It was well past dark by the time the third semi turned out of the warehouse yard and roared onto a highway heading inland.
Schaaf’s security detail settled down into a normal nighttime routine.
Werner Kentner and his men fell into an exhausted sleep.
The next thing Kentner knew his shoulder was being roughly shaken. He heard a muffled voice speaking to him urgently. “Get upraus mit ihr!”
Groggy, his vision blurred, he rolled over and looked up at the men standing over him without comprehension. He managed to mutter “What?”
just before cold water was thrown on his face.
Spluttering, Kentner struggled to his feet, angry now and ready to deck the swine who hadhis vision cleared and he saw Rolf Ulrich Reichardt holding an empty pitcher, a tight, controlled smile on his face.
“Are you awake now, Werner, or do you need another drink?” Reichardt asked with deceptive mildness. “If so, I’m sure Herr Schaaf can bring me a second container.”
Schaaf, the hard-as-nails soldier, stood meekly, one step back and to the side of the ex-Stasi operative.
“What’s going on?” Kentner knew better than to challenge Reichardt, but he was still confused—still trying to get his bearings.
The warehouse windows were dark. He glanced at his watch. My God … he’d only been asleep for an hour or so.
Elsewhere in the makeshift bunk room, men stirred—awakened by the sudden commotion. Reichardt took them all in at a glance and ordered, “Get up, all of you! You have more work to do! Now?
His voice was equal parts anger and impatience.
Kentner wiped at the water still dripping off his chin. “I don’t understand, Herr Reichardt. We are on schedule. Why the rush?”
The ex-Stasi man spared him a terrible, chilling glance. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Schedules change, Werner.” His eyes grew even harder. “You will not question me.
Not now. Or ever again. Do you understand?”
Dazed, Kentner hurriedly nodded.
“Good,” Reichardt said coldly. “Then I suggest you get moving.
Now.”
JUNE
14
Charlottenbur, Berlin
Colonel Peter Thorn stepped out of the shower and quickly slipped into the short-sleeved shirt and slacks he’d borrowed from their host.
Luckily, he and Andrew Griffin were much the same size. Then he left the bathroom, still toweling his wet hair—moving quietly out of long habit and hard training. He paused in the doorway to the living room.
The ex-S.A.S officer’s Charlottenburg flat occupied the entire top floor of an elegant house that had once belonged to a wealthy industrialist.
Large windows looked down onto a wide, treelined avenue—now a sea of leaves waving gently beneath a wide, cloudless blue sky. The ornate facades of the houses across the avenue rose above the bright green leaves like wind-sculpted cliffs rising from the ocean. Summer was close at hand.
Helen Gray stood gazing out the window, silhouetted by the mid-morning sun. The light cast a dazzling halo around her dark hair and brought the perfect profile of her face into sharp relief.
Thorn watched her in silence for a moment longer, committing the breathtaking image to his memory forever. He was always aware that she was a beautiful woman—but there were still times when the sheer power of her beauty rocked him back on his heels. This was one of them.
“I’ve got a penny …” he said, at last daring to break the spell she’d cast over him.
Without looking around, Helen shook her head. “My thoughts aren’t worth the price, Peter.”
“That’s my call, I think,” Thorn said.
She moved away from the window, ran her right hand lightly over the polished wood of a baby grand piano, and then turned to face him with a small, sad smile playing across her lips. “All right. I was thinking about the future.”
Thorn let the damp towel fall around his neck. “Oh? Any future in particular?”
“My future. Your future.” Her voice dropped low. “Our future.”
So that was it. Thorn joined her by the piano. “Sounds like a sensible subject.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “So why the long face ?”
Almost against her will, Helen’s smile grew a little more genuine.
Her eyes regained some of their old sparkle. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Just because we’re being hunted by the German police, tracked by trained killers, and stand to lose our jobs on top of everything else …”
“Just that?” Thorn shook his head. He forced a lopsided grin.
“And here you had me worried.”
“Oh?” she said dryly. “You don’t think my catalogue of woes is all that bad?”
Thorn shrugged. “Well, the way I see it we’re facing three possibilities. One: We get killed. Now, I’m not planning on that.
