Day of Wrath

He handed their ID cards and the letter back to Thorn. “I’ve explained the situation to Captain Forbes. I’m sure he now sees the error of his ways.”

The duty security officer tried his best to look indignant without crossing the line into insubordination.

“One of my people was supposed to meet your plane — but you landed early,” Callaghan explained. “Sorry about the mixup.”

“That’s okay, Colonel,” Thorn said with enormous relief, grateful they hadn’t wound up in jail within minutes of arriving home.

Callaghan glanced sideways at Forbes and then turned back to them.

“I’ve explained to the captain and Sergeant Thomas here that there will be no official record of this event. You weren’t on that C-17. You’ve never been inside this office. This meeting never happened.” He smiled thinly. “In fact, you don’t even exist. Will that be satisfactory?”

“Perfectly, Colonel,” Thorn said. He silently blessed Sam Farrell, Mike Stroud, and CORNICE whatever deep-black covert operation that code word represented.

“Great.” Callaghan swept his walkie-talkie off the security officer’s desk and motioned them toward the door. “My car’s just outside. I’ll tag along to make sure you get off base without hitting any more snags.

And then I’ll have my duty driver take you into town. From there, you’re on your own.”

Once they were at the main gate, the colonel clambered out of the staff car and then leaned back inside. He handed Thorn a sealed envelope.

“A mutual friend sent me this fax last night.”

“Thanks, Colonel. Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it,” Callaghan said flatly. “And I mean, really don’t mention it.

I never met either of you, remember?”

Thorn nodded his understanding. If he and Helen were caught later, the Air Force colonel had one possible line of defense — that he’d simply helped government employees claiming they were involved in some secret operation code-named CORNICE. But if they were caught, it would be far, far better for Callaghan if they just “forgot” to tell the FBI how they’d returned to the U.S. “Corporal Milliken here will take you where you want to go,” the colonel said. He shut the door and slapped the car roof to signal his driver to move on.

The sentries waved them through the gate and outside onto Highway 113.

Thorn sat back in the seat and tore open the envelope. He scanned the single sheet inside with intense interest. It was a list of economy-priced hotels and motels — all in the Washington, D.C area, and all on a Metro line. Each had been assigned a different code name.

He smiled broadly. Trust Sam Farrell to do his homework.

They pulled up to a major intersection.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

Thorn handed the sheet to Helen. “What’s the best way to get to Wilmington, Corporal?”

“You can hop a DART bus for about four bucks a head, sir. Should get you there in an hour and a half or so.”

“That’ll be fine,” Thorn said. “Just drop us at the nearest bus stop, please.”

Helen leaned closer. “Wilmington? We’re taking Amtrak south then?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. The main New York-Washington rail line ran straight through the northern Delaware city. “Yep. We’re going cash-only from now on.

No point in sending up flares.”

“Good point,” Helen said.

Although the FBI seemed to be focusing its search for them on Europe, it was a safe bet that the Bureau had the warrants necessary to trace all their credit card expenditures. If they rented a car, the odds were the agents looking for them would have the make, model, and license tag within an hour or so. The train would be slower and less comfortable, but it offered one priceless advantage — anonymity.

JUNE 17

_{Vienna, Virginia}

Sam Farrell snapped the afternoon news off and spun around to grab the phone on his desk. “Farrell.”

“Sam, it’s Chris Carlson. My wife and I are in town for a conference, so I thought I’d look you up. Hope you don’t mind.”

Farrell breathed an inward sigh of relief. He’d been waiting for hours to hear from Peter Thorn — always aware that any one of the half-dozen links he’d so carefully forged could easily have come undone. His worries had intensified after Colonel Stroud had let him know about the FBI warrants out for Thorn and Helen.

“Damn, Chris,” he said honestly. “It’s sure good to hear your voice.

Who’ve you two staying with?”

“The Mcintyres.”

Farrell pulled the coded list of hotels he prepared closer and ran his finger down it until he came to MCINTYRE. Peter and Helen had checked into the Madison Inn, a small bed-and-breakfast near the D.C. zoo. He nodded to himself: They’d made a good choice. That section of the city — Woodley Park — was quiet and almost entirely residential. Anyone conducting a search for them or trying to set up a surveillance net would stand out like a sore thumb.

“The Mcintyres are nice people,” Farrell said. He eyed the clock on his wall. It was a little after three in the afternoon. “You two free for dinner tonight?”