A stolen nuke? Was that what Wolf’s game was? Mcdowell could turn a blind eye to a little drug running. Tons of heroin and cocaine washed up on American shores every day — no matter what he did or didn’t do.
And there was always the chance he could muscle in for a cut of their action. But nukes were a whole different ball game. If Wolf and his cronies really were smuggling a nuclear weapon into the U.S and anybody ever found out he’d helped them … Mcdowell gripped the phone tighter, feeling his palms sweating profusely. He cleared his throat. “Just what hard evidence do you have to back up that rather extraordinary claim, Special Agent Gray?”
Mcdowell listened intently while she ran through their chain of suppositions, feeling himself relaxing as it became clearer and clearer that she and Thorn were simply grasping at straws. His anger came roaring back at the same time. The bitch had scared the hell out of him over a simple doodle in some dead O.S.I.A inspector’s logbook.
The corners of his mouth turned down. Trust a borderline case like Helen Gray to go off half cocked over the worst-case scenario, especially when it required ignoring every bit of real evidence they’d acquired.
But it wouldn’t do to let her know that he thought her wild-eyed theory was completely full of crap. If she thought he wasn’t taking her seriously, she and this Thorn character were likely to try an end run around him — and that would blow his only chance to keep a lid on this whole can of worms.
“All right, Agent Gray,” Mcdowell said after she’d finished.
“I’ll run your theory past the Director, pronto. In the meantime, I want you and Thorn out of Germany.”
“As I said earlier, sir, that may present a problem,” she countered.
What now? Mcdowell wondered. He drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently. “Go on.”
“We were ambushed again near the Wilhelmshaven docks.
Five hostiles were waiting for us. They knew exactly what we were looking for.”
Wolf’s men, Mcdowell suddenly realized — using the information and photos he’d passed on the day before. Too bad the Stasi bastards had failed. It would have made his life so much simpler.
“And?”
Helen Gray’s voice dropped an octave. “We killed two of them while making our break. I suspect the German police are looking for us now.”
It was getting worse and worse. Mcdowell grimaced. He needed time to sort through this mess — and to reach Wolf.
That bastard would never forgive him if he allowed Thorn and Gray to slip through his fingers after they’d made direct contact.
He sighed. “All right, then. I’ll try to see what I can work out.
In the meantime, just sit tight and stay off the streets.” He let his tone grow rougher. “And God help you if you screw up and get arrested before I’ve had a chance to smooth things over! Call me back in six hours. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
This time Mcdowell could hear the anger in her voice. But that anger was combined with a reluctant acceptance. Much as she must hate it, she clearly knew how dependent she was on his help.
Good, he thought. That would make whatever action he took that much easier.
Ninety-odd miles northwest of Los Angeles, the flat expanses of California’s agricultural heartland — the Central Valley — stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions. Cropdusters, heavily laden with pesticides or fungicides, lumbered down Shafter-Minter Field’s main runway at periodic intervals.
Outlined against the fiery glow of the rising sun they lifted off into the air and turned — roaring off toward the vast fields surrounding the airport.
Two new hangars and several other buildings, painted dazzling white in the bright California sunshine, sat just off the main run-way — secure behind a high steel fence. A discreet sign on one of the buildings identified the compound as the “Caraco Corporate Aviation Training Center.”
Rolf Ulrich Reichardt stood just inside one of the two hangars — watching as sweating workers continued modifying the interior.
They’d walled off part of the floor space — building living quarters large enough to house several men for a week or more. Another crew was hard at work in another area of the hangar building another enclosure — this one out of heavy steel.
Welding torches sputtered and burned, filling the hot, stuffy hangar with acrid smoke, but the big central doors were kept closed as a safeguard against prying eyes.
The construction crews were working almost around the clock to meet the Operation’s tight timetable.
Satisfied by what he saw, Reichardt slipped outside and strode into the second hangar. Technicians were hard at work there, too, inspecting a sleek, twin-engined Jetstream 31 turboprop.
Others were busy unloading crates filled with extra tools and spare parts next to the area marked out for a second Jetstream still en route to the field. Their orders were clear: When the word came down from on high, the aircraft based at Shafterminter would be ready to fly — or else. There would be no exceptions, no excuses, and no delays.
Reichardt turned as the door behind him opened. Johann Brandt stepped through it, his face serious.
“What is it, Johann?” he asked.
“Another message from PEREGRINE.”
Finally. Reichardt swung away from the organized chaos filling the hangar and followed Brandt outside onto the airport tarmac.
The twin-engined Cessna executive jet that Prince Ibrahim al Saud had put at his disposal sat waiting for him. Reichardt hurried up the steps into the Cessna’s luxurious interior — all solid cherry, dark leather, and gleaming brass. A powerful computer workstation and communications center now occupied the aft end of the six-passenger compartment.
Reichardt dialed Mcdowell’s direct line.
The FBI agent sounded almost happy. “You missed them again, Herr Wolf.
Your people in Wilhelmshaven blew it. Thorn and Gray are still alive.”
Reichardt scowled. “I’m already well aware of that fact, Mr. Mcdowell.”
He’d received the first panicked report from the survivors of the Wilhelmshaven security team barely an hour after their ambush went disastrously wrong. He shook his head. That tattooed young idiot, Bekker, was no great loss. But Heinz Steinhof had been one of his best and most trusted operatives. First Kleiner and now Steinhof. His losses were mounting. These two Americans were even more dangerous than he’d first thought.
Well, Reichardt thought sourly, at least this time he’d had the foresight to take added precautions against possible failure. The cover story he’d so painstakingly built over the past few weeks should hold water for long enough.
The German turned back to the conversation at hand.
“You’ve been in contact with Special Agent Gray, then? Another fax, I assume.”
“Not a fax,” Mcdowell said. “A phone call. From Berlin.”
Reichardt raised an eyebrow. Interesting. Perhaps the two Americans were even more rattled by their narrow escape than he’d hoped. “Go on.”
He listened intently while the FBI agent ran through the details of his talk with the American woman, Gray — frowning only when he heard that she and Thorn knew the Caraco Savannah’s final destination, lie made a mental note to push the work in Texas even further ahead of schedule.
Mcdowell’s dismissive tone made it clear ‘that he didn’t believe their nuclear story. That was fortunate. Still, the FBI agent already knew more about the Operation than he should. At some point in the not-too-distant future, he could easily become a liability.
The American’s next question confirmed that. “Is there some part of the Galveston waterfront you want me to steer any potentially embarrassing investigations away from? A warehouse, maybe? I’ve got some contacts in the Drug Enforcement Agency I could use to help you out — if need be.”
“Don’t let your beak grow too much, PEREGRINE!” Reichardt growled. “You know the bounds of your orders. Stay within them!”
“Well, then, what action should I take?” Mcdowell asked plaintively. “About Gray and Thorn, I mean.”