Two: There’s always the second alternative—we go to jail.”
“And you see problems with that option, too, I suppose,” Helen prompted.
“Yep. Too embarrassing. And the food’s usually lousy.”
“So your third alternative is …”
Thorn shrugged. “We survive. We prove our case. And then we live happily ever after.”
Helen sighed. “Sounds nice, Peter. It really does. It’s too bad I’m feeling a little too old to believe in real-life fairy tales.” She looked away.
“Helen …” He turned her toward him and held her. “We’ll get out of this. I promise you that.”
“Damn it. Cut the pep talk,” she said, pulling away slightly from his encircling arms. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”
“No, you’re not,” he said more seriously. He gently tugged her closer and stared straight into her bright blue eyes. “You’re the woman I love.”
Helen briefly blushed a faint red, then shook her head. “And I love you, too. But as wonderful as that is, it doesn’t change the fundamental equation.”
“I think it does.” Thorn took her by the hand, aware suddenly that his heart was pounding faster than if he’d just finished a five-mile run.
Helen stared back at him. “Peter, this isn’t—” The sound of a key turning in a lock stopped her in mid-sentence. She swung toward the front door. “Oh, damn.” Thorn hurriedly released her.
“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered. He could feel his ears burning bright red. First Alexei Koniev, then Mcdowell, and now Andrew Griffin.
Griffin came into the living room seconds later. The ex-S.A.S officer set his briefcase down on the floor and eyed them carefully.
“I hope I haven’t interrupted anything important?”
“No, not at all,” Thorn said abruptly.
“I see,” Griffin said, clearly not believing him. Quiet amusement danced in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry for barging back so soon in the day, but I received a call from General Farrell at my office.”
“He’s up awfully early,” Thorn commented. Christ, it couldn’t be much past 5:00 A.M. Washington time.
Griffin nodded. “I gather he’s flying down to North Carolina later today, and he was rather eager to reach me as soon as possible.”’ “With good news, I hope?” Helen asked.
The Englishman nodded again. “Very good news. He’s found a way to slip you out of Germany without alerting our rather overzealous hosts.”
The ex-S.A.S officer turned toward Thorn.
“Do you know a Colonel Stroud? One of your Special Forces chaps?”
“Mike Stroud?” Thorn said. “Yeah, I know him. He’s with the Tenth Special Forces Group. Stationed at Panzen Kasem in Stuttgart.”
“Ordinarily, yes,” Griffin answered. “But right now he’s on a rotation through the joint staff at Ramstein.”
Thorn whistled softly. That was a piece of luck. Ramstein was the largest U.S. Air Force base in Europe. It was also the hub for military passenger flights to and from the States. “And Mike’s agreed to take us in?”
“He has,” the ex-S.A.S officer confirmed. “Apparently General Farrell has a long reach—and many good friends.”
“When do we leave?” Helen asked quietly.
“I’ll drive you there tomorrow morning,” Griffin said. “I gather Colonel Stroud will need some time to arrange the necessary papers.
Still, I should think you’ll be home in America in short order.”
Home, Thorn thought.
He listened to Helen thank their host for the good news and then watched her turn away—moving back to stare out the window again. They were going home. But home to what?
Joint Special Operations Command Headquarters, Fort Bragg, North Carolina Sam Farrell entered the outer office and nodded to the pleasantfaced, middleaged woman manning the desk. “Morning, Libby.”
“Good morning to you, General!” Her reaction was a mixture of surprise and pleasure. “We weren’t expecting you down here.”
Then she grinned mischievously. “Or did I miss something on my calendar.
Farrell grinned back. Libby Bauer had been his administrative assistant before he retired—and she’d worked for his predecessor as well. That made her something of an institution around J.S.O.C headquarters. “Not a thing, Libby. Is the boss in?”
“You’re in luck, sir. He’s in the building, so I can track him down for you.” She picked up a phone. “This’ll only take a minute. Why don’t you go ahead and wait inside?”
“Appreciate it, Libby.” Farrell nodded. He went through the open door behind her.
