by Larry Bond
Farrell had just started picking out landmarks in the city below when the receptionist appeared at the door. “Mr. Garrett can see you now, General.”
She led him through the reception area, through a pair of double doors, and then up a spiral staircase.
Garrett’s penthouse office had the same magnificent view. The man himself, white-haired and perfectly attired in a crisply tailored business suit, turned away from the window and strode over to greet him.
“I’m very glad to meet you, General Farrell,” the lawyer said. He gestured toward a small group of chairs clustered around a coffee table. “Please take a seat.”
Farrell followed him over and sat down. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Garrett. Especially under the circumstances.”’ The other man showed a set of perfect white teeth in a quick, humorless smile. “But the circumstances are what bring us together, General.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I can assure you that we take your allegations regarding Caraco Transport and its employees seriously — very seriously indeed. In fact, I’ve—” Suddenly, Garrett broke off and got to his feet, facing the spiral staircase. “Your Highness! This is an unexpected honor …”
Farrell turned his head and then followed suit.
A tall, slender man with jet-black hair and dark, hooded eyes had just appeared at the top of the stairs.
Garrett hurriedly introduced him. “Your Highness, I present Major General Farrell. General, this is His Highness, Prince Ibrahim al Saud, the chairman and chief executive officer of Caraco.”
The Saudi prince waved them down as he drew nearer.
“Please, sit down. I’m very sorry to interrupt.”
Another man followed him into Garrett’s office. He was about Farrell’s height and weight, with graying dark hair. Gray eyes gleamed behind a pair of black-frame glasses.
“General, this is Heinrich Wolf,” Ibrahim said, nodding toward the newcomer. “Herr Wolf is the chief of security for our European enterprises. I hope you don’t mind my including him in this meeting.”
“Not at all, sir.” Farrell held out his hand as Wolf stepped closer.
Rolf Ulrich Reichardt deliberately softened his grip as he shook hands with the retired American soldier. He wanted to project the image of a business executive or a bureaucrat. Or just another harmless paper pusher. Let Farrell think he was the only warrior in the room.
After they were all seated, Ibrahim leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Now, perhaps you could give us more details of these claims of yours, General Farrell. From what little I’ve heard, you’ve made some very grave charges against several of my subsidiary companies.”
Farrell nodded somberly. “That’s true, Your Highness. But I’m afraid there are very real indications that some of your people are involved in either illegal arms or narcotics smuggling …”
Reichardt listened carefully as the American outlined the evidence he must have been given by his protege Thorn and that damned woman FBI agent. Farrell’s version dovetailed reasonably well with the information already provided by Mcdowell.
Nevertheless, it was irksome to hear again in detail just how deeply his operational security had been breached.
When Farrell had finished, Ibrahim sat back, shaking his head in apparent dismay. “I see your point, General. This certainly looks bad.”
The Saudi turned toward Reichardt. “This unpleasant situation seems to fall mostly in your jurisdiction, Heinrich.
Do you have any comments or questions?”
Reichardt nodded. “One or two questions, Highness.” He looked intently at Farrell. “Your evidence seems compelling, General, but I would like to know the source of this information. Naturally, we need to verify its accuracy.”
Farrell answered him flatly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Herr Wolf. You’ll have to take my word that I consider my source unimpeachable.”
“I see.” Reichardt looked down at his fingertips. “I only wondered whether or not your source might be a man named Colonel Peter Thorn. I’ve studied the Russian police reports on the original Pechenga incident, and I know that the colonel served under your command just before you retired. The logic seemed inescapable. But then two and two do not always add to four in the human equation.” He looked up.
“Have you spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”
“No.” Farrell’s tone was steady and he looked Reichardt straight in the eye.
The German shrugged. “No matter.” He glanced at Ibrahim. “I assure you, Highness, if there is such a smuggling ring operating within our bounds, my men and I will ferret them out for you.”
“See that you do,” the Saudi said coolly.
Farrell cleared his throat. “Not that I want to interfere, Herr Wolf, but I’d like to know how exactly you intend to proceed. Now that you’ve been instrumental in pulling the FBI off the case, I mean.”
“A fair question,” Ibrahim commented. He smiled broadly in Reichardt’s direction. “What precisely are your plans for this investigation, Heinrich? This unimpeachable source of General Farrell’s already seems to have done half your work for you.”
Reichardt ignored the dig. “I’ve ordered Arrus Export’s Moscow office to cease all operations while we audit their accounts and question every employee. If one of our workers provided this Peterhof with his false Arrus credentials, I’ll have his skin.”
Ibrahim nodded his approval. “Good. I will not countenance corruption — anywhere.”
“Of course, Highness.”
“You should also contact the master of the Caraco Savannah. Tell him to hold his crew aboard ship once they dock in Wilhelmshaven. I want them all interrogated,” Ibrahim ordered.
“Sir.”
“And dispatch investigators to Bergen to try to pin down the connection between the cargoes carried by the Star of the White Sea and Baltic Venturer.”
“Of course, Highness,” Reichardt said.
Ibrahim glanced at Farrell. “I hope our plan of action meets with your approval, General.”
