Day of Wrath

Two more corners brought them out onto a major street — Bismarckstrasse.

Mercedes, Flats, Audis, and Volkswagens roared past in both directions.

After snapping a quick look back in the direction they’d come, Peter flagged down a passing cab and bundled Helen inside.

He rapped on the partition separating them from the driver.

“The Bahnhofi Schnell, bitte!” Then he swung around to face her. “You okay?” Still breathing hard, Helen nodded.

“You’re sure?” Peter persisted. Truth be told, her left leg hurt like hell. The sudden explosion of violent hand-to-hand combat had strained her old injury. But she was alive.

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “What about you? Who the hell was that guy Steinhof?”

He grimaced. “Definitely pro.”

“You think we should leave Wilhelmshaven …” Helen let her voice trail off.

He nodded again, still grim-faced. “Yeah. Don’t you?”

Helen ran over the events of the last few minutes in her mind.

They’d left two men lying dead in the street. Plus, they’d left a witness — the elderly German woman — whose testimony was bound to indicate that she and Peter had made the first hostile moves in the brief, bloody confrontation. She frowned. “You don’t trust the German police?”

“Not much. Not under the circumstances.” Peter looked out at the brightly lit buildings flashing past. “It might take days to clear up exactly what happened. And I don’t think we have many days left. Even if the embassy managed to spring us sooner, home we’d go, under airtight security this time — looking like fools.”

“Plus, we know there are still at least three of those bastards alive out there — alive and looking for us,” Helen said slowly.

“And they’ll be waiting for us out at the docks.”

The cab stopped in front of the busy, bustling train station, and they hurried inside to retrieve their bags from the lockers.

The next train for Berlin wasn’t due to leave for another few hours — far too long to loiter inconspicuously, even on the crowded station concourse. Instead they hopped the first train out — one headed for Hannover.

By the time the Wilhelmshaven police started interviewing witnesses, they were rolling south at eighty kilometers per hour.

CHAPTER ELEVEN SAFE HAVEN

JUNE 12

_{Pension Wentzler, Lichtenberg Borough, Berlin}

Helen Gray gingerly peeled down her jeans and dispassionately studied the varicolored bruises running down the length of her left thigh. She shrugged after a moment. Painful, yes, but she hadn’t suffered any serious injury. Nothing that some aspirin, cold washcloths, and a few hours’ rest couldn’t handle.

Rest would be welcome in any case. She and Peter Thorn had been on the move almost constantly for nearly seventy-two hours now, and they were running a little ragged. They’d each managed to grab a couple of hours of fitful sleep on the early morning train from Hannover to Berlin, but that wasn’t really enough to fully recharge their batteries.

She rebuttoned the jeans, turned to face the tiny bathroom’s little mirror, and brushed her hair back into place. Satisfied with her appearance for the time being, she stepped quietly out into the equally tiny bedroom and closed the door behind her.

Peter Thorn looked up from the documents he’d been studying for what must be the twentieth time. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

Peter scooted over to make room for her on the narrow bed.

The bed, a single, straight-backed metal chair, and a used, battered wooden wardrobe were the only pieces of furniture in their room.

Helen took in their surroundings and shook her head in amusement. This hotel wasn’t exactly the Ritz. On the other hand, they did have a private bath — an uncommon luxury among small, family-run pensions. And the Pension Wentzler had several other things going for it from their perspective — it was relatively inexpensive, inconspicuous, and so small that days might pass before its owners delivered their guest registers to the police as required by German law. The pension was also in what had once been East Berlin — far enough away from the glitz and glitter of the West Berlin shopping districts to be fairly quiet.

Of course, there was some irony implicit in their choice of sanctuary, she knew. The hotel was just a few blocks away from the once-feared headquarters of East Germany’s disbanded Ministry of State Security — the Stasi.

“You still think we should phone home?” Peter’s question brought her out of her reverie.

Helen nodded. “Yes, I do.” She ticked off her reasons. “First, we’ve followed the trail as far as we can on our own. And whatever’s hidden inside those smuggled jet engines could be arriving in Texas in the next day or so. If we’re chasing a stolen Russian nuke, that’s a risk we can’t run, We have to push the Bureau’s wheels into motion — now, not later.”

“All true,” Peter admitted. “But I still hate the thought of relying on Mcdowell for anything …”