Day Of Wrath (3 page)

He made a mental note to keep a close eye on Koniev. His first impressions of the
MVD
officer were favorable. But first impressions could get you killed. And even old friends could betray you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way in Iran two years before.

“Permit me to introduce you to my American colleague, Special Agent Helen Gray of your
FBI
,” Koniev continued.

Thorn turned to the slim, pretty, darkhaired woman at the Russian major’s side, noting the faint smile she was trying unsuccessfully to conceal. Her eyes seemed even bluer than he remembered.

“Thank you, Major,” he said gravely. “But Special Agent Gray and I already know each other fairly well.”

She nodded calmly. “I thought you might try to poke your nose under this tent, Colonel Thorn. But I didn’t see your name on the flight manifest. How exactly did you manage to swing an invitation from the NTSB?”

“Held my breath. Refused to eat my lunch. Threatened to wire their office coffeepots with C-4. All the usual stuff,” Thorn said flatly.

He shrugged. “They finally caved in.”

Helen laughed softly. “I see you’re still as smooth and charming as ever, Peter.”

Koniev had been swinging his head from one to the other in growing puzzlement. Now he snapped his fingers. “Ah!

Now I understand. You are old friends, yes?”

Without taking his eyes off Helen Gray, Thorn answered quietly, “Yes, Major, that’s right. We’re old friends. Very old friends.”

An-32 Crash Site, Near the Ileksa River, Northern Russia Colonel Peter Thorn wearily pushed back the hood of the rubberized chemical protection suit he’d been given. He wiped the sweat and dirt off his brow. After spending two hours tramping across the crash site with Major Koniev, he needed a breather.

He and the
MVD
officer were alone on this trek. True to form, Helen Gray had surveyed the debris field on her own as soon as she’d arrived on the scene. Right now she was busy setting up the joint FBI/
MVD
investigative team’s communications and coordinating their plans with Mamontov and Nielsen.

His thoughts strayed to Helen. The female
FBI
agent was the only woman who had ever really gotten under his skin.

Thorn shook his head ruefully. Why use the past tense? His heart still skipped a beat whenever he saw her. Or talked to her.

Or even thought about her.

Certainly, when he’d argued his way onto this mission, he’d hoped their paths might cross. After all, even this long after the end of the Cold War, the official American community in Moscow was still a small, close-knit world. And they hadn’t seen each other for six long months—not since the
FBI
had sent her to Moscow as a legal attache.

A couple of eagerly anticipated visits had been shortcircuited by work emergencies-both on her end. As a legal attache, Helen was the FBI’s eyes and ears inside Russian law enforcement.

With drug trafficking, smuggling, and contract killing all on the rise, her workload kept piling up.

Other attempts to meet had also fallen by the wayside. Even their weekly phone calls had begun to sound impersonal somehow—cold and unsatisfying, however warm the words.

Thorn sighed. Seeing Helen in the flesh brought all his memories of her, his longing for her, to the surface. Somehow he would have to find time to be alone with hen-to see if he still held her heart the way she gripped his. If nothing else, that would at least offer a small measure of relief from the grim task at hand.

Reluctantly, he forced himself back into the ugly present.

Back in D.C. he had believed the doomed An-32 had come down in rough, trackless country. Now he was sure that it had crashed in hell—probably somewhere near the marshy banks of the River Styx.

The impact had scattered pieces of the aircraft and its passengers across a nightmarish landscape of dense, dark forest and brush-choked pools of stagnant water. The stench of rotting vegetation, charred wood, and burnt human flesh hung in the sluggish, unmoving ain-separate odors that blended in an invisible, sickening fog.

Midges and other biting insects swarmed in thick black clouds beneath the trees and above the marshy ground.

“Christ!” Thorn slapped at a stinging fly, smearing blood across his cheek. He glanced at Koniev. “I can think of better places to spend a few days, Major.”

“This region will never appear in our new tourist brochures, that is true,” the Russian officer agreed tiredly. He sighed. “We are in the midst of what some call the Devil’s Eden. Personally, I do not believe even the devil would want this country for his own.” The younger man mopped his own forehead and then quickly wiped his hand off on the gray, rubber-coated fabric of his protective suit.

