clustered around a coffee table. “Please take a seat.”
Farrell followed him over and sat down. “I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Mr. Garrett. Especially under the circumstances.”’ The other man showed a set of perfect white teeth in a quick, humorless smile. “But the circumstances are what bring us together, General.”
He leaned back in his chair. “I can assure you that we take your allegations regarding Caraco Transport and its employees seriously — very seriously indeed. In fact, I’ve—” Suddenly, Garrett broke off and got to his feet, facing the spiral staircase. “Your Highness! This is an unexpected honor …”
Farrell turned his head and then followed suit.
A tall, slender man with jet-black hair and dark, hooded eyes had just appeared at the top of the stairs.
Garrett hurriedly introduced him. “Your Highness, I present Major General Farrell. General, this is His Highness, Prince Ibrahim al Saud, the chairman and chief executive officer of Caraco.”
The Saudi prince waved them down as he drew nearer.
“Please, sit down. I’m very sorry to interrupt.”
Another man followed him into Garrett’s office. He was about Farrell’s height and weight, with graying dark hair. Gray eyes gleamed behind a pair of black-frame glasses.
“General, this is Heinrich Wolf,” Ibrahim said, nodding toward the newcomer. “Herr Wolf is the chief of security for our European enterprises. I hope you don’t mind my including him in this meeting.”
“Not at all, sir.” Farrell held out his hand as Wolf stepped closer.
Rolf Ulrich Reichardt deliberately softened his grip as he shook hands with the retired American soldier. He wanted to project the image of a business executive or a bureaucrat. Or just another harmless paper pusher. Let Farrell think he was the only warrior in the room.
After they were all seated, Ibrahim leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Now, perhaps you could give us more details of these claims of yours, General Farrell. From what little I’ve heard, you’ve made some very grave charges against several of my subsidiary companies.”
Farrell nodded somberly. “That’s true, Your Highness. But I’m afraid there are very real indications that some of your people are involved in either illegal arms or narcotics smuggling …”
Reichardt listened carefully as the American outlined the evidence he must have been given by his protege Thorn and that damned woman FBI agent. Farrell’s version dovetailed reasonably well with the information already provided by Mcdowell.
Nevertheless, it was irksome to hear again in detail just how deeply his operational security had been breached.
When Farrell had finished, Ibrahim sat back, shaking his head in apparent dismay. “I see your point, General. This certainly looks bad.”
The Saudi turned toward Reichardt. “This unpleasant situation seems to fall mostly in your jurisdiction, Heinrich.
Do you have any comments or questions?”
Reichardt nodded. “One or two questions, Highness.” He looked intently at Farrell. “Your evidence seems compelling, General, but I would like to know the source of this information. Naturally, we need to verify its accuracy.”
Farrell answered him flatly. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Herr Wolf. You’ll have to take my word that I consider my source unimpeachable.”
“I see.” Reichardt looked down at his fingertips. “I only wondered whether or not your source might be a man named Colonel Peter Thorn. I’ve studied the Russian police reports on the original Pechenga incident, and I know that the colonel served under your command just before you retired. The logic seemed inescapable. But then two and two do not always add to four in the human equation.” He looked up.
“Have you spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”
“No.” Farrell’s tone was steady and he looked Reichardt straight in the eye.
The German shrugged. “No matter.” He glanced at Ibrahim. “I assure you, Highness, if there is such a smuggling ring operating within our bounds, my men and I will ferret them out for you.”
“See that you do,” the Saudi said coolly.
Farrell cleared his throat. “Not that I want to interfere, Herr Wolf, but I’d like to know how exactly you intend to proceed. Now that you’ve been instrumental in pulling the FBI off the case, I mean.”
“A fair question,” Ibrahim commented. He smiled broadly in Reichardt’s direction. “What precisely are your plans for this investigation, Heinrich? This unimpeachable source of General Farrell’s already seems to have done half your work for you.”
Reichardt ignored the dig. “I’ve ordered Arrus Export’s Moscow office to cease all operations while we audit their accounts and question every employee. If one of our workers provided this Peterhof with his false Arrus credentials, I’ll have his skin.”
Ibrahim nodded his approval. “Good. I will not countenance corruption — anywhere.”
“Of course, Highness.”
“You should also contact the master of the Caraco Savannah. Tell him to hold his crew aboard ship once they dock in Wilhelmshaven. I want them all interrogated,” Ibrahim ordered.
“Sir.”
“And dispatch investigators to Bergen to try to pin down the connection between the cargoes carried by the Star of the White Sea and Baltic Venturer.”
“Of course, Highness,” Reichardt said.
Ibrahim glanced at Farrell. “I hope our plan of action meets with your approval, General.”
The American nodded. “It seems thorough enough, Your Highness, but …”
His voice trailed away.
“But you must still wonder why we asked your FBI to stop carrying out the same work?” Ibrahim finished for him.
Reichardt froze in his chair. The prince was playing dangerously close to the edge — too close for his own tastes.
“I prefer to clean up my own messes, General Farrell,” the Saudi continued. “You say that some of my people have abused my trust and engaged in a criminal conspiracy. If that is so, then I am ultimately at fault — and I must be the one to take action. It is a matter of personal honor. Can you understand that?”
Farrell nodded again, firmly this time.
Reichardt felt himself starting to relax. Trust Ibrahim to find the avenue of approach best guaranteed to appeal to the American military man. He listened while the Saudi steered the conversation away from contraband cargoes and toward his worldwide enterprises. By the time the prince was through with Farrell, the American would probably be ready to buy Caraco stock.
After all, Ibrahim’s persuasive abilities had worked on Reichardt himself.
As head of the Stasi’s Revolutionary Movements Liaison Section, Reichardt had worked with dozens of different terrorist groups — providing them with false identity papers, safe houses, weapons training, and special equipment. Although there were no formal links between most of the different terrorist organizations, there were places where their paths crossed. Communist East Germany had been one of those places.
The desperate need for money was another common ground.
Every group needed it for recruitment, training, intelligence, supplies, operations, everything. Terrorism might be “the poor man’s nuclear weapon,” but it still wasn’t cheap.
One source of funding for many of the various movements had been a man known only as “the Paymaster”—a shadowy figure who’d provided huge sums of cash, but always at arm’s length.
The money handed out to pay for bombings, hijackings, and murders all over the world always came through a different front organization — an organization that vanished once the gift was accepted. For years, Reichardt had kept his ear to the ground — hoping to learn the Paymaster’s identity.
His search had taken on a new urgency after East Germany collapsed under the weight of its own inefficiency and corruption. He and his fellow Stasi operatives had taken considerable sums of cash with them when they’d gone underground, but not enough to last them forever. To Reichardt, the so-called Paymaster seemed like somebody who might value a man with his rather specialized skills.
Somewhat to his surprise, Ibrahim had contacted him first — arranging a series of preliminary meetings
