FBI agent named Gray. You ever heard of them?”
This time Preston nodded slowly. “I’ve seen a few pieces of paper cross my desk lately,” he admitted cautiously.
“Like a pair of FBI-issued arrest warrants?”
The chief of staff smiled thinly. “You do know a lot of things, Dick.”
Garrett smiled right back. “That’s why people pay me so well, John.”
“So what does this have to do with your man Wolf and this FBI guy, Mcdowell?” Preston asked.
“Mcdowell was Special Agent Helen Gray’s superior officer,” Garrett said flatly. “We believe that Herr Wolf contacted him about Farrell, Thorn, and Gray — and arranged to meet him. And then something must have gone wrong.”
“Something?”
Garrett nodded. “Thorn and Gray, to be precise. We believe they murdered both Heinrich Wolf and Deputy Assistant Director Mcdowell — probably as part of some crazed, psychotic attempt to foil this nonexistent smuggling conspiracy they’ve dreamed up.”
Preston shook his head. “That’s a real stretch, Dick. I’ve read the reports on Thorn and Gray. The FBI is sure they’re still on the run somewhere in Germany.”
“Then the Bureau has its collective head up its collective ass.”
Garrett scowled. “Unless you can think of some other pair of trained killers with a grudge against both Caraco and the FBI, I suggest you instruct Director Leiter to get off his own rear end and start looking for those two closer to home.”
Preston looked back levelly at him. “I’m guessing there’s an ‘or else’ attached to that sentence.”
Garrett spread his hands. “This is a very serious matter, John. And Prince Ibrahim is not pleased by the slapdash way it’s been handled so far. You tell the FBI they’ve got just fortyeight hours to nail Thorn and Gray, or we’re going public with our suspicions. I really don’t think the Director wants the kind of bad press we can generate with a story about a deranged Army colonel and his FBI girlfriend running wild inside the U.S.”
Preston winced. “I’ll talk to Leiter. If Thorn and Gray are back home, we’ll find them.”
“You’ve got forty-eight hours,” Garrett reminded him, already getting up to go. “After that all hell’s going to break loose.”
Prince Ibrahim al Saud stared down at the blank screen on Reichardt’s laptop computer. He looked up. “What does this mean?”
Saleh, his computer wizard, swallowed hard. “The German protected his files with an unusually sophisticated security program, Highness. I was able to penetrate one level — but an autodestruct sequence was triggered on the second-“
“And now the files are gone,” Ibrahim interrupted.
“Yes, Highness.” The Egyptian cleared his throat. “There are methods for recovering data in such instances. With enough time, I could—”
Ibrahim glared at him. “Get out.”
Saleh fled.
Ibrahim stared down at the maddening little machine. For a split second he had the urge to toss it against the nearest wall.
The urge receded. Saleh was right. Something might yet be recovered. But not in time.
The computer had included all of Reichardt’s information on the two American agents who had caused them so much trouble including the FBI and U.S. Army dossiers and photographs the German had obtained from the traitor Mcdowell. All hard copies had already been destroyed as part of the ex-Stasi officer’s strict security regimen.
The system Reichardt had established was admirably efficient, if typically rigid. As little as possible about the Operation was committed to paper. For those few documents deemed essential, shredders were placed at strategic locations throughout the complex.
The waste was collected twice a day and burned.
Ibrahim approved of the German’s security system — in theory.
In practice, it was proving far less satisfactory.
Since Reichardt had been in charge of hunting down the two Americans — Thorn and Gray — he alone had kept permanent records on them.
And now all those records were gone — wiped into some form of electronic gibberish. Which meant he would have to rely on the FBI to hunt them down for him. Unless, of course, the Americans came to him … “Captain Talal,” Ibrahim snapped.
The former Saudi officer moved closer. “Highness?”
“Issue another alert to all the airfields. Warn them that the two Americans, and possibly this General Farrell, may make some further attempt to disrupt the Operation. They may attempt to destroy some of our aircraft or to gather additional evidence. Include the descriptions I gave you earlier in your alert message.”
Ibrahim had racked his brains for those descriptions. Farrell’s had been the easiest of all. They’d actually met. But he’d only seen photos of the other two briefly — and only black-and-white photos at that.
“Yes, Highness.”
“I also want security tightened here.” Ibrahim closed Reichardt’s laptop with one hand — shutting off the meaningless, blinking C: prompt that seemed to mock him.
He looked up and began snapping out his orders. “Deploy a patrol around this building-beginning at sunset. And I want our guard force strengthened. Most of Reichardt’s people have East German military or secret police training. Issue them with sidearms for use in an emergency.”
“Should I electrify the fence, Highness?” Talal asked.
“Not yet.” Ibrahim smiled mirthlessly. “I might find that difficult to explain to our American employees in the rest of the complex. The fence can wait for another day.”
To clear the compound of all nonessential personnel on the Operation’s crucial final day, the Saudi prince had arranged a series of motivational seminars at one of Washington’s finer hotels. All the region’s legitimate Caraco employees were expected to attend. Call it a special kind of severance package, he thought coldly.
When Talal had gone, he turned his gaze back on Reichardt’s computer.
Who could say how much potentially damaging information was still hidden deep in its recesses? Certainly the German had known far too much about Ibrahim himself, the terrorist organizations he funded, and his methods. Ibrahim made a note to take the machine with him when they evacuated this facility. He would keep it safely in his grasp until Saleh or some other expert pried all its secrets loose.
He turned away and stalked through a gray, unmarked fire door into the room just beyond the planning cell.
The lights in the Operation’s control center were kept dim — to avoid any interfering glare on the multiple television and computer monitors that were placed strategically around the room. Two rows of four aircraft control consoles occupied most of the space, but communications equipment took up one entire wall, and metal workbenches filled nearly all of another. The benches were littered with tools, electronic components, and circuit diagrams.
Ibrahim noticed that the screens on one of the control consoles were dark. He frowned and moved up behind the two technicians who were crouched peering into an open panel in the back. They were speaking softly to each other in German — probably debating some technical point.
“What is going on here?” he asked sharply. “Why wasn’t I notified of this equipment malfunction?”
Startled, both men spun around and then hurriedly straightened up.
“I’m sorry, sir, but this just happened. A video board failed,” the senior technician answered quickly. “We’ve identified the problem and we expect to have the unit back up in a few minutes at most.”
“This equipment is all new, sir,” the younger man added. Even the control center’s dim lights gleamed off the German’s smooth-shaven head. A small gold loop piercing his left eyebrow waggled when he spoke. “The components are still burning in. These ‘infant mortality’ cases are quite common at this stage. But we’ll sort them out.”
Ibrahim kept his temper under control. With Reichardt dead, he had to take up the reins — and that included
