Day of Wrath

They were trying to analyze this situation with far too few solid facts — something he found akin to playing pin the tail on the donkey in a pitchblack room you weren’t even sure had a donkey in it. Their training taught them to be intuitive, to look for links and hidden relationships. But their training also taught them the need to confirm hunches with hard evidence. So where was that confirmation?

While Helen riffled through the customs forms, Thorn sat back in his chair-trying different pieces of the puzzle in different combinations.

Suddenly she looked up at him. “Baltic Venturer was carrying titanium scrap, right?”

“Right.”

“Don’t jet engines contain a lot of titanium?” Helen said slowly.

The light dawned. “They just changed the label! Jesus, it’s simple.

Grease a palm somewhere and one tiny line changes on one lousy form.”

“And then changes again when the engines are transferred for the second time?” Helen asked.

“Maybe,” Thorn said. He pulled the customs forms back again.

“Let’s take a closer look at exactly what the Caraco Savannah was carrying when she left port.”

This time it stood out like a sore thumb. The remarks column of the German manifest described the “auxiliary electric generators” more fully as gas turbines.

Helen followed his pointing finger. “A jet engine could also be called a kind of gas turbine, couldn’t it?”

“Yep,” Thorn agreed. He scanned the report again. “Now let’s see where she was taking those generators.”

He was silent for a moment, then turned his head to look directly at Helen. “Galveston. Whatever Serov and his boys put in those engines, it’s headed for the U.S.”

Helen stared back at him. “Christ, Peter. If that ship sailed on the fifth, she could already be close to the States right now.”

Thorn nodded grimly, considering the possibility that a freighter might be drawing ever nearer to the U.S. with a smuggled Russian nuke on board.

“We’ve got to call this in, Peter,” Helen said flatly.

“Yeah.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after quitting time on the docks. And we’re going to need confirmation before Washington will take any action. We’ve got to find somebody who saw those crates shifted from ship to ship with his own eyes. Somebody who’ll swear to it under oath, if it comes to that.”

Helen nodded. “So we go pub crawling again?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.” Thorn drained his cold coffee in one gulp and stood up. “In a tearing hurry, Helen. I’ve got a really bad feeling that we’re running against the clock now.”

The last light was fading across the Jadebusen by the time they settled on a likely spot to begin their search — a waterfront bar close to berth S43 named Zur Alten Cafe The bar turned out to be one large room laid out with long tables running almost its entire length. What little light made it through the smoke was soaked up by the dark paneling and dark wood floors. Knots of men sat close together at the tables, eating from plates piled high with food and drinking from massive glass beer steins.

Helen Gray stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking as she felt her eyes starting to smart from all the cigarette smoke hanging in the air.

She was instantly aware that once again she was the only woman in the whole place, and that her light colored business suit stood out like a beacon against the rough, oil-stained work clothes worn by the longshoremen crowding the room. Even Peter’s jeans and sweatshirt looked out of place in here.

She slipped through the crowd to the bar itself, aware of Peter pushing right behind her. The bartender spoke only a little English, enough to understand that she was American and that she was interested in a “schiff”—a ship. Anything more complicated faded into mutual incomprehensibility.

Helen swung around as one of the other patrons, an older, silver-haired man, came to her rescue.

“Excuse me, please, but I speak a little English. May I help you?” he asked, speaking loudly over the hubbub in the packed room.

Helen turned on the charm, favoring the German with a dazzling smile.

“That would be wonderful, Herr …?”

The silver-haired man smiled back. “Steinhof. Heinz Steinhof.”

He listened intently to her explanation, but held up a hand as soon as she mentioned berth S43 and the Baltic Venturer. “I am a supervisor for cargo, but that is not one of my berths. However, my friend Zangen handles that area of the harbor. He is a meticulous and thorough man.

So I am sure that he would remember this ship and what she loaded and unloaded.”

“Where can we find Herr Zangen?” Helen asked. “Is he here this evening?”

Steinhof seemed amused. “Zangen?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. Fritz Zangen is a most responsible man — a family man. He will be at home with his wife and children at this hour.”

Damn. Helen hid her disappointment. “Is there any way we can contact Herr Zangen? Perhaps make an appointment to speak with him? Tonight, if possible?”

“This is a matter of some urgency, then, Fraulein Anderson?” the older German asked, clearly curious now.

“It is, I’m afraid.”