And sometimes as stubborn as a mule. But never desperate.
He gripped the phone tighter. “Okay, Pete. What the hell’s going on?”
There was a long pause — long enough to make him wonder whether he’d lost the connection to Berlin.
Finally, Thorn said, “Helen and I need your help, sir. But frankly I’m not sure you should give it to us.”
What? Farrell’s frown grew deeper. “Try me.”
“Okay, sir,” Thorn said. “Here’s the situation we’re in …”
Farrell listened intently as the younger man outlined what he and Helen Gray had done since escaping the carnage aboard that rusting freighter in Pechenga. He found himself shaking his head in growing astonishment at each successive scrape that the two had plunged themselves into.
He’d thought that Thorn’s ability to run himself into trouble doing the right thing had reached its peak during the Delta Force raid on Teheran. By rights, his refusal of a direct presidential order to abort that mission should have resulted in a courtmartial.
Even after Thorn and his troops returned home to a hero’s welcome it had taken every ounce of pull Farrell possessed to keep him on active duty. And since then the general had heard whispers around the Pentagon that his own retirement had been hastened by running interference for the younger man.
Farrell snorted silently, correcting that thought. He knew full well that holding his second star and command of the Joint Special Operations Command was as high as he could ever have gone.
No, he’d never really regretted backing Pete Thorn. But, Jesus, he thought, his former subordinate could sure find ways to make his own life difficult. Violation of movement orders. Unauthorized travel. Leaving the scene of a crime. Nobody at the Pentagon was going to be able to sweep that stuff under the rug this time.
Suddenly, Farrell stood bolt upright — still holding the phone to his ear. “You and Helen just mugged a couple of German policemen!”
“Not intentionally, sir,” Thorn said, sounding moderately contrite.
“Helen’s boss at the FBI must have sicced them onto our trail after she asked him for help getting out of the country. We thought they were more of the same people who’ve been gunning for us ever since Pechenga.”
“Christ on a crutch, Pete!” Farrell rubbed a hand through his graying hair in distraction. “What the hell are you both doing? I don’t care how many kilos of heroin those bastards are smuggling in, you’ve gone way overboard here! For God’s sake, you’re in the U.S. Army, remember — not the DEA!”
“We’re not chasing heroin, sir,” Thorn said firmly. “We’re chasing what we think is one loose Russian nuke. And it’s already on its way to the States.”
Farrell felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Ever since the Soviet Union came crashing down, every Western government’s nightmare scenario had revolved around the uncertain safety and security of the old U.S.S.R’s massive nuclear arsenal. And now Peter Thorn was telling him that the nightmare might be turning into a reality.
He took a deep breath. “Do you and Special Agent Gray have any hard evidence to back that assertion up, Colonel?”
This time Farrell waited until Thorn finished detailing their entire chain of evidence and reasoning. Then he let out a low whistle.
“That’s mighty thin, Pete. Mighty thin. A lot of people, good, smart people, too — would say that’s just a lot of halfassed speculation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Farrell checked a smile. Damn it. Peter Thorn was just as stubborn, and as painfully honest, as ever. So was his conviction the product of sound reasoning? Or just an act of faith? “Have you run this by anybody official yet?”
“Everybody seems to have bought the drug smuggling story hook, line, and sinker,” Thorn said. “Helen bounced it off her boss — and he tried frog-marching us into a German jail cell.”
Farrell shook his head. “It sounds like you’re out of friends, Pete.”
“I hope not, sir.”
Farrell knew that Thorn would never outright beg or plead, but there was a note in his voice that he didn’t hear often. “What do you want me to do, Pete?”
“Two things, sir. The most important is to get somebody official to take a hard look at the Caraco Savannah and her cargo. If we’re right, there’s one hell of a nasty surprise hidden inside one of those jet engines.”
Farrell pondered that. Could he risk his hard-earned reputation as a straight-shooter by asking people in authority to take a flyer on one of the wildest theories he’d ever heard a junior officer espouse? The smart move would be to wish Thorn well, advise him to find a good lawyer, and hang up now.
The trouble was, he instinctively believed what Thorn had told him. It explained a lot of otherwise unconnected events the O.S.I.A inspection team plane crash, the murders of General Serov and Captain Grushtin, and the ambushes at Pechenga and Wilhelmshaven.
The heroin smuggling ring story fit the same facts, of course, but it did seem too convenient — a little too precisely tailored to satisfy American and Russian bureaucrats who wouldn’t want to believe that the unthinkable had happened on their watch.
And damn it, he wouldn’t forget this was Peter Thorn, he thought almost angrily. Whatever else the younger man had done, he was a topnotch officer — one of the best Farrell had ever commanded.
So act on your belief, he told himself... He sighed. “All right, Pete. I’ll see who I can prod into gear. Now what’s the second thing I can do for you?”
Thorn hesitated for another long moment before answering.
“To chase these bastards down, Helen and I need to get out of Germany and back to the States. Preferably without seeing the inside of a Polizei cell.”
Even though he was half expecting it, the request still surprised Farrell. He whistled softly again. “That’s a tall order for an old soldier, Pete.”
“I know, sir,” Thorn said. He cleared his throat. “I’ll understand if there’s nothing you can do. You’ve already risked a lot on my behalf-more than I can ever repay you for—”
Farrell cut him off.
“You’re a damned fine officer, Pete. And a hell of a good man. You don’t owe me anything.” He grinned crookedly. “Besides, Louisa would kill me if I let anything happen to you and Helen. She’s been planning your wedding reception for two years now.”
“She might have to change the venue to the nearest federal prison,” Thorn said soberly.
“Tree.” Farrell shook his head. “Look, Pete, I’ll dig where I can. It’s a long shot, though. And being right about this is probably the only way you’re gonna save your hide this time.”
“Frankly, sir, I’d rather be wrong,” Thorn said. “If Helen and I are right, that nuke could already be on U.S. soil. And if that’s true, we may never find it — not until the damned thing goes off.”
Farrell shook off the horrific image of a fireball incinerating an American city, focusing on the more immediate problem. “Right now let’s worry about getting you two home safe and sound. Where are you exactly?”
“An all-night Turkish coffeehouse in the Prenzlauer Berg district. I’m using a pay phone in the back …”
Farrell jotted down the location and phone number on a scrap of paper.
“Can you stay there for another couple of hours or so?”
“Yeah,” Thorn replied. “From the looks of some of the other customers, Helen and I could probably live here for a while — as long as we kept paying for coffee, that is.”
“Okay, Pete. You hang tight and stay low. I’ve still got a friend or two in Europe who might be able to pull you out of this jam.”
“Thank you, sir.” Thorn sounded relieved and grateful. “I really appreciate it.”
“Then do me a favor,” Farrell said.
“Anything.”
Farrell grinned into the phone. “You’re not in uniform now, Pete. And neither am I. So drop the ‘sir’ and call me Sam.
Okay?”
“Yes, sin-” Thorn caught himself. “I mean, okay, Sam.”
“Better,” Farrell said. “Now watch your back, Pete. Meantime, I’ll try to round up the cavalry.”
He waited until Thorn hung up and then replaced the receiver.
