Day Of Wrath (25 page)

Leiter frowned.

“I can read a calendar, Assistant Director Mcdowell.” He slapped the fax down on his desk. “Do you have any goddamned idea about what they’ve been doing in the meantime ?”

“No, sir. Not exactly,” Mcdowell reluctantly admitted. “But I’ve dispatched an agent from our Berlin office to this fax service.

We’re also checking out airline and passport records to see if they actually went to Bergen to obtain this information-or if Agent Gray is simply trying to pull rabbits out of her hat to save her own hide.”

Leiter’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly what do you mean by that, Mr. Mcdowell?”

“What I mean, sir, is that Special Agent Gray is obviously still chasing after this Russian drug smuggling ring—despite the fact she’s been pulled off that case. So now, having violated your directive to return here, she’s running around Europe—presumably with her Army boyfriend.”

Mcdowell grimaced. “I’m afraid that she’s completely out of control.”

“You’re her supervisor. Are you telling me you didn’t see any sign of this coming?”

Mcdowell tried to sound concerned and distressed. “I believe Special Agent Gray is under massive stress, sir. She hasn’t done very well in the Moscow office”—the poor performance reviews he’d given her would document that—”and then she involves herself in that crazy shoot-out in Pechenga.”

He shook his head. “Add that together with her memories of that bloody counterterrorist raid here in the D.C. area two years ago, and I think we’ve got an agent who may be coming apart at the seams.”

Leiter nodded gravely, clearly remembering the details. The
HRT
section under Helen Gray’s command had lost four out of ten agents while successfully attacking a heavily fortified terrorist safe house.

She’d been badly wounded herself. Nobody could walk away from a bloodbath like that psychologically unscathed.

Mcdowell pressed his point. “Plus there’s her association with this guy Thorn, whose only real ability seems to be to disobey orders.”’ He frowned. “Frankly, I think she’s become a liability to the Bureau and to you, sir. You’ll remember I recommended revoking her law enforcement powers when we recalled her from Moscow—” Leiter broke in.

“And I still won’t approve it, Mr. Mcdowell.

Agent Gray hasn’t committed any offense serious enough to justify such action—especially when we haven’t heard her side of the story.”

Mcdowell shrugged. “What can she say in her own defense?”

“That’s for Agent Gray to establish, not you,” Leiter growled.

“In the meantime, I want all
FBI
offices to watch for her and Colonel Thorn. If they’re found, I want them escorted back here.

They’re not to be arrested or placed in custody of any kind. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Mcdowell knew when to get out. The meeting hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped, but at least Leiter had been diverted from asking specific questions about the fax’s contents.

Five minutes later, Mcdowell closed the door to his own office and moved to the window—staring blindly down at Washington’s bustling streets while pondering his situation. He was uncomfortably aware that his neck was in a noose—a noose largely of his own making.

He scowled. It had seemed so easy back in the 1980s. His salary as a field agent hadn’t been high enough to match his expensive tastes.

After all, why drive a Chevrolet when you could take a spin in your very own Porsche or BMW? So he’d gone looking for a little extra something to pad his paycheck. And he’d found it.

Mcdowell found himself wanting a drink. He turned away from the window and found the bottle of bourbon he had stashed in his bottom desk drawer. He poured a generous dollop into a water glass and downed it in one go.

When East Germany’s secret intelligence service, the Stasi, offered him fifty thousand dollars—as a simple retainer, but with the promise of more to follow—he’d jumped at the money. And .why not? Pure patriotism was for suckers, the kind of all-American idiots he’d left gasping in his tracks ever since entering the
FBI
Academy. East.

West. Communism. Capitalism. None of the grand causes mattered much.

Not when you were looking out for the only interests that were really important in the end—your own.

Besides, Mcdowell thought angrily, he’d never done a damn thing wrong for the money. Since the East Germans hadn’t contacted him again before the Wall came tumbling down, he’d never actually betrayed his country. All he’d done was redistribute a little wealth from an enemy spy agency into his own back pocket. And where was the real harm in that?

