between go-betweens. Still hiding behind his agents, the Saudi prince had hired Reichardt and his team to organize a number of smuggling operations, terrorist attacks, and assassinations in Russia and Western Europe. In retrospect, the ex-Stasi officer realized those operations had been tests of his ability, ruthlessness, and reliability.
At last, apparently satisfied by the results, Ibrahim had introduced himself directly — to Reichardt’s admitted astonishment.
He’d never imagined that the Paymaster might actually be the CEO and founder of a large, Western-oriented international conglomerate. It was the perfect disguise — the ideal masquerade.
A subtle change in Ibrahim’s tone signaled his intention to end this meeting. The German turned his full attention back to the present.
“So you must understand, General Farrell,” the Saudi prince said. “I have every incentive to keep my own house in order. Caraco’s prosperity — both now and in the future — depends upon its absolute reputation for honesty and integrity. Rest assured that Herr Wolf and I will get to the bottom of this matter.”
Ibrahim smiled grimly. “If our findings confirm your suspicions, I promise you that heads will roll.” He rose to his feet. “But now, if you and Mr. Garrett will excuse us, Herr Wolf and I have a number of calls to make.”
Their farewells took a few minutes more, but Reichardt and Ibrahim were soon down the spiral staircase. A door marked “Private” opened up into a long hallway lined with offices. Another door, this one locked and unmarked, let them into a small space filled with wire recorders and other electronic equipment. A German specialist named Jopp sat at the only chair in the tiny room — turning ceaselessly back and forth between one of the recorders and the laptop computer it was connected to.
Jopp acknowledged their arrival with a bare nod but kept working.
Reichardt’s voice filled the room, coming from a speaker next to the computer.” … spoken with Colonel Thorn recently?”
“No.” Jopp killed the tape after Farrell’s reply, then studied the wave pattern displayed on his computer screen.
The technician spun around to face them. “The American is lying.”
“You’re sure?” Reichardt asked.
“Positive,” Jopp said. “He’s talked to Thorn since Pechenga.”
He punched a key, focusing the display on a smaller part of the voice pattern. “Judging from the spike in emphasis here, I would guess they’ve been in contact within the past several days.”
That was good enough for Reichardt. Jopp was a master of sound, of voices. When they’d both worked for the Stasi, he’d watched the little electronics technician change a man’s voice into a woman’s — and the words of a loyal servant of the State into those of a traitor. Telling whether an American was telling the truth or not was child’s play for Jopp.
Ibrahim nodded. “Excellent work, Herr Jopp. Finish up here and then return to your normal assignment.”
Jopp bobbed his head, clearly pleased by the compliment. The Saudi prince was generally sparing in his praise.
Ibrahim crooked a finger, summoning Reichardt back out into the deserted corridor. “So Thorn has told Farrell, and Farrell has told the American military, and through them, the FBI. Where will this news of our plans travel next? The Washington Post, perhaps?”
The prince’s tone hardened with every word. What had started as a summary ended as an indictment.
Reichardt said nothing, knowing that anything he said would only be turned against him.
“You are satisfied that Farrell is the conduit for the information obtained by Thorn and that woman of his?” Ibrahim asked finally.
“Yes.”
“Very well,” the Saudi said coldly. “You know what to do. Handle the matter promptly and efficiently this time.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MOVEMENT TO CONTACT
It was nearly four in the morning and Helen Gray found herself pacing again — striding back and forth across the thin brown carpet.
The small, Spartan Bachelor Officer’s Quarters room Colonel Stroud had booked for them would never have been mistaken for a luxury hotel suite at the best of times. For two highly active, urgently motivated people unable to risk setting foot outside, it was starting to turn into a tiger cage.
Being forced into hiding also left her far too much time to think about the bleak professional and personal future she and Peter faced — despite his brave words and bold declaration of love back in Andrew Griffin’s Berlin flat. The truth was that they were confronting grave danger and almost certain disgrace.
Even if they somehow managed to come out of this mess with their careers intact, they’d only be separated again — sent off to new assignments in different parts of the country or the world.
Helen sighed. The past year or so away from Peter had been hard enough. She wasn’t sure she could stand another period of enforced loneliness. It might be better to make a clean break and say goodbye forever rather than go through that again.
No. She couldn’t do that, she realized suddenly. Even the thought of losing him sent a wave of anguish through her heart.
But what alternative was there? Could he leave the Army to stay by her side? Could she leave the FBI to follow him? She shook her head.
Neither option seemed acceptable. She wanted a lifetime of joy together. Not a life filled with hidden regrets and lingering doubts.
Helen spun on her heel again, nearly barking her shins on the cheap, government-issue desk that came with the room.
The light knock on the door came as an enormous relief.
It was Mike Stroud. He was alone.
Once in the room, the Special Forces officer dumped a pair of camouflage fatigue uniforms, two pairs of boots, and a couple of camouflage field caps out of the duffel bag he’d brought to hold their civilian clothes.
Peter looked down at them. “We’re on?”
“You’re on,” Stroud confirmed. He tossed a set of B.D.U’s to Helen.
“Hope these fit, Mrs. Carlson. I had to guess at sizes.”
She went into the bathroom to put them on. When she came out, Peter was already dressed. Although neither uniform carried any rank insignia or unit patches, they now looked like just two more of the thousands of American personnel stationed at Ramstein.
“How’d I do?” Stroud asked.
“Not bad,” Helen admitted. Her fatigues were tight in a couple of places, but otherwise they felt fine. “You have a keen eye, Mike.”
The Green Beret colonel shrugged immodestly. “It’s a gift.”
Peter grinned — almost against his will. Helen felt her heart lift momentarily as the smile crinkled the tiny crow’s-feet around his serious green eyes.
Stroud hustled them out the BOQ door and into the waiting car ? this time an official vehicle, a dark blue Air Force van. As he drove, he explained. “We’re going straight to the flight line.”
He checked his watch. “I’m deliberately cutting this right to the bone. That way nobody has time to take a long look at you or to ask any inconvenient questions.”
Helen heard the worry in his voice. “There’s more trouble, Mike?”
Stroud nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road. “The word came in from D.C. this afternoon. All U.S. military bases in Europe are being asked to keep an eye out for two wanted fugitives, to wit, one Thorn, Peter,
