Day of Wrath

Steinhof looked at his watch and seemed to consider something.

Then he looked up. “Zangen and his family live close by.

Why don’t I take you to his apartment myself? I’ am certain he would not mind.”

“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”

“No trouble.” The silver-haired man shook his head. “Less beer for me tonight means less fat here tomorrow,” he said, patting his stomach.

“Come.” Steinhof gestured toward the door. “A ten-minute walk and then you can ask Zangen all your questions.”

With a nod to the bartender, the two Americans followed Steinhof out of the door. He immediately turned north, away from the waterfront.

This close to sunset the traffic was heavy along Banter Weg Strasse, but they soon turned off onto a smaller street, Bremer, and then a still smaller one, Kruger. The car and foot traffic thinned with each turning. Most of Wilhelmshaven had been leveled by American B-17 bombers trying to hit Nazi sub pens during World War II. Now they were in a part of the city that had not been bombed out or reconstructed, and the streets twisted and curved. The buildings were older, too — sometimes in need of work, but more often neat and well maintained.

They crossed into a residential area — mostly larger nineteenthcentury town houses that had been broken up into flats — and it was getting difficult to keep their bearings. Helen made the effort, though, because it would be dark by the time they finished talking to Steinhof’s friend.

She spotted a man following them while craning her head around to double-check a landmark for later reference. He was tall, darkhaired, and no more than twenty feet behind them.

She’d caught him in the midst of turning his own head-swinging around to look back the way they’d just come.

Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She knew exactly what the stranger was doing. She’d done it herself on a dozen different close surveillance assignments. The man behind them was making sure they weren’t being followed.

Her gaze swept out in an instant — tightly focused on the area around them. Shit. Besides the big man behind, there were at least three others. Two were out in front, strolling casually while conversing.

The third was across the street, easily keeping pace with them while pretending to read the evening paper.

She and Peter were caught in a moving, ready-made am-bush — pinned in plain view. She grimaced, angry at herself for getting sloppy. After Pechenga, she should have realized that paranoia was the only sane course.

The only other person in sight was well behind them and across the street — an old woman tottering homeward under the weight of a single grocery bag. No help there. They were on their own.

Helen turned her head forward. Peter was a little ahead, still chatting with the ever-talkative Steinhof. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the seemingly helpful German had set them up.

How he’d known where they would be wasn’t important. Not at the moment. What mattered most was where she and Peter were being led now.

She took an extra half step forward, catching up with the two men, and slipped her arm through Peter’s. After a few more steps, she casually laid her head on his shoulder. He glanced down at her.

“Trap. Box pattern,” Helen whispered softly. “Four, plus Steinhof.”

She felt Peter stiffen momentarily, then his hand slipped down into hers and squeezed.

Steinhof turned his head toward her, still smiling. “You said something, Fraulein Anderson?”

“Just that it was awfully nice of you to bring us all this way, Herr Steinhof,” Helen lied, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

Their guide smiled broadly. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you.

We in Wilhelmshaven pride ourselves on treating our visitors as honored guests.”

Helen gritted her teeth. Somehow she doubted that the average tourist was slated for a bullet in the back of the skull and a quick, anonymous burial somewhere out in the North Sea. It was agony to walk casually down the street, knowing that they were in the jaws of a trap that might close at any moment.

Peter let her hand go, but not before exerting a gentle pressure against her palm — pushing her back behind him. He was getting ready to move.

Helen dropped back half a pace.

Steinhof nodded to a narrow, dimly lit side street just ahead.

“There we are. Zangen and his family live only a few doors down.”

The two men pacing them in front turned left and headed down that street — disappearing around the corner. Helen tensed.

They must be nearly in the planned kill zone.

Thorn saw the first two men vanish around the corner. For the next several seconds, it would be two against three — instead of five. They weren’t going to get a better chance. He spun toward Steinhof, yelling, “Now!”

Helen whirled toward the man following right behind them and disappeared out of Thorn’s field of view.