He grimaced, pouring another slug of bourbon. But now this ex-Stasi son of a bitch Heinrich Wolf, or whatever his real name was, had come crawling back from the shadows to blackmail him. The man’s confident use of the code name the East Germans had assigned Mcdowell,
PEREGRINE
, proved he had access to their secret files. He swallowed the liquor, feeling the warm glow burn down his throat and into his stomach.

His orders from Wolf were clean-report back on the movements of Helen Gray and deflect her inquiries whenever possible.

Mcdowell shook his head. He certainly didn’t mind throwing a stick into that bitch Gray’s spokes. And he didn’t give a damn about the heroin Wolf and his men must be smuggling inside those Russian jet engines—although he wouldn’t have minded a cut of the money they were likely to make. Let the dope addicts drip the goddamned poison into their veins. It was no skin off his nose.

But what he really didn’t like was the knowledge that an ex-Stasi drug trafficker had him by the balls. Mcdowell was under no illusions. No matter what happened to Helen Gray or Peter Thorn, Wolf wasn’t going to back off not now. The bastard too clearly enjoyed having a senior
FBI
official at his beck and call.

Mcdowell shoved the bourbon bottle back into his desk.

Maybe he should start asking a few questions of his own about this Baltic Venturer and its mysterious cargo. The more he knew about Wolf’s covert business arrangements, the more chance he might be able to figure out some way to turn the tables on the double-dealing German.

Near Middleburg, Virginia (D
MINUS
10)

Prince Ibrahim al Saud glanced out the window of his speeding limousine. They were still several minutes away from his estate deep in the heart of Virginia’s hunt country—a lush green landscape of rolling hills, woods, horse farms, quaint historical towns, and luxury homes. It was an alien vista to one raised in the vast, arid reaches of the Arabian Peninsula. All the land around him was a single, all-encompassing oasis of peace and plenty. But it was a soft, weak land—without the harsh, intervening stretches of rock and sand that tempered a man’s soul and taught him endurance and faith in God.

His eyes fell on a group of horses contentedly cropping grass in a field by the side of the road. What magnificent beasts, he thought, admiring their proud profiles. Once again he regretted the march of time and technology that had rendered the horse a luxury—a plaything for the idle rich, instead of a weapon of war.

Images of the Prophet’s cavalry galloping to victory over the infidel floated across his mind—the green banners of Islam fluttering in the wind, scimitars flashing in the sun, the clatter of hooves, the dust rising heavenward in great billowing clouds.

With regret, Ibrahim pushed those heady images back into his subconscious. Wars were waged with other weapons now—explosives, automatic rifles, rocket launchers, and, most of all, with the money that purchased those weapons. The funds and the orders he dispatched could hatch plans to blow up an Israeli school bus one day, and to down an American airliner the next.

Ibrahim leaned forward and poured himself a glass of mineral water from a carafe kept carefully chilled and waiting for him whenever he used this car.

He frowned. Despite the joy he felt when his enemies grieved, he could not hide a growing belief that the secret war he was waging was being lost.

The West had proved more resilient than he and those under his control had ever imagined. Over the past several years, terrorists had struck hard at Israel, the United States, and their allies—planting bombs in cars, buses, buildings, and airplanes around the world. And yet, already the scars were healing.

Ibrahim shook his head and took another sip of his water.

He had learned from his earlier failures. America could not be brought to its knees solely by plastic explosives, assault rifle bullets, or shoulder-launched missiles.

The limousine turned off onto the treelined private road leading to his estate—driving through a rippling sea of sunlight and shadow.

Five years ago, Ibrahim had purchased a substantial parcel of prime Virginia countryside. Since then, he’d lavished considerable sums on architects, interior decorators, and landscape designers to ensure that the house and its grounds reflected his intellect, his will, and his traditions. The Middleburg estate would never be more than one of several residences he owned around the world, but it pleased him to occupy ground so close to America’s political and military nerve center.

In total, the grounds covered thirty acres—all walled and patrolled.

