Day of Wrath

“Two things, sir. The most important is to get somebody official to take a hard look at the Caraco Savannah and her cargo. If we’re right, there’s one hell of a nasty surprise hidden inside one of those jet engines.”

Farrell pondered that. Could he risk his hard-earned reputation as a straight-shooter by asking people in authority to take a flyer on one of the wildest theories he’d ever heard a junior officer espouse? The smart move would be to wish Thorn well, advise him to find a good lawyer, and hang up now.

The trouble was, he instinctively believed what Thorn had told him. It explained a lot of otherwise unconnected events the O.S.I.A inspection team plane crash, the murders of General Serov and Captain Grushtin, and the ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven.

The heroin smuggling ring story fit the same facts, of course, but it did seem too convenient — a little too precisely tailored to satisfy American and Russian bureaucrats who wouldn’t want to believe that the unthinkable had happened on their watch.

And damn it, he wouldn’t forget this was Peter Thorn, he thought almost angrily. Whatever else the younger man had done, he was a topnotch officer — one of the best Farrell had ever commanded.

So act on your belief, he told himself..He sighed. “All right, Pete.

I’ll see who I can prod into gear. Now what’s the second thing I can do for you?”

Thorn hesitated for another long moment before answering.

“To chase these bastards down, Helen and I need to get out of Germany and back to the States. Preferably without seeing the inside of a Polizei cell.”

Even though he was half expecting it, the request still surprised Farrell. He whistled softly again. “That’s a tall order for an old soldier, Pete.”

“I know, sir,” Thorn said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll understand if there’s nothing you can do. You’ve already risked a lot on my behalf-more than I can ever repay you for—” Farrell cut him off.

“You’re a damned fine officer, Pete. And a hell of a good man. You don’t owe me anything.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, Louisa would kill me if I let anything happen to you and Helen. She’s been planning your wedding reception for two years now.”

“She might have to change the venue to the nearest federal prison,” Thorn said soberly.

“Tree.” Farrell shook his head. “Look, Pete, I’ll dig where I can.

It’s a long shot, though. And being right about this is probably the only way you’re gonna save your hide this time.”

“Frankly, sir, I’d rather be wrong,” Thorn said. “If Helen and I are right, that nuke could already be on U.S. soil. And if that’s true, we may never find it — not until the damned thing goes off.”

Farrell shook off the horrific image of a fireball incinerating an American city, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Right now let’s worry about getting you two home safe and sound.

Where are you exactly?”

“An all-night Turkish coffeehouse in the Prenzlauer Berg district.

I’m using a pay phone in the back …”

Farrell jotted down the location and phone number on a scrap of paper.

“Can you stay there for another couple of hours or so?”

“Yeah,” Thorn replied. “From the looks of some of the other customers, Helen and I could probably live here for a while — as long as we kept paying for coffee, that is.”

“Okay, Pete. You hang tight and stay low. I’ve still got a friend or two in Europe who might be able to pull you out of this jam.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thorn sounded relieved and grateful. “I really appreciate it.”

“Then do me a favor,” Farrell said.

“Anything.”

Farrell grinned into the phone. “You’re not in uniform now, Pete. And neither am I. So drop the ‘sir’ and call me Sam.

Okay?”

“Yes, sin-” Thorn caught himself. “I mean, okay, Sam.”

“Better,” Farrell said. “Now watch your back, Pete. Meantime, I’ll try to round up the cavalry.”

He waited until Thorn hung up and then replaced the receiver.

Farrell stood thoughtfully by his desk for a moment. The full implications of Peter Thorn’s claim were just beginning to emerge.

Where should he go to kick somebody into a serious investigation?

Not the Russians. That much was certain. Moscow wasn’t going to rock the boat — especially now that any smuggled weapons were off its own soil. And from what Thorn said, the FBI, the O.S.I.A, the CIA, and the State Department were also nonstarters. So who did that leave?

He shook his head. Time enough for that later in the morning.

For now, he had two friends who were in serious trouble. The first step was getting them out of Berlin before the German police rounded them up. Slipping them back to the States would be an even bigger job.

He started flipping through his Rolodex.

Who did he know in Berlin? And who could he trust to shelter a couple of fugitives?

Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin Colonel Peter Thorn cautiously poked his head around the corner of the back booth — checking the front of the dingy coffeehouse for the tenth time. It was full light outside.

“Anything?” Helen Gray asked.

He turned back to face her. “Nope. Still looks clear.”