With so much wreckage still strewn through the woods and the swamp, Thorn realized that the suits were a necessary safeguard.

They were also hot, confining, and horribly uncomfortable.

Even in the cool weather of the northern Russian spring, wearing them while engaged in heavy labor meant risking dehydration and heat stroke.

The sound of splashing and weary, repeated commands drew his attention back to the work crews they were observing.

Barely visible through the trees, a line of Russian soldiers moved slowly through the tangled undergrowth. Their baggy protective suits made them look like gray, wrinkled ghosts in the gathering evening gloom. Hunched over to see more clearly, they poked and probed through every thicket and scumcoated pond—searching for debris from the crash.

Technical experts from the Federal Aviation Authority followed close behind the search line. They charted the precise position of smaller pieces of wreckage or human remains before crews came in to haul them away. Larger chunks of torn metal were tagged and left in place for later removal by winchequipped helicopters.

Koniev frowned. “The work proceeds at a glacial pace, I am afraid.”

He sounded embarrassed. “This plane came down four days ago. Four days ago! And only now does the recovery effort truly begin!”

Thorn shook his head. “From what I’ve seen so far, Major, your people have worked miracles just getting this much done so fast.”

He meant that. Seeing what the Russians were up against at first hand revealed the true magnitude of their task. Search planes had finally found the An-32 crash site two days after the aircraft disappeared off air traffic control radar. From then on, the search, rescue, and investigative teams had been in a race against time and miserable conditions. Considering the logistical strain involved in setting up and supplying a sizable base camp by air, their progress really was nothing short of remarkable.

Thorn spotted movement Off to one end of the search line.

Two Russian soldiers paced into view, moving carefully and scanning the woods all around them. Each carried an AK-74 assault rifle at the ready.

He nodded toward the sentries. “You expecting trouble, Major?”

“Perhaps.” The
MVD
officer hesitated and then went on.

“There are many predators in these woods, Colonel. Bears.

Foxes. Even wolves.”

True enough, Thorn thought. But not all wolves ran on four legs. He noticed that the armed guards spent at least as much time watching the search team as they did the surrounding forest.

He suspected the Russians were trying to make sure their poorly paid rescue workers didn’t loot any of the crash victims’ personal effects.

He and Koniev stepped aside, clearing the narrow path for two panting conscripts carrying a large black plastic bag back toward the camp.

Part of the bag snagged a low-hanging branch and ripped open, revealing a blackened lump of flesh that was barely identifiable as a human torso. One of the soldiers muttered a tired apology and hastily shifted his grip to close the gash in the body bag.

Thorn’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen death in almost every form on the battlefield or in the aftermath of terrorist atrocities. But no one could ever be fully prepared for the havoc a highspeed impact could wreak on the human body.

He heard Koniev gag and then quickly take a deep, shuddering breath.

He turned to look at the young
MVD
officer. “Are you all right, Major?”

“Yes.” The other man looked pale, but otherwise in control.

He straightened his shoulders. “Have you seen enough, Colonel?

It will be dark soon.”

Thorn nodded sharply, pushing the image of that blistered corpse out of his mind. “Yeah. I’ve seen enough. For now. But I’ll be back here at first light.”

Investigation Base Camp, Near the Ileksa River Colonel Peter Thorn stopped near a small tent set up beneath a tall pine tree and buttoned his uniform jacket. His breath steamed in the chilly night air. The temperature had dropped rapidly after darkdipping close to the freezing mark.

He stood still for a moment longer, gathering his thoughts while making sure he wasn’t being observed. Private quarters were the sole concession Helen Gray had accepted as lone woman on the investigative team. She had worked damned hard to be accepted on her merits in the male-dominated precincts of the
FBI
. And, for all their Soviet-era propaganda boasts about building a truly equal society, the Russians remained an even more intensely conservative lot. Getting caught visiting her tent alone after sundown could easily put her professional reputation at risk. He was determined to avoid that if possible.

Floodlights lit the compound and surrounding forest with a cold, harsh, sharp-edged glare that made the blackness outside the light absolute.