Sturdy steel gates barred access to the estate propen-gates manned by armed guards belonging to his own private security force. None were American. All were fellow Arabs—veterans of Saudi Arabia’s Airborne Brigade released into his service by royal command. Their residence visas and weapons permits came courtesy of his intimate political ties to the current American administration.

The limousine stopped just inside the gates.

Ibrahim watched in satisfaction as two guards moved in on either side of the vehicle—carefully inspecting both driver and passenger to make sure they were who they claimed to be. A third man checked the trunk, exempting only his personal baggage from his search. Still another ran a handheld monitor over the car, scanning for any electronic eavesdropping devices that might have been planted while it sat at Dulles International Airport.

Prudence was the Saudi prince’s watchword in matters pertaining to personal safety. He believed himself unknown to his enemies. He saw no point, however, in staking his life and fortune and future on that belief.

Once the guards had finished their security sweep, the limousine pulled away—heading uphill toward the main house. The heavy steel gates swung shut behind it and latched. As a further security measure, a row of sharpened spikes whirred up from the pavement.

The house itself sprawled across one hilltop, almost reaching another nearby crest. Dazzling white walls, a red-tiled roof, and arched promenades gave it a Mediterranean appearance. Smaller outbuildings had the same design features. Flower gardens covered the lawns immediately surrounding the house. They not only suited his personal tastes, but served as better concealment for the battery of electronic warning devices that guarded the building.

The key members of Ibrahim’s household staff were lined up outside the main entrance—waiting to greet him. Two personal assistants, his majordomo, the groundskeeper, the head of his maintenance staff, his stable manager, and the estate’s security chief bowed in unison when he stepped out of the limousine.

Ibrahim coolly acknowledged their deferential greetings and then dismissed them. But two, the groundskeeper and the security chief, lingered.

The prince arched an eyebrow. Anything that needed his personal attention this quickly must be a problem, and a serious one at that.

He studied the two men for a moment.

The head of security, a tough, former Saudi paratroop captain named Talal, stood confidently—waiting for permission to speak.

From his body language, he evidently didn’t think himself to be in any trouble.

On the other hand, the groundskeeper, a young Egyptian, was clearly worried—almost frightened.

Ibrahim had seen nothing on the drive in that would imply the man had been derelict in his duties. The flowers were in bloom. The trees were trimmed. And the lawns were immaculate.

This problem must be a personnel matter. He summoned one of his assistants. The aide hurried back out from the house, took his briefcase, bowed deeply, and hurried away.

He turned back to the two men, still waiting silently for his commands.

“Very well. What is it?”

The groundskeeper stepped forward, moistening his lips.

“Highness, I am afraid that one of my workers, a Pakistani, tried to leave the compound last night.”

So it was a personnel matter.

Ibrahim turned to his security chief.

“The man was caught almost immediately,” Talal reported calmly. “Our security cameras spotted him leaving the dormitory area, and one of the dog patrols apprehended him before he could cross the wall.”

“You have questioned this man?” Ibrahim asked coldly.

Talal nodded. “Thoroughly, Highness.” The security chief continued his report. “We’ve also searched his personal effects and interviewed the rest of the grounds staff.”

“And?” Ibrahim demanded. “Why did he attempt to flee?”

“He’s been here for one and a half years, and now he says he just wants to go home,” Talal replied. “I found nothing in his letters or other possessions that would indicate another motive.”

Ibrahim considered that a good sign. Harboring an ungrateful wretch was bad enough. Harboring an enemy spy would have been much worse—especially now, with his plans coming to fruition.

Most of the estate’s groundskeepers, house staff, and other menial workers were illegals hired in Pakistan, Jordan, Syria, Sudan, and other Islamic countries-ostensibly on one-year contracts.

They were slipped into the U.S. on student or tourist visas. The Immigration and Naturalization Service turned a blind eye to this activity—again thanks to his generous support of the American political establishment. After all, if a wealthy and well connected Saudi prince wanted to surround himself with fellow Muslims as his servants, why rock the boat?

Ibrahim made sure his servants were given reasonably good quarters and decent meals. But most of their pay was sent home, and when their year-long contracts were up, they found it very difficult to leave.