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.
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
