He inclined his head toward the small shed that housed the airport manager. “No difficult questions?”
Krauss shook his head. “No. They have all accepted our cover story.”
Reichardt nodded. The county officials who ran the airport had been informed that Caraco intended its new facility as a transfer point for corporate executives flying in from its other U.S. enterprises to Charleston. Given the high landing, maintenance, and aircraft parking fees at Charleston International, none of them were surprised that Caraco viewed their field as a low-cost alternative. In any event, no responsible local official would turn up his nose at the promise of added revenues flowing into the airport coffers.
His pager buzzed. He checked the name and number displayed and pursed his lips. Interesting.
With a single, sharp nod, Reichardt dismissed Krauss and sent him back to work. Then he turned on his heel and stalked back through the gate to where he’d parked his rental can-a sleek, comfortable Monte Carlo.
Even though he’d parked in the shade, the car’s interior was already sweltering. Despite the sticky heat, the German pulled the car door firmly shut behind him. There was no point taking a chance that a local might overhear him, and absolutely no sense in allowing the man he was about to call to hear anything that might let him guess Reichardt’s location.
The Monte Carlo came equipped with a car phone, but Reichardt ignored that. Instead, he opened his briefcase and removed his own digital cellular phone. It contained an encryption chip that would prevent either casual or deliberate eavesdropping.
He keyed in a code and then the phone number displayed on his pager.
An automated system routed his call through several dummy numbers before dialing his contact — vastly complicating any attempt to trace the call.
A cautious voice answered. “Mcdowell.”
“This is Heinrich Wolf,” Reichardt said smoothly. “From Secure Investments, Limited. What can I do for you, Mr. Mcdowell?”
“You’ve got a problem,” Mcdowell said. “Two problems, in fact.”
Reichardt listened in silence and mounting irritation while the American FBI official filled him in on the fax he’d just received from Berlin. Although they’d survived Kleiner’s abortive ambush in Pechenga, he’d thought Special Agent Gray and Colonel Thorn were out of the picture-on their way home to the United States in disgrace. But now here they were again — popping up with data he’d believed completely secure. One of the loose ends he’d gone to enormous lengths to tie up had come unraveled again. Somehow the two Americans had tracked the cargo transfer in Bergen.
“Where are they now?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Mcdowell reluctantly admitted. “The fax is six hours old already. And they could have arranged for a delayed transmission.”
Reichardt scowled, thinking fast. With at least a six-hour head start, these two American troublemakers could be well on their way to almost anywhere. Chasing them would be futile, he realized. This would have to be an entirely different sort of hunt.
He gripped the cellular phone tighter. “I need more information on Thorn and Gray. Immediately.”
Mcdowell hesitated but only for an instant. Both he and Reichardt knew who held all the aces in the game they were playing. “I have photos and personnel files on both of them.”
“Good. Then you can fax them to me now.” Reichardt gave the American one of the dummy numbers that would ultimately connect with his phone, disconnected, and plugged a cable into the cell phone.
Within minutes, the portable fax machine he carried in his briefcase spat out two photos and several pages of personal and professional data — all stamped “FBI Confidential.” He rang Mcdowell back. “You’ve done good work, Mr. Mcdowell. I think I can promise you a high return on your latest investment.”’ “I don’t want more money,” the FBI agent said shortly. “I want out. I’m running too many goddamned risks here.”
“We all run risks, PEREGRINE,” Reichardt mockingly chided.
“There are no rewards without them. True?”
There was silence on the other end, and Reichardt knew Mcdowell was cursing himself. Every act he committed tightened the noose around his neck, giving the German more control.
Time to dangle some cheese in front of the rat. “Don’t worry so much, Mr. Mcdowell. Your assistance is valued. It reduces your debt to us. Soon, you will hear no more from me.”
The FBI official couldn’t hide the desperate hope in his voice.
“When?”
“Soon,” Reichardt repeated. He snapped the phone shut.
Ignoring the sweat trickling down his forehead in the stifling car, he scanned the papers he’d been sent. One eyebrow went up as he paged through the official records of the two Americans’ past exploits as members of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team and the U.S. Army’s Delta Force. No wonder they’d bested poor Kleiner and his hired Russian bandits in combat.
This Peter Thorn and Helen Gray were dangerous, Reichardt reflected.
Too dangerous. And too damned persistent. They’d already pierced three layers of the elaborate veil he’d drawn over the Operation. If he left them on the loose much longer, they might get too close to the core — and draw too much official attention with them.
At least he now knew where they were headed next. The Americans had discovered that the ship they were chasing, Baltic Venturer, had sailed to Wilhelmshaven. From what he had learned from their files, Thorn and Gray would not abandon the chase. Not when they were hot on the scent.
Reichardt considered his options carefully, and then made several phone calls. The first was to his security team leader in Wilhelmshaven.
There would be no subtlety this time. The time was too short. This time he would demand certainty.
Heinz Steinhof alternated between pacing up and down Weserstrasse and standing across the street from the Port Authority office.
It was late in the afternoon, but he couldn’t bet on the two Americans arriving today-or ever. In fact, for all he knew, they’d already come and gone, and his men would be watching and waiting until the end of time.
Which they would, or at least until Reichardt told them to stop.
Reichardt’s phone call earlier that afternoon had surprised Steinhof.
The security team was almost through with its job of “sanitizing” the temporary Caraco export office in Wilhelmshaven.
Two of his best operatives had already left for the United States. Now all their work had to be set aside so they could hunt for two American snoopers.
It wasn’t the job that bothered Steinhof. Find two people and kill them. Easy enough. He’d done it before.
When Reichardt had found him almost thirty years before, he’d been an unwilling conscript in the East German National People’s Army.
Steinhof had been working as an enforcer for a gambler in the barracks — something that had brought him to the attention of his military superiors, and, as it turned out, to the Stasi as well.
Reichardt had solved the People’s Army’s discipline problem by recruiting Steinhof for secret work himself.
In the years since, the ex-soldier had conducted many different missions for Reichardt — murders, assassinations, bombings, and smuggling operations of different kinds. Most had been dangerous.
All had been difficult.
But Reichardt had carefully planned and painstakingly researched all those assignments. It was the other man’s strength and safeguard. By the time Steinhof tightened a wire garrote around someone’s neck, he not only knew the perfect time and place to do it, but why the garrote was better than the knife or the gun.
Now, though, all he had to work with were a pair of names and two photos — faxed once and then faxed again, growing muddier with each transmission. Reichardt apparently knew nothing about when this Thorn and Gray would arrive in the city, or indeed, if they would come at all. It was unsettling, but Steinhof knew better than to press his superior for more information. Men who called Rolf Ulrich Reichardt’s imperfections to his attention tended to have short life spans.
At least, he knew the two Americans would be seeking news of the Baltic Venturer. That gave a focus to
