by Larry Bond
He rubbed his jaw, still studying the cargo form. “The engines could have been brought in covertly. Maybe they weren’t reported to customs at all,” he speculated.
“Possibly,” Helen acknowledged.
Thorn nodded, as much to himself as to her. “Look, I’d rather believe a human being than a piece of paper. Karl Syverstad was damned positive when he described those crates he saw shifted from the Star of the White Sea to the Venturer. Dozens of ships go in and out of this port every week. How much time do customs inspectors really have to dot every I and cross every T on these forms, anyway?
“Not much,” Helen said slowly.
“What else have we got?” Thorn asked.
She pushed over the rest of the forms.
Three other ships had been berthed alongside the Baltic Venturer at one time or another during her stay in Wilhelmshaven.
The reefer moored at S44 had carried beef from Argentina as its sole cargo. The first of the two ships anchored at S42, the Caraco Savannah, had brought in iron ore and bauxite — and she’d left carrying automobiles and auxiliary electric generators. The second had arrived empty, and then sailed with a cargo of machine tools.
Not much help there.
Thorn slid the papers back to Helen’s side of the table. “Say the engines aren’t listed anywhere on those forms. Where does that leave us?”
She looked up from the notes she’d taken at the Port Authority office.
“Looking hard at Caraco Savannah, I think.”
“Why?”
“Because she left Wilhelmshaven roughly three hours after Baltic Venturer pulled in,” Helen argued. “The pattern’s the same one we found in Bergen. Bring the contraband in, off load it right away, and get it back out of port before anyone official starts poking around.”
“Easy to say, but damned hard to prove. It’s just as likely those jet engines were offloaded straight into a truck,” Thorn countered.
Helen’s theory made sense to him, but playing devil’s advocate was the best way he knew to make sure they stayed on track.
They were trying to analyze this situation with far too few solid facts — something he found akin to playing pin the tail on the donkey in a pitchblack room you weren’t even sure had a donkey in it. Their training taught them to be intuitive, to look for links and hidden relationships. But their training also taught them the need to confirm hunches with hard evidence. So where was that confirmation?
While Helen riffled through the customs forms, Thorn sat back in his chair-trying different pieces of the puzzle in different combinations.
Suddenly she looked up at him. “Baltic Venturer was carrying titanium scrap, right?”
“Right.”
“Don’t jet engines contain a lot of titanium?” Helen said slowly.
The light dawned. “They just changed the label! Jesus, it’s simple.
Grease a palm somewhere and one tiny line changes on one lousy form.”
“And then changes again when the engines are transferred for the second time?” Helen asked.
“Maybe,” Thorn said. He pulled the customs forms back again.
“Let’s take a closer look at exactly what the Caraco Savannah was carrying when she left port.”
This time it stood out like a sore thumb. The remarks column of the German manifest described the “auxiliary electric generators” more fully as gas turbines.
Helen followed his pointing finger. “A jet engine could also be called a kind of gas turbine, couldn’t it?”
“Yep,” Thorn agreed. He scanned the report again. “Now let’s see where she was taking those generators.”
He was silent for a moment, then turned his head to look directly at Helen. “Galveston. Whatever Serov and his boys put in those engines, it’s headed for the U.S.”
Helen stared back at him. “Christ, Peter. If that ship sailed on the fifth, she could already be close to the States right now.”
Thorn nodded grimly, considering the possibility that a freighter might be drawing ever nearer to the U.S. with a smuggled Russian nuke on board.
“We’ve got to call this in, Peter,” Helen said flatly.
“Yeah.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after quitting time on the docks. And we’re going to need confirmation before Washington will take any action. We’ve got to find somebody who saw those crates shifted from ship to ship with his own eyes. Somebody who’ll swear to it under oath, if it comes to that.”
Helen nodded. “So we go pub crawling again?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” Thorn drained his cold coffee in one gulp and stood up. “In a tearing hurry, Helen. I’ve got a really bad feeling that we’re running against the clock now.”
The last light was fading across the Jadebusen by the time they settled on a likely spot to begin their search — a waterfront bar close to berth S43 named Zur Alten Cafe The bar turned out to be one large room laid out with long tables running almost its entire length. What little light made it through the smoke was soaked up by the dark paneling and dark wood floors. Knots of men sat close together at the tables, eating from plates piled high with food and drinking from massive glass beer steins.
Helen Gray stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking as she felt her eyes starting to smart from all the cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
She was instantly aware that once again she was the only woman in the whole place, and that her light colored business suit stood out like a beacon against the rough, oil-stained work clothes worn by the longshoremen crowding the room. Even Peter’s jeans and sweatshirt looked out of place in here.
She slipped through the crowd to the bar itself, aware of Peter pushing right behind her. The bartender spoke only a little English, enough to understand that she was American and that she was interested in a “schiff”—a ship. Anything more complicated faded into mutual incomprehensibility.
Helen swung around as one of the other patrons, an older, silver-haired man, came to her rescue.
“Excuse me, please, but I speak a little English. May I help you?” he asked, speaking loudly over the hubbub in the packed room.