Although the room beyond was familiar, the details jarred. It still had the same wood paneling, the same ratty carpet. The big oak desk was also the same, and so were the flags on either side and the J.S.O.C crest on the wall behind it. But there were different mementos on the desk, and the plaques clustered on one wall belonged to his relief, Major General George Mayer.
Mayer appeared before he’d even had time to take it all in.
“Sam! This is a pleasant surprise! Jesus, it sure looks like retirement agrees with you.”
Farrell shook his outstretched hand. “Hell, George, you look too happy yourself! You must not be working hard enough.”
Both men were of a type: sturdy and in excellent physical condition.
Neither wore glasses—though Farrell needed them now to read. Mayer was just a smidge taller, and his narrow, angular face contrasted sharply with Farrell’s broader, friendlier features.
They shared a common background and common experiences. Mayer had served under Farrell at several points in his career, times both looked back on fondly. While he wasn’t as close to Mayer as he was to Peter Thorn, Farrell liked him—the way you like a good son-in-law. In fact, he’d strongly recommended Mayer as his own replacement as head of the Joint Special Operations Command—the headquarters controlling all U.S. military counterterrorist units, including the Army’s Delta Force and the Navy’s
SEAL
Team Six.
Mayer called out to Libby Bauer for coffee and motioned his predecessor toward a chair. In short order, she appeared with two steaming mugs, then disappeared closing the door behind her.
“So how’s the book going, Sam?” the current J.S.O.C commander asked.
Rumor said that Farrell was working on a novel, supposedly a thinly Veiled autobiography.
“Pretty good. I sit at my desk and tell lies all day. Not a bad way to earn a living,” Farrell replied.
“But you didn’t come all the way down here to discuss literature, did you?”
“No, George. I didn’t.”
Farrell set his coffee aside This was the moment of truth. He’d promised Peter Thorn he’d try to kick the U.S. government into gear on the wild-assed story the younger man had told him. Now it was time to honor his promise. He just hoped Thorn wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. “There’s a container ship headed for Galveston—maybe already there. I believe someone’s trying to smuggle a nuclear weapon into the United States aboard that ship.”
Mayer grinned. “Look, Sam, you can’t run drills like that anymore, you’re out of the—” He stopped, studying Farrell’s expression more closely. His grin faltered and then vanished. “Jesus, you’re really not kidding, are you?”
“No,” Farrell said. “And this is no drill, George.”
He ran quickly through all the information Thorn had given him.
“Christ.” Mayer stood up and started pacing—as though he could work off the horrible implications of what he’d just been told by walking.
“You really think this Caraco Savannah has a nuke on board?”
“Yes,” Farrell said simply. He was committed now.
Mayer spun on his heel. “Who else knows about this, Sam?
Have you taken this to the
FBI
or anybody else?”
Farrell shook his head. “Not yet. You’re the first.”
“Jesus.”
Farrell understood his successor’s confusion. The military, the
FBI
, the
CIA
, the State Department, the Department of Energy, and almost every other arm of the U.S. government had given a lot of long, hard thought to the potential threat posed by a nuclear weapon smuggled onto American soil. Procedures had been established, organizations created, and yet here he was bypassing the whole establishment in the blink of an eye.
“Just what the hell’s going on here, Sam?” Mayer asked.
“What’s your source for this data?”
“
HUMINT
,” Farrell said, using the acronym for human intelligence—a fancy term that meant an agent, someone who’d acquired the information the hard way.
“What kind of HUMINT?”
“Someone reliable,” Farrell said.
“Meaning you can’t tell me? Or won’t?” Mayer asked.
“Unfortunately, maybe a bit of both, George.” From what Thorn had told Farrell, Thorn’s name was probably mud around all of official Washington. So there wasn’t any point in attributing the data directly to the younger man. The armed forces and the political establishment had missed the boat before—all because they’d viewed an intelligence source with suspicion.
“But you’re convinced that this isn’t just some cock-andbull story spun by somebody who’s had one too many drinks?” Mayer asked again.
“I think this is gospel, George,” Farrell said, hoping like hell that his faith in Peter Thorn wasn’t misplaced. “And if I thought I could get action through the normal channels, believe me, I’d be filling out all the proper forms faster than Libby Bauer can make coffee.”
“Uh-huh,” Mayer grumbled.