Day of Wrath

Others were busy unloading crates filled with extra tools and spare parts next to the area marked out for a second Jetstream still en route to the field. Their orders were clear: When the word came down from on high, the aircraft based at Shafterminter would be ready to fly — or else. There would be no exceptions, no excuses, and no delays.

Reichardt turned as the door behind him opened. Johann Brandt stepped through it, his face serious.

“What is it, Johann?” he asked.

“Another message from PEREGRINE.”

Finally. Reichardt swung away from the organized chaos filling the hangar and followed Brandt outside onto the airport tarmac.

The twin-engined Cessna executive jet that Prince Ibrahim al Saud had put at his disposal sat waiting for him. Reichardt hurried up the steps into the Cessna’s luxurious interior — all solid cherry, dark leather, and gleaming brass. A powerful computer workstation and communications center now occupied the aft end of the six-passenger compartment.

Reichardt dialed Mcdowell’s direct line.

The FBI agent sounded almost happy. “You missed them again, Herr Wolf.

Your people in Wilhelmshaven blew it. Thorn and Gray are still alive.”

Reichardt scowled. “I’m already well aware of that fact, Mr. Mcdowell.”

He’d received the first panicked report from the survivors of the Wilhelmshaven security team barely an hour after their ambush went disastrously wrong. He shook his head. That tattooed young idiot, Bekker, was no great loss. But Heinz Steinhof had been one of his best and most trusted operatives. First Kleiner and now Steinhof. His losses were mounting. These two Americans were even more dangerous than he’d first thought.

Well, Reichardt thought sourly, at least this time he’d had the foresight to take added precautions against possible failure. The cover story he’d so painstakingly built over the past few weeks should hold water for long enough.

The German turned back to the conversation at hand.

“You’ve been in contact with Special Agent Gray, then? Another fax, I assume.”

“Not a fax,” Mcdowell said. “A phone call. From Berlin.”

Reichardt raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Perhaps the two Americans were even more rattled by their narrow escape than he’d hoped. “Go on.”

He listened intently while the FBI agent ran through the details of his talk with the American woman, Gray — frowning only when he heard that she and Thorn knew the Caraco Savannah’s final destination, lie made a mental note to push the work in Texas even further ahead of schedule.

Mcdowell’s dismissive tone made it clear ‘that he didn’t believe their nuclear story. That was fortunate. Still, the FBI agent already knew more about the Operation than he should. At some point in the not-too-distant future, he could easily become a liability.

The American’s next question confirmed that. “Is there some part of the Galveston waterfront you want me to steer any potentially embarrassing investigations away from? A warehouse, maybe? I’ve got some contacts in the Drug Enforcement Agency I could use to help you out — if need be.”

“Don’t let your beak grow too much, PEREGRINE!” Reichardt growled.

“You know the bounds of your orders. Stay within them!”

“Well, then. what action should I take?” Mcdowell asked plaintively.

“About Gray and Thorn, I mean.”

Reichardt ran through his options, knowing they were far more limited than he would prefer. Most of his special action teams had already left Europe — bound for the United States. In any event, too few of his people were close enough to Berlin or its environs to make an aggressive move against the two Americans.

He rubbed his jaw. How else could he make sure they were taken off the chessboard until it was too late for them to interfere further?

The answer struck him suddenly. Why strive for the complicated solution when a simple plan would work just as well — and with fewer risks?

Smiling now, Reichardt said, “Very well, PEREGRINE. Here are your new instructions. You will follow them precisely, and without deviation.

Clear? …”

Outside the Europa Center, Berlin Inside the phone kiosk, Helen Gray turned her back on the Wasserklops, the gigantic fountain outside the towering Europa Center. She glanced at Peter Thorn. “Any sign of trouble?”

He continued scanning the crowded, neon-lit square and streets around them for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Nope. A few cops on patrol — but they don’t seem to be looking for anyone in particular.”

Helen nodded — relieved but not especially surprised. Even if the Berlin police were hunting for them, they’d have a hard time picking out two particular foreigners from among the tens of thousands milling along the Kurfiirstendamm — the German capital’s busiest and most prosperous boulevard. The Europa Center behind them was a hive of activity — housing everything from fine jewelry stores to overpriced restaurants and even a pallid imitation of a Monte Carlo casino.