Helen turned on the charm, favoring the German with a dazzling smile.
“That would be wonderful, Herr …?”
The silver-haired man smiled back. “Steinhof. Heinz Steinhof.”
He listened intently to her explanation, but held up a hand as soon as she mentioned berth S43 and the Baltic Venturer. “I am a supervisor for cargo, but that is not one of my berths. However, my friend Zangen handles that area of the harbor. He is a meticulous and thorough man.
So I am sure that he would remember this ship and what she loaded and unloaded.”
“Where can we find Herr Zangen?” Helen asked. “Is he here this evening?”
Steinhof seemed amused. “Zangen?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. Fritz Zangen is a most responsible man — a family man. He will be at home with his wife and children at this hour.”
Damn. Helen hid her disappointment. “Is there any way we can contact Herr Zangen? Perhaps make an appointment to speak with him? Tonight, if possible?”
“This is a matter of some urgency, then, Fraulein Anderson?” the older German asked, clearly curious now.
“It is, I’m afraid.”
Steinhof looked at his watch and seemed to consider something.
Then he looked up. “Zangen and his family live close by.
Why don’t I take you to his apartment myself? I’ am certain he would not mind.”
“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble.” The silver-haired man shook his head. “Less beer for me tonight means less fat here tomorrow,” he said, patting his stomach.
“Come.” Steinhof gestured toward the door. “A ten-minute walk and then you can ask Zangen all your questions.”
With a nod to the bartender, the two Americans followed Steinhof out of the door. He immediately turned north, away from the waterfront.
This c
lose to sunset the traffic was heavy along Banter Weg Strasse, but they soon turned off onto a smaller street, Bremer, and then a still smaller one, Kruger. The car and foot traffic thinned with each turning. Most of Wilhelmshaven had been leveled by American B-17 bombers trying to hit Nazi sub pens during World War II. Now they were in a part of the city that had not been bombed out or reconstructed, and the streets twisted and curved. The buildings were older, too — sometimes in need of work, but more often neat and well maintained.
They crossed into a residential area — mostly larger nineteenthcentury town houses that had been broken up into flats — and it was getting difficult to keep their bearings. Helen made the effort, though, because it would be dark by the time they finished talking to Steinhof’s friend.
She spotted a man following them while craning her head around to double-check a landmark for later reference. He was tall, darkhaired, and no more than twenty feet behind them.
She’d caught him in the midst of turning his own head-swinging around to look back the way they’d just come.
Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She knew exactly what the stranger was doing. She’d done it herself on a dozen different close surveillance assignments. The man behind them was making sure they weren’t being followed.
Her gaze swept out in an instant — tightly focused on the area around them. Shit. Besides the big man behind, there were at least three others. Two were out in front, strolling casually while conversing.
The third was across the street, easily keeping pace with them while pretending to read the evening paper.
She and Peter were caught in a moving, ready-made ambush — pinned in plain view. She grimaced, angry at herself for getting sloppy. After Pechenga, she should have realized that paranoia was the only sane course.
The only other person in sight was well behind them and across the street — an old woman tottering homeward under the weight of a single grocery bag. No help there. They were on their own.
Helen turned her head forward. Peter was a little ahead, still chatting with the ever-talkative Steinhof. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the seemingly helpful German had set them up.
How he’d known where they would be wasn’t important. Not at the moment. What mattered most was where she and Peter were being led now.
She took an extra half step forward, catching up with the two men, and slipped her arm through Peter’s. After a few more steps, she casually laid her head on his shoulder. He glanced down at her.
“Trap. Box pattern,” Helen whispered softly. “Four, plus Steinhof.”
She felt Peter stiffen momentarily, then his hand slipped down into hers and squeezed.
Steinhof turned his head toward her, still smiling. “You said something, Fraulein Anderson?”
“Just that it was awfully nice of you to bring us all this way, Herr Steinhof,” Helen lied, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
Their guide smiled broadly. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you. We in Wilhelmshaven pride ourselves on treating our visitors as honored guests.”
Helen gritted her teeth. Somehow she doubted that the average tourist was slated for a bullet in the back of the skull and a quick, anonymous burial somewhere out in the North Sea. It was agony to walk casually down the street, knowing that they were in the jaws of a trap that might close at any moment.
Peter let her hand go, but not before exerting a gentle pressure against her palm — pushing her back behind him. He was getting ready to move.
Helen dropped back half a pace.
Steinhof nodded to a narrow, dimly lit side street just ahead.
“There we are. Zangen and his family live only a few doors down.”
The two men pacing them in front turned left and headed down that street — disappearing around the corner. Helen tensed.
They must be nearly in the planned kill zone.
Thorn saw the first two men vanish around the corner. For the next several seconds, it would be two against three — instead of five. They weren’t going to get a better chance. He spun toward Steinhof, yelling, “Now!”
Helen whirled toward the man following right behind them and disappeared out of Thorn’s field of view.
Despite being taken off guard, Steinhof blocked his first strike easily — sweeping it away with his left arm. And then the German’s own right hand flickered out — as quick as a striking serpent.