The smell of cheap tobacco and cooked beets wafted from the crowded tents used to house Russian enlisted men. But there were no signs of movement among the trees.

After a long, hard, backbreaking day at the crash site, the search effort had shut down for the night. Moscow would have to ferry in more men, equipment, and supplies before they could accelerate the recovery operation onto a twenty-four-hour cycle.

Thorn turned back toward Helen’s tent and then stopped dead in his tracks. Maybe he should wait and see her the next morning.

Maybe he was pushing too fast.

He shook his head, angry at himself for wavering. He’d been awarded medals for bravery under fire. Right now, though, none of them meant a damned thing. What the hell was his problem?

If she still loved him, everything would be fine. And if she didn’t love him anymore? Well, better to find that out now—to force a clean, crisp break before their screwed-up emotions started interfering with their work. This investigation had to come first. It was time to start acting like a man and a soldier instead of a scared teenager.

He took a quick, deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tapped softly on the canvas tent flap. “Helen? Can I come in?”

“Peter?” The tent flap opened, spilling a warmer light onto the dark and muddy ground. Helen stood in the opening, framed against the glow from a lantern. She eyed him calmly for a second and then motioned him inside, closing the flap behind him.

Her tent contained little beyond a cot made up with rough wool Russian Army blankets, a couple of battered wooden folding chairs, her travel bag and laptop PC, and an empty supply crate that apparently served as a desk. And, of course, Helen herself.

Thorn tried to ignore the pulse pounding in his ears. Even in travel-worn jeans and a heavy green fisherman’s sweater, she was lovely. Her wavy black hair silhouetted a heart-shaped face and stunning blue eyes.

He wanted to kiss her, but he held back. They’d been apart for too long. He couldn’t read her mood with any certainty. It seemed best to play it safe.

“How have you been, Helen?”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’ve been fine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Thorn obeyed gladly, relieved to hear the bantering tone in her voice. That was a lot more like the Helen Gray he’d come to know and love over the past two years.

She sat down gracefully on the cot facing him and said more, seriously, “I really was surprised to see you pop out of that helicopter, you know.”

“I know,” he answered simply. “I almost didn’t.”

“Oh?”

Thorn shrugged. “I wasn’t exaggerating much when I said I had to hold my breath and throw a tantrum to win a spot on the team. Even then my boss practically told me that he’d yank me back to D.C. the second he heard any complaints from the
NTSB
... or from the Russians, for that matter. I’m the inspection agency’s liaison here on sufferance.”

Since a team from the On-Site Inspection Agency had been aboard the downed Russian plane, both Washington and Moscow were willing to allow an observer from the agency at the crash site—somebody who could help identify the victims, round up their personal and professional effects, and funnel reports back to O.S.I.A’s Washington headquarters. But none of the top officials involved in either capital were likely to have much patience with him if he pissed off the experts tasked with the real work of investigating the crash.

Helen leaned forward and asked softly, “Is O.S.I.A really that bad, Peter?”

“It’s Siberia without the perks.” Thorn tried smiling and failed.

“Seriously, I have a nice carpeted office, a nice new computer, and a nice clean desk. but nothing important or interesting ever comes across that desk. I write reports analyzing terrorist threats that go straight into a circular file somewhere. And the rest of the time I sit around waiting to answer questions that are never asked.”

He snorted in disgust. “I’m forty years old, Helen, and I’m stuck behind a desk when I should be out leading troops. But I wouldn’t mind that so much if they’d at least let me do the job they hired me for.”

“Then why not resign?” Helen asked bluntly. “Why stay in the Army if they won’t let you do what you’re best at?”

Resign? Leave the Army? Thorn pondered that for a split second and then shook his head decisively. “Can’t do that. They can fire me if they want to, but I won’t quit.”

She frowned.

“Jesus, Helen. I know that sounds stubborn, even muleheaded.

But I’m a soldier. That’s all I’ve ever been. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be since I was just a kid.” Thorn paused, remembering the pride he’d felt as a little boy watching his soldier father march past with that green beret sitting proudly on his head. “I took an oath to serve my country. I’ll honor that oath however I’m allowed.