about it. These two were the quarry Reichardt had assigned him Thorn and Gray in the flesh and within easy reach.
Steinhof shifted slightly on the balls of his feet. He could feel the weight of the Walther P5 Compact hidden by his jacket.
There they were, less than two meters away, totally unaware and unguarded. He had the sudden urge to draw his pistol and kill them now, here, immediately.
The urge passed.
Murder on a public street in broad daylight was far too risky.
No matter how badly he wanted these Americans dead, Reichardt would not thank him for getting himself locked up by the police.
Steinhof lagged further and further behind Thorn and Gray — watching as they turned off the sunlit street and entered the Customs House. He spotted the man he’d placed outside the building and casually signaled him over. Their watching and waiting were over. It was time to begin setting the stage for the last act in the two Americans’ lives.
Holding the heavily laden tray in both hands, Colonel Peter Thorn carefully maneuvered his way through the crowded, noisy tables at the little outdoor restaurant overlooking the Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz — a small park separated from the Wilhelmshaven waterfront by a few short blocks. Across the way, a stern statue of Kaiser Wilhelm seemed to stare disapprovingly down at the frivolous antics of his former subjects. When they weren’t busy working, Wilhelmshaven’s citizens indulged their three favorite pastimes — eating, drinking, and boating.
Thorn neatly dodged an overweight German businessman with an overflowing beer stein exuberantly making a point to his dining companions and sat down across from Helen Gray.
With a dramatic flourish, he waved a hand over the tray he’d set between them. “Two coffees, madam. Black. No cream. No sugar. And for nourishment — a delicious assortment of breads, cheeses, and hard salami.”
A twinkle crept into Helen’s eyes — replacing the hunted, worried expression he’d seen all too often since they’d cut out on their own.
She reached for one of the coffees. “You do show me the nicest places, Peter. I’ve got to say this is exactly how I dreamed of taking the grand European tour.”
Thorn grinned back. “Touch.”
Helen put her cup down and started paging through the information they’d gathered at the Customs House. The types of cargo carried by ships entering and leaving German ports were a matter of public record — although the owners, final destinations, and tonnage remained closely held proprietary data. She shook her head, clearly frustrated by something.
“What’s the problem?” Thorn asked.
“This.” Helen slid the page she’d just read — a copy of the cargo manifest for the Baltic Venturer — across the table to him.
“According to that, the ship wasn’t carrying jet engines. Not one.”
She frowned. “Could she have stopped somewhere else between Bergen and here?”
Thorn scanned the form himself and shook his own head. “I don’t think so. Her last port of call is listed here. And it was Bergen.” He pointed to a line halfway down the page.
“Then where the hell are Serov’s engines?”
Thorn couldn’t see them listed anywhere on the sheet, either.
According to German customs, the Baltic Venturer’s cargo consisted entirely of timber, paper pulp, and titanium scrap.
His mouth twisted downward. Had the Norwegian dockworker in Bergen sold them a bill of goods? Had the man just made up a story to please a pretty American woman reporter?
Were he and Helen really just on some kind of self-inflicted snipe hunt?
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
