that counter.
She hadn’t struck him as somebody who would willingly involve herself in irregular intrigue.
No. Steinhof could have tracked them after they left the Port Authority or the customs office, but to do that he would have had to have known what they looked like — and roughly when they were likely to arrive in Wilhelmshaven.
Which left one disturbing possibility …
“We got company, Peter,” Helen said suddenly. Thorn was off the bed and by her side in less than a second.
“Where?”
“Under the second street lamp — this side.” He saw the car she’d spotted, a dark, four-door sedan that had and parked — right beside a fire hydrant. He stiffened. The front passenger side door opened and Sam Farrell got out onto the sidewalk.
Thorn let out a low whistle. “That’s a relief. For a second there, I thought—”
“Not so fast, Peter. Look who brought him,” Helen said tightly.
The sedan’s driver came into full view under the street lamp.
It was Larry Mcdowell.
Jesus, Thorn thought grimly. He turned to Helen. “Do we bug out?”
She sighed. “No point. There’s another car further out — hanging a block or so back. And Mcdowell may be a moron — but he’s not a complete moron. By now, he’ll have units in position around the whole immediate area.”
Thorn nodded. He watched Sam Farrell head for the front door to the inn, with Mcdowell right behind him. They were out of places to run.
The knock on their door came just a minute or so later. “Special Agent Gray. Colonel Thorn. This is Deputy Assistant Director Mcdowell.”
Holding his temper in check, Thorn flipped the lights on, then opened the door and stepped back.
Sam Farrell came in first, shaking his head apologetically.
“Pete, Helen, I’m sorry as hell about this, but he was waiting on my front steps when I got home.”
“You don’t need to apologize to these two,” Mcdowell said, pushing past the other man to stand in front of Thorn and Helen. “Colonel Thorn and Special Agent Gray should consider themselves very lucky to see me. The first people through that door could have been a SWAT team.”
Helen glared at him. “If you’re here to arrest us, just do it.”
Mcdowell smiled smugly. “Now, Miss Gray. I suggest you watch your tone.”
He spread his empty hands. “I’m not here to arrest you.”
Sure. Thorn looked narrowly at the senior FBI agent. “What’s your game, Mcdowell?”
“No games, Colonel.” The other man half turned toward Farrell.
“Shut the door, please, General. I think we need some privacy.
Once the door was closed, Mcdowell turned back to Helen and Thorn.
“It’s simple, Colonel, so please try to pay attention. Despite what you might have thought, the Director and I haven’t been sitting idly by these past few days. On the contrary, we’ve been very busy tracking down these illegal shipments you claim have been entering the United States.”
“Then why close down the Galveston probe?” Helen demanded.
“Strategy, Special Agent Gray.” Mcdowell shook his head. “I know that you’re a competent tactician, but you clearly have only a limited comprehension of the big picture.”
He quickly held up a hand to forestall Thorn’s angry response.
“Don’t glare at me, Colonel. I’m merely pointing out the facts. The Galveston operation was a dry well — anyone who read the reports could see that. The place had been stripped clean. We knew we weren’t going to find anything useful there.”
“But the raid did generate a very revealing response from Caraco’s senior management,” Mcdowell continued. “And ever since, we’ve been very quietly investigating their personnel and several of their key American facilities.”
“And you found something suspicious?” Helen asked.
“Yes and no,” Mcdowell said. “We’ve certainly detected some odd activity at one of Caraco’s sites — an industrial park complex out near Chantilly. We’ve got surveillance teams around the place right now.”
Helen breathed out. “So the order for our arrest was—”
“A blind,” Mcdowell confirmed. “We needed to get you out of Germany quickly and thought that might be the least conspicuous way to do it.”
He shrugged. “Evidently we underestimated your resources. And those of General Farrell.”
“What do you want from us now?” Thorn asked sharply, still fighting his instinctive dislike for Helen’s superior. The message the FBI agent was sending sounded good — almost too good to be true. Was this stuff about “all sins are forgiven” just a ruse to get them out of the inn quietly — without any unpleasant publicity?
“The Director would like both you and Special Agent Gray to come out and see if you recognize anybody. Some of the suspicious people we’ve observed prowling the grounds at this Chantilly complex recently flew in from Europe. We want to check the possibility that one or more of them might have been part of the team you say attacked you in Wilhelmshaven.”
Thorn could see a look of hope suddenly emerging on Helen’s face.
She’d been trying to goad the FBI’s higher-ups into gear ever since she’d sent Mcdowell that first fax urging him to investigate the Wilhelmshaven docks. And now it looked as though her efforts were finally making a difference.
He stood absolutely still.
Wilhelmshaven.
All the pieces of the puzzle that had been nagging at him abruptly fell into place. Mcdowell had known they were going to Wilhelmshaven.
Mcdowell had known why they were going there. And that bastard had access to their service photos — the same photos he’d later faxed to the Berlin police.
It all fit. And it all added up to a very ugly picture of treachery, betrayal, and attempted murder. Mcdowell had set them up.
Once. Twice, if you counted Berlin.
And he was about to do it again.
Without thinking, Thorn turned away and then whirled around again — sending a hard right cross smashing into Mcdowell’s smug face.
The FBI agent’s head rocked backward under the impact and then snapped forward — right into a left hook that caught him under the chin and threw him onto the floor, flat on his back.
“Peter!”
“What the hell are you doing, Colonel?” Farrell barked.
Thorn ignored them both. He moved closer to the man he’d knocked down.
Still groggy, Mcdowell rolled over and pushed himself up on one knee.
The FBI agent’s hand fumbled under his jacket.
“Not so fast, you son of a bitch.” Thorn’s own hand flashed out and gripped Mcdowell’s wrist. He yanked the other man’s hand out into the open. The butt of a pistol came into view.
He squeezed.
Mcdowell squawked and let go. The pistol thudded onto the carpet.
Thorn released his wrist and scooped up the weapon in one smooth motion. It was a 9mm SIG-Sauer P228. He cocked it with his thumb and placed its muzzle squarely against Mcdowell’s left temple.
The FBI agent froze. Sweat trickled down his forehead. Blood dripped from a cut on his lip.
“Nice weapon,” Thorn said conversationally. He pressed harder, grinding the muzzle into Mcdowell’s forehead. “I really hate to think of how messy it’s going to get when I blow your brains out.”
The other man’s eyes widened. He whimpered.
“Pete,” Farrell said softly. “Don’t do it.”
Thorn could see that his former commanding officer had his own pistol out now, and that it was pointing