The American nodded. “It seems thorough enough, Your Highness, but …”
His voice trailed away.
“But you must still wonder why we asked your FBI to stop carrying out the same work?” Ibrahim finished for him.
Reichardt froze in his chair. The prince was playing dangerously close to the edge — too close for his own tastes.
“I prefer to clean up my own messes, General Farrell,” the Saudi continued. “You say that some of my people have abused my trust and engaged in a criminal conspiracy. If that is so, then I am ultimately at fault — and I must be the one to take action. It is a matter of personal honor. Can you understand that?”
Farrell nodded again, firmly this time.
Reichardt felt himself starting to relax. Trust Ibrahim to find the avenue of approach best guaranteed to appeal to the American military man. He listened while the Saudi steered the conversation away from contraband cargoes and toward his worldwide enterprises. By the time the prince was through with Farrell, the American would probably be ready to buy Caraco stock.
After all, Ibrahim’s persuasive abilities had worked on Reichardt himself.
As head of the Stasi’s Revolutionary Movements Liaison Section, Reichardt had worked with dozens of different terrorist groups — providing them with false identity papers, safe houses, weapons training, and special equipment. Although there were no formal links between most of the different terrorist organizations, there were places where their paths crossed. Communist East Germany had been one of those places.
The desperate need for money was another common ground.
Every group needed it for recruitment, training, intelligence, supplies, operations, everything. Terrorism might be “the poor man’s nuclear weapon,” but it still wasn’t cheap.
One source of funding for many of the various movements had been a man known only as “the Paymaster”—a shadowy figure who’d provided huge sums of cash, but
always at arm’s length.
The money handed out to pay for bombings, hijackings, and murders all over the world always came through a different front organization — an organization that vanished once the gift was accepted. For years, Reichardt had kept his ear to the ground — hoping to learn the Paymaster’s identity.
His search had taken on a new urgency after East Germany collapsed under the weight of its own inefficiency and corruption. He and his fellow Stasi operatives had taken considerable sums of cash with them when they’d gone underground, but not enough to last them forever. To Reichardt, the so-called Paymaster seemed like somebody who might value a man with his rather specialized skills.
Somewhat to his surprise, Ibrahim had contacted him first — arranging a series of preliminary meetings between go-betweens. Still hiding behind his agents, the Saudi prince had hired Reichardt and his team to organize a number of smuggling operations, terrorist attacks, and assassinations in Russia and Western Europe. In retrospect, the ex-Stasi officer realized those operations had been tests of his ability, ruthlessness, and reliability.
At last, apparently satisfied by the results, Ibrahim had introduced himself directly — to Reichardt’s admitted astonishment.
He’d never imagined that the Paymaster might actually be the CEO and founder of a large, Western-oriented international conglomerate. It was the perfect disguise — the ideal masquerade.
A subtle change in Ibrahim’s tone signaled his intention to end this meeting. The German turned his full attention back to the present.
“So you must understand, General Farrell,” the Saudi prince said. “I have every incentive to keep my own house in order. Caraco’s prosperity — both now and in the future — depends upon its absolute reputation for honesty and integrity. Rest assured that Herr Wolf and I will get to the bottom of this matter.”
Ibrahim smiled grimly. “If our findings confirm your suspicions, I promise you that heads will roll.” He rose to his feet. “But now, if you and Mr. Garrett will excuse us, Herr Wolf and I have a number of calls to make.”
Their farewells took a few minutes more, but Reichardt and Ibrahim were soon down the spiral staircase. A door marked “Private” opened up into a long hallway lined with offices. Another door, this one locked and unmarked, let them into a small space filled with wire recorders and other electronic equipment. A German specialist named Jopp sat at the only chair in the tiny room — turning ceaselessly back and forth between one of the recorders and the laptop computer it was connected to.
Jopp acknowledged their arrival with a bare nod but kept working.
Reichardt’s voice filled the room, coming from a speaker next to the computer.” … spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”
“No.” Jopp killed the tape after Farrell’s reply, then studied the wave pattern displayed on his computer screen.
The technician spun around to face them. “The American is lying.”
“You’re sure?” Reichardt asked.
“Positive,” Jopp said. “He’s talked to Thorn since Pechenga.”
He punched a key, focusing the display on a smaller part of the voice pattern. “Judging from the spike in emphasis here, I would guess they’ve been in contact within the past several days.”
That was good enough for Reichardt. Jopp was a master of sound, of voices. When they’d both worked for the Stasi, he’d watched the little electronics technician change a man’s voice into a woman’s — and the words of a loyal servant of the State into those of a traitor. Telling whether an American was telling the truth or not was child’s play for Jopp.
Ibrahim nodded. “Excellent work, Herr Jopp. Finish up here and then return to your normal assignment.”
Jopp bobbed his head, clearly pleased by the compliment. The Saudi prince was generally sparing in his praise.
Ibrahim crooked a finger, summoning Reichardt back out into the deserted corridor. “So Thorn has told Farrell, and Farrell has told the American military, and through them, the FBI. Where will this news of our plans travel next? The Washington Post, perhaps?”