Christ! Thorn yanked his head aside, feeling displaced air slap him in the face as Steinhof’s rigid palm flashed right past the bridge of his nose. A fraction of an inch closer and he would have been dead.
Attack followed attack, and parry followed parry, all in a dizzying blur of instinctive actions and reactions, too fast for conscious thought. A second passed. Another.
Thorn drifted toward the street, sweeping his open left hand in defensive circles — ready to strike with his right the instant he saw an opening. The other man mirrored his movements. Part of Thorn’s brain knew that he was running out of time and options fast. He had to move — to break clear before the rest of the ambush team closed in. But he didn’t dare leave Steinhof alive and whole behind him. The German was deadly at close quarters.
Helen Gray sprinted straight toward the big, darkhaired man who’d been tailing them. He was already reaching under his coat for a weapon. No time for anything fancy, then. Just close the distance and pray … She slammed straight into the younger German’s stomach. It was like hitting a concrete wall. His arms tightened around her waist and heaved.
Helen felt herself being lifted off the ground and thrown toward a parked Audi. She curled into a ball in midair, hit the side door, and rolled away — aware of the fire running all down her side and left leg.
She scrambled to one knee and froze, staring into the big man’s drawn Walther P5 pistol. He was barely a foot away — so close she could smell the sweat on him and see the tattooed cobra’s head poking above his shirt collar.
He smiled nastily at her and tightened his finger on the trigger.”
“Wiedersehen, schon Fraulein—” Helen chopped at her attacker’s hand, knocking the pistol away just as it fired. A 9mm slug tore into the pavement by her knee and screamed away. Before the big German could pull his weapon back on line, she struck again — this time aiming for his empty left hand.
She jammed her fingers into the fold of skin between the darkhaired man’s left thumb and index finger, and-squeezed, crushing the nerve ending there with every ounce of strength. Her left hand gripped the wrist of the hand holding his pistol.
The tattooed German’s eyes opened wide in shock and agony as he screamed.
Using her grip as a lever, she rose from her knees — simultaneously forcing the screaming man downward. His broad, flat-featured face bent closer.
Now!
Helen shoved his weapon hand out of the way, spun back, and then drove her left elbow straight into his nose with all her might. She felt the crunch as shards of sharp-edged cartilage speared upward and into his brain. He dropped like a stone and lay facedown in a spreading pool of blood.
Thorn tried another strike, felt Steinhof’s left arm drive him off target, and gave ground. The older German countered instantly — driving in with lightning speed, aiming for his throat this time. He blocked it and fell back further.
Steinhof followed, still attacking — hammering against his defenses, probing for that one weak spot that would let a killing blow slip through.
Thorn deflected another strike with his left arm and felt the German’s jacket brush past his open fingertips. He grabbed desperately, curling his hand around the other man’s sleeve. Cloth tore through his fingers as Steinhof wrenched the arm out of his grip.
But for an instant, the older man staggered off balance, open, and vulnerable. Thorn lashed out — throwing his entire weight into the attack. His palm slammed heel-first into Steinhof’s forehead.
Blood sprayed out of the German’s nose and eyes as his brain ruptured unde
r the massive impact. He crumpled to the pavement — dead before he even finished falling.
Recovering quickly, Thorn spun around, heading toward Helen.
The whole melee had lasted less than ten seconds.
Helen looked up and saw Peter sprinting toward her … Crack!
And ducked as safety glass sprayed through the air from the shattered windshield of a parked car. The third German in Steinhof’s ambush party — the one flanking them from across the street-had his pistol out and was shooting.
Bent low, Peter raced up to her. “Let’s move! Move!”
Still breathless, Helen scrambled up and took off down the street the way they’d come — crouching to keep the row of cars between her and the gunman. She could hear more shouts behind her. The rest of Steinhof’s team must have finally tumbled to the fact that their plan had gone sour. She also saw the little old lady standing rigid with shock, spilled groceries jumbled at her feet. The woman was pointing straight at them — screaming something in high-pitched, frantic German.
Another pistol round tore past her head — showering brick dust and fragments across the pavement.
They rounded a corner and kept running, faster now. There were no more shots.
Two more corners brought them out onto a major street — Bismarckstrasse.
Mercedes, Flats, Audis, and Volkswagens roared past in both directions.
After snapping a quick look back in the direction they’d come, Peter flagged down a passing cab and bundled Helen inside.
He rapped on the partition separating them from the driver.
“The Bahnhofi Schnell, bitte!” Then he swung around to face her. “You okay?” Still breathing hard, Helen nodded.
“You’re sure?” Peter persisted. Truth be told, her left leg hurt like hell. The sudden explosion of violent hand-to-hand combat had strained her old injury. But she was alive.
“I’m fine,” she insisted. “What about you? Who the hell was that guy Steinhof?”
He grimaced. “Definitely pro.”
“You think we should leave Wilhelmshaven …” Helen let her voice trail off.
He nodded again, still grim-faced. “Yeah. Don’t you?”