At least, he knew the two Americans would be seeking news of the Baltic Venturer. That gave a focus to Steinhof’s surveillance plan.

With just six men left, counting himself, the ex-Stasi agent could only cover the Port Authority office and the Customs House. But that should be enough. Assuming they came to Wilhelmshaven at all, the Americans would have to go to one or the other if they were interested in information about Baltic Venturer.

Steinhof glanced down at the pictures he still held in his hands.

Reichardt had warned him to handle this man and woman with care. And their records made it clear that they were deadly close-combat fighters.

He smiled thinly. If he and his men did their jobs right, the two Americans would never realize they were in a fight — not until that last instant before the light and life faded from their eyes.

Port Authority Office, Wilhelmshaven Helen Gray took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Wilhelmshaven’s salt-scented air and trying to wake herself up. The fortyeight hours since she and Peter Thorn had ditched their ride home to the States had been a blur of short-haul plane flights, long train rides, and restless sleep snatched wherever and whenever possible.

After flying back into Berlin from Bergen, they’d passed what little was left of last night in a tourist hostel in one of the German capital’s cheaper districts. This morning they’d hopped the first passenger train heading here. They’d left their bags in a locker at the Wilhelmshaven train station. Neither of them wanted to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary.

She caught Peter suppressing a yawn of his own and nudged him gently.

“You up for this? Or do you want a nap first?”

He shrugged. “Aged, ancient, and weary as I am, I think I can hobble on, Miss Gray. How about you?”

Helen shook her head, checking her pockets for the fake business cards that identified her as an American journalist named Susan Anderson.

Satisfied, she squared her shoulders and led the way across the street.

The Port Authority office occupied the entire ground floor of a commercial building on the south side of the Weserstrasse. Inquiries at the front counter finally produced a drab brunette named Fraulein Geiss, who spoke enough English to answer their questions.

The German woman tapped the counter impatiently. “How may I help you, Fraulein Anderson?”

Helen did all the talking again. “We’re looking for information on a Wilhelmshaven-registered ship, Baltic Venturer. Specifically, the dates of her last arrival and departure, where she docked, and what cargo she carried.”

The brunette studied Helen’s business card curiously. “You are a reporter, yes?”

“That’s right.” Helen nodded.

“May I ask, why do you want this information?”

“Of course.” Helen smiled politely. “We’re doing research for a business news story on the North Sea trade — analyzing the effects of the new open markets in Russia and Eastern Europe. I’m especially interested in seeing how the growing competition from former Soviet bloc merchant ships is affecting established Western routes and customer relationships …” She watched the German woman’s eyes glazing over and hid a smile. Answering potentially awkward questions with a flood of information — all of it boring — was often an effective way to make sure no more awkward questions were asked.

After several more seconds, Fraulein Geiss held up her hand.

“Enough, please, Fraulein Anderson. I understand your need.

Allow me to check for you.”