Farrell stood thoughtfully by his desk for a moment. The full implications of Peter Thorn’s claim were just beginning to emerge.
Where should he go to kick somebody into a serious investigation?
Not the Russians. That much was certain. Moscow wasn’t going to rock the boat — especially now that any smuggled weapons were off its own soil. And from what Thorn said, the FBI, the O.S.I.A, the CIA, and the State Department were also nonstarters. So who did that leave?
He shook his head. Time enough for that later in the morning.
For now, he had two friends who were in serious trouble. The first step was getting them out of Berlin before the German police rounded them up. Slipping them back to the States would be an even bigger job.
He started flipping through his Rolodex.
Who did he know in Berlin? And who could he trust to shelter a couple of fugitives?
Colonel Peter Thorn cautiously poked his head around the corner of the back booth — checking the front of the dingy coffeehouse for the tenth time. It was full light outside.
“Anything?” Helen Gray asked.
He turned back to face her. “Nope. Still looks clear.”
She nodded, took another sip from the small, steaming cup in front of her, and made a face. “I swear to God, Pete’, this stuff is getting stronger. I think it’s more grounds than coffee now.” Thorn smiled.
“It’s an acquired taste.”
He drained the remnants of his own cup in one gulp and ran his eyes over the other patrons seated nearby. Most of them had the shaggy, unkempt look of an artsy crowd who tended to gravitate toward coffeehouses after a busy night partying at trendy nightclubs and alternative music houses. They seemed to be relying on coffee, cigarettes, and conversation just to stay conscious.
Certainly none of them were paying any attention to the two tired-looking American tourists who’d parked themselves in the far corner booth.
Nobody except the proprietor, that was. But Thorn doubted the swarthy-faced Turk behind the counter went much out of his way to help the Berlin police. There wasn’t much love lost between Germany’s native-born population and the immigrants who’d flocked there seeking work over the past couple of decades.
He fought down the urge to check his watch again. If Sam Farrell said to sit tight, he’d sit tight. Anyway, their odds of staying undetected by the authorities were better in here than out on the street. By now, their pictures could be plastered across the front page of Berlin’s daily newspapers and the screens of the morning’ TV shows.
“Peter … I think we’ve got company.”
Helen’s soft warning brought his head around. A man wearing a perfectly tailored business suit had come through the coffee house’s front door and stood near the entrance — clearly surveying the tables. Thorn had the quick impression of a tough, wiry build, alert blue eyes, and neatly trimmed gray hair.
Without much trouble, the newcomer spotted them and made his way over to their table. He stopped a few feet away, taking evident care to keep his empty hands in plain view.
“Peter Thorn? Helen Gray?” His accent was British — and impeccably upper-class. “My name is Griffin. Andrew Griffin. General Farrell asked me to give you a lift.”
Thorn felt himself relax slightly. The name Griffin rang a bell somewhere. He searched his memory for an instant and then looked up at the Englishman. “Colonel Griffin? Of the S.A.S?”
He remembered seeing the name Griffin while reading classified reports on some of the British 22 Special Air Service Regiment’s covert operations. Delta Force and the S.A.S cooperated closely — often sharing training, intelligence, and tactical tips.
Griffin shook his head. “Ex-S.A.S. I retired a year ago.”
“You ran the FORAY exercise at Cheltenham, didn’t you?” Thorn asked.
“Yes. But the code name was FORTITUDE,” the Englishman said steadily.
His eyes twinkled. “As I’m sure you knew, Colonel.
I hope that you’re now satisfied I am who I say I am.”
Helen smiled. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Griffin? The coffee’s … “ — she tilted her cup to show the dark sediment liberally coating the sides — “available.”
The Englishman smiled back. “No, thank you, Agent Gray.”
He nodded toward the door. “My car is just outside. and I understand you two are rather eager to get out of the limelight.”
“You could say that, sir.” Thorn rose from his seat, caught the owner’s eye, and counted out a wad of deutsche marks onto the table.
“It’s been a very long night.”
Together he and Helen followed Griffin through the front door and out onto the street, where a gray Mercedes sedan with tinted windows sat waiting. The ex-S.A.S officer unlocked the car, ushered Helen into the back seat, offered the front passenger seat to Thorn, and then slid behind the steering wheel himself.
Griffin pulled smoothly out into traffic, heading west. He glanced at Thorn. “I’ve a sizable flat in Charlottenburg, Colonel. Our mutual friend has asked me to put you and Miss Gray up until he can make other arrangements.”
“I’m grateful, sir,” Thorn said. “I know you’re taking a big risk.”
The Englishman shook his head. “It’s no trouble.” He smiled thinly. “I’ll admit that you and Special Agent Gray are rather... infamous at the moment, but I think the risk involved is minimal. Or at least controllable.”
Helen leaned forward to join the conversation. “How do you figure that, Mr. Griffin?”
Griffin lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror. “I run a security consulting firm here in Berlin, Miss Gray. We specialize in advising British and American corporations on how to cope with terrorist threats — and with the East European and Russian organized crime syndicates. So, you see, I maintain rather good ties to the local German law enforcement authorities. They consider me a very solid businessman and a friend of the police. Given that, I hardly think they’ll spend much time considering the possibility that I would offer sanctuary to two such notorious villains.”
Thorn winced. “It’s that bad, then?”
Griffin nodded. “You put two Berlin police detectives in the hospital, Colonel. Although not permanently, I’m happy to say.
And the authorities here do tend to frown on outsiders waylaying their policemen in dark alleys.” He glanced at Thorn again.
“I assume it was necessary?”
Thorn shook his head grimly. “Not as it turned out.” He frowned. “We were suckered in.”
The ex-S.A.S officer nodded. “So General Farrell indicated.”
He shrugged. “At any rate, as the poet said, these things ‘gang aft a-gley.” Who knows, you may even have done those policemen a bit of a favor. Their broken heads will mend. And perhaps the next time they won’t traipse so blithely into an ambush.”
Helen forced a pained-sounding laugh. “Seems like a tough way to learn a lesson, Mr. Griffin.”
For just an instant, the ex-S.A.S officer let the mask of the civilized businessman fall away — revealing the hardened warrior beneath.
“Bruises are often the only way to teach such lessons, Miss Gray. And action — even hasty action — is always preferable to vacillation and delay. But I suspect you and Colonel Thorn already understand that. Which is why you are still alive — and so many of your enemies are not.”
Thorn sat in silence for the rest of the short trip to Griffin’s flat — mulling that over. The retired British soldier was right about the need for rapid, decisive action. But until Sam Farrell could find a way to get them out of Europe, he and Helen would be forced to play a waiting game.
Lawrence Mcdowell sat in a chair facing FBI Director David Leiter’s desk, watching his superior discreetly as the other man skimmed through his hastily prepared report on last night’s fiasco in Berlin. You’re in a strong position, he told himself nervously, just stick to your story. Thorn and Gray aren’t here to contradict you — so stay cool.
