Day of Wrath

“So do I,” Helen said. “Like it or not, though, he’s my boss. If we want to send our data up the chain of command, he’s the guy we have to start with. And, as much as I hate it, the weasel has the kind of clout we need to get out of Germany without being asked too many inconvenient questions.”

Peter nodded reluctantly.

Helen knew he was remembering their earlier assessments of the situation they were in. After the carnage they’d left on that quiet Wilhelmshaven residential street, Germany’s highly efficient law enforcement agencies were undoubtedly looking for them. Not by name.

Not yet. But the police were sure to have obtained fairly accurate descriptions of the two Americans last seen in Herr Steinhof’s company.

With those in hand, putting real names to their faces was only a matter of time.

The longer she and Peter stayed out on their own, the higher the odds they’d be arrested and charged with manslaughter — or its equivalent in German law. They’d achieved a lot operating on their own — without a legal safety net-but it was time to come in from the cold.

Helen checked her watch, mentally subtracting six hours to arrive at the local time in Washington, D.C. Washington, D.C. Deputy Assistant Director Lawrence Mcdowell tossed his briefcase to one side and plopped himself down in the plush chair behind his desk. He scanned quickly through the overnight reports from the FBI’s overseas offices, looking for anything particularly urgent or interesting. Nothing struck his eye.

With that out of the way, he turned to the one-page memo on top of his internal action pile. It was a draft of his latest press release — listing the most recent accomplishments of his outfit, the FBI’s International Relations Branch. Grist for the media mill, it would be shotgunned out to more than a hundred newspapers, radio stations, television networks, wire services, and interest groups.

With luck, the release would catch some editor’s eye somewhere and become part of tomorrow’s news. If it did, the circle would be completed — because a clipping of that story would land on the Director’s desk.

Mcdowell ran his finger through the draft, scowled, reached for a marker, and then scrawled “Redo!” across the top in large red letters.

His name appeared only once in the release and that was in the last paragraph. He drew a red circle around that section and then a line pointing to the front. He also crafted several sentences ascribing the field office successes to the personal leadership of both Mcdowell and the Director himself.

Any complaints from his underlings would be met with his usual reminder that “RHIP”—rank hath its privileges — followed by an insincere invitation to lunch or dinner the next time they were in D.C. Satisfied now, Mcdowell buzzed for Miss Marklin, his secretary.

The tall, good-looking blonde came in quickly, almost at a run. She’d learned early on not to keep him waiting.

He handed her the draft press release. “Give this back to Thompson and tell him I want the final version on my desk before lunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mcdowell turned back to the rest of his morning paperwork, looking up in irritation when his secure phone line buzzed. He grabbed it.

“Mcdowell.”

“This is Gray.”

The sound of Helen Gray’s voice struck him like a thunderbolt.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Berlin, sir,” she said coolly, using the calm, utterly unimpressed tone of voice that never failed to get under his skin.

“Then I suggest you stop screwing around and report to the embassy there, pronto!” Mcdowell snapped. His hand reached for the button that would initiate a phone trace, hovered for an instant, and then withdrew. Tracing an international call was a major endeavor, and besides, from all the traffic noise he could hear in the background, she was using a pay phone.

“That might be … difficult, sir,” she said. “We’ve run into a snag while tracking this shipment of smuggled jet engines …”

“Outside your jurisdiction and without Bureau sanction,” Mcdowell reminded her, his anger barely under control. Her little escapade had him in hot water with both the Director and that ex-Stasi son of a bitch, Heinrich Wolf.

“Yes, sir. Nevertheless, Colonel Thorn and I have obtained information you need to hear.”

Mcdowell reined in his temper. Gray was right — though for more reasons than she knew. “I’m listening.”

He took notes while she ran through the sequence of their lone-eagle investigation and brought him up to date on their latest finding. He drew a sharp line under “Galveston.”

“You’re sure this shipment is headed for Texas?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. I’ll pass the word on to the local DEA office,” Mcdowell lied.

“Now, Agent Gray, I suggest you get yourself on the first available flight to D.C. I understand the Director wants to personally chew you out—”

“This isn’t about heroin trafficking, sir,” Helen Gray interrupted.

“Colonel Thorn and I believe the Caraco Savannah may be carrying a stolen Russian tactical nuclear weapon.”

Mcdowell felt his blood run cold for a moment.