States right now.”
Thorn nodded grimly, considering the possibility that a freighter might be drawing ever nearer to the U.S. with a smuggled Russian nuke on board.
“We’ve got to call this in, Peter,” Helen said flatly.
“Yeah.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s after quitting time on the docks. And we’re going to need confirmation before Washington will take any action. We’ve got to find somebody who saw those crates shifted from ship to ship with his own eyes. Somebody who’ll swear to it under oath, if it comes to that.”
Helen nodded. “So we go pub crawling again?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.” Thorn drained his cold coffee in one gulp and stood up. “In a tearing hurry, Helen. I’ve got a really bad feeling that we’re running against the clock now.”
The last light was fading across the Jadebusen by the time they settled on a likely spot to begin their search — a waterfront bar close to berth S43 named Zur Alten Cafe The bar turned out to be one large room laid out with long tables running almost its entire length. What little light made it through the smoke was soaked up by the dark paneling and dark wood floors. Knots of men sat close together at the tables, eating from plates piled high with food and drinking from massive glass beer steins.
Helen Gray stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking as she felt her eyes starting to smart from all the cigarette smoke hanging in the air.
She was instantly aware that once again she was the only woman in the whole place, and that her light colored business suit stood out like a beacon against the rough, oil-stained work clothes worn by the longshoremen crowding the room. Even Peter’s jeans and sweatshirt looked out of place in here.
She slipped through the crowd to the bar itself, aware of Peter pushing right behind her. The bartender spoke only a little English, enough to understand that she was American and that she was interested in a “schiff”—a ship. Anything more complicated faded into mutual incomprehensibility.
Helen swung around as one of the other patrons, an older, silver-haired man, came to her rescue.
“Excuse me, please, but I speak a little English. May I help you?” he asked, speaking loudly over the hubbub in the packed room.
Helen turned on the charm, favoring the German with a dazzling smile.
“That would be wonderful, Herr …?”
The silver-haired man smiled back. “Steinhof. Heinz Steinhof.”
He listened intently to her explanation, but held up a hand as soon as she mentioned berth S43 and the Baltic Venturer. “I am a supervisor for cargo, but that is not one of my berths. However, my friend Zangen handles that area of the harbor. He is a meticulous and thorough man.
So I am sure that he would remember this ship and what she loaded and unloaded.”
“Where can we find Herr Zangen?” Helen asked. “Is he here this evening?”
Steinhof seemed amused. “Zangen?” He shook his head. “Oh, no. Fritz Zangen is a most responsible man — a family man. He will be at home with his wife and children at this hour.”
Damn. Helen hid her disappointment. “Is there any way we can contact Herr Zangen? Perhaps make an appointment to speak with him? Tonight, if possible?”
“This is a matter of some urgency, then, Fraulein Anderson?” the older German asked, clearly curious now.
“It is, I’m afraid.”
Steinhof looked at his watch and seemed to consider something.
Then he looked up. “Zangen and his family live close by.
Why don’t I take you to his apartment myself? I’ am certain he would not mind.”
“You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble.” The silver-haired man shook his head. “Less beer for me tonight means less fat here tomorrow,” he said, patting his stomach.
“Come.” Steinhof gestured toward the door. “A ten-minute walk and then you can ask Zangen all your questions.”
With a nod to the bartender, the two Americans followed Steinhof out of the door. He immediately turned north, away from the waterfront.
This close to sunset the traffic was heavy along Banter Weg Strasse, but they soon turned off onto a smaller street, Bremer, and then a still smaller one, Kruger. The car and foot traffic thinned with each turning. Most of Wilhelmshaven had been leveled by American B-17 bombers trying to hit Nazi sub pens during World War II. Now they were in a part of the city that had not been bombed out or reconstructed, and the streets twisted and curved. The buildings were older, too — sometimes in need of work, but more often neat and well maintained.
They crossed into a residential area — mostly larger nineteenthcentury town houses that had been broken up into flats — and it was getting difficult to keep their bearings. Helen made the effort, though, because it would be dark by the time they finished talking to Steinhof’s friend.
She spotted a man following them while craning her head around to double-check a landmark for later reference. He was tall, darkhaired, and no more than twenty feet behind them.
She’d caught him in the midst of turning his own head-swinging around to look back the way they’d just come.
Helen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She knew exactly what the stranger was doing. She’d done it herself on a dozen different close surveillance assignments. The man behind them was making sure they weren’t being followed.
Her gaze swept out in an instant — tightly focused on the area around them. Shit. Besides the big man behind, there were at least three others. Two were out in front, strolling casually while conversing.
The third was across the street, easily keeping pace with them while pretending to read the evening paper.
She and Peter were caught in a moving, ready-made ambush — pinned in plain view. She grimaced, angry at herself for getting sloppy. After Pechenga, she should have realized that paranoia was the only sane course.
The only other person in sight was well behind them and across the street — an old woman tottering homeward under the weight of a single grocery bag. No help there. They were on their own.
Helen turned her head forward. Peter was a little ahead, still chatting with the ever-talkative Steinhof. It didn’t take a genius to realize that the seemingly helpful German had set them up.
How he’d known where they would be wasn’t important. Not at the moment. What mattered most was where she and Peter were being led now.
She took an extra half step forward, catching up with the two men, and slipped her arm through Peter’s. After a few more steps, she casually laid her head on his shoulder. He glanced down at her.
“Trap. Box pattern,” Helen whispered softly. “Four, plus Steinhof.”
She felt Peter stiffen momentarily, then his hand slipped down into hers and squeezed.
Steinhof turned his head toward her, still smiling. “You said something, Fraulein Anderson?”
“Just that it was awfully nice of you to bring us all this way, Herr Steinhof,” Helen lied, forcing herself to sound cheerful.
Their guide smiled broadly. “It is no trouble at all, I assure you. We in Wilhelmshaven pride ourselves on treating our visitors as honored guests.”
Helen gritted her teeth. Somehow she doubted that the average tourist was slated for a bullet in the back of the skull and a quick, anonymous burial somewhere out in the North Sea. It was agony to walk casually down the street, knowing that they were in the jaws of a trap that might close at any moment.
Peter let her hand go, but not before exerting a gentle pressure against her palm — pushing her back behind him. He was getting ready to move.
Helen dropped back half a pace.
Steinhof nodded to a narrow, dimly lit side street just ahead.
“There we are. Zangen and his family live only a few doors down.”
The two men pacing them in front turned left and headed down that street — disappearing around the corner. Helen tensed.
They must be nearly in the planned kill zone.
Thorn saw the first two men vanish around the corner. For the next several seconds, it would be two against