The prince’s tone hardened with every word. What had started as a summary ended as an indictment.
Reichardt said nothing, knowing that anything he said would only be turned against him.
“You are satisfied that Farrell is the conduit for the information obtained by Thorn and that woman of his?” Ibrahim asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Very well,” the Saudi said coldly. “You know what to do. Handle the matter promptly and efficiently this time.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MOVEMENT TO CONTACT
JUNE 17
Ramstein Air Force Base, Germany
It was nearly four in the morning and Helen Gray found herself pacing again — striding back and forth across the thin brown carpet.
The small, Spartan Bachelor Officer’s Quarters room Colonel Stroud had booked for them would never have been mistaken for a luxury hotel suite at the best of times. For two highly active, urgently motivated people unable to risk setting foot outside, it was starting to turn into a tiger cage.
Being forced into hiding also left her far too much time to think about the bleak professional and personal future she and Peter faced — despite his brave words and bold declaration of love back in Andrew Griffin’s Berlin flat. The truth was that they were confronting grave danger and almost certain disgrace.
Even if they somehow managed to come out of this mess with their careers intact, they’d only be separated again — sent off to new assignments in different parts of the country or the world.
Helen sighed. The past year or so away from Peter had been hard enough. She wasn’t sure she could stand another period of enforced loneliness. It might be better to make a clean break and say goodbye forever rather than go through that again.
No. She couldn’t do that, she realized suddenly. Even the thought of losing him sent a wave of anguish through her heart.
But what alternative was there? Could he leave the Army to stay by her side? Could she leave the FBI to follow him? She shook her head.
Neither option seemed acceptable. She wanted a lifetime of joy together. Not a life filled with hidden regrets and lingering doubts.
Helen spun on her heel again, nearly barking her shins on the cheap, government-issue desk that came with the room.
The light knock on the door came as an enormous relief.
It was Mike Stroud. He was alone.
Once in the room, the Special Forces officer dumped a pair of camouflage fatigue uniforms, two pairs of boots, and a couple of camouflage field caps out of the duffel bag he’d brought to hold their civilian clothes.
Peter looked down at them. “We’re on?”
“You’re on,” Stroud confirmed. He tossed a set of B.D.U’s to Helen.
“Hope these fit, Mrs. Carlson. I had to guess at sizes.”
She went into the bathroom to put them on. When she came out, Peter was already dressed. Although neither uniform carried any rank insignia or unit patches, they now looked like just two more of the thousands of American personnel stationed at Ramstein.
“How’d I do?” Stroud asked.
“Not bad,” Helen admitted. Her fatigues were tight in a couple of places, but otherwise they felt fine. “You have a keen eye, Mike.”
The Green Beret colonel shrugged immodestly. “It’s a gift.”
Peter grinned — almost against his will. Helen felt her heart lift momentarily as the smile crinkled the tiny crow’s-feet around his serious green eyes.
Stroud hustled them out the BOQ door and into the waiting car ― this time an official vehicle, a dark blue Air Force van. As he drove, he explained. “We’re going straight to the flight line.”
He checked his watch. “I’m deliberately cutting this right to the bone. That way nobody has time to take a long look at you or to ask any inconvenient questions.”
Helen heard the worry in his voice. “There’s more trouble, Mike?�
��
Stroud nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road. “The word came in from D.C. this afternoon. All U.S. military bases in Europe are being asked to keep an eye out for two wanted fugitives, to wit, one Thorn, Peter, Colonel, U.S. Army; and one Gray, Helen, Special Agent, FBI.”
“Shit,” Peter muttered under his breath. “This come down from the Germans?”
“I wish,” Stroud said quietly. “The order’s signed by the Director of the FBI personally.”
Helen felt her insides knot up. Their worst nightmare had come true.
Their own people were under orders to arrest them.
She clenched her fists tight, forcing herself to think. “Then how do we board that plane?” she asked.
“I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve,” Stroud said. He took one hand off the wheel, reached into his tunic pocket, and handed Peter an envelope. “That contains a letter for the plane commander and another for the base operations officer at Dover — just in case you run into any problems. With a little luck, though, you won’t need to use them. Sam Farrell’s supposed to have somebody standing by to meet the plane.”
“Luck’s not exactly been on our side so far,” Helen commented.
“Well, there’s a first time for everything, Mrs. Carlson,” Stroud said. He glanced at Peter. “Remember, Pete, you run into some officious bastard, you ask to see the ops officer. If he’s still on your case after reading the letter, tell him your trip involves CORNICE.
That should clear the way. And if anybody wants to know what you’re doing, just tell ‘em you ‘work for the government.”” This time she and Peter both grinned openly. That was the standard reply given by members of the CIA and other intelligence agencies when they were asked about their jobs.
They crossed the airfield perimeter, passed through the sentries, and drove out onto the hangar-lined tarmac.
Huge Air Force cargo jets — C-5s and C-17s painted a dark, dull gray — were parked along the flight line. People and vehicles moved among them, minnows next to whales. They passed several of the transport aircraft before Stroud found the right tail number.