Day of Wrath

“The American is definitely on his way to a covert rendezvous, sir,” the tall, powerfully built man replied. “He left his house forty-five minutes ago and drove to the closest Metro station.”

Reichardt read the faint hesitation in his subordinate’s voice.

“Harzer lost him there, didn’t he?”

Brandt nodded reluctantly. “Yes, sir. Parking was difficult. By the time Max got to the platform, Farrell had already boarded a train. The American apparently timed it perfectly.”

Unfortunate. The Metro system sprawled over two states and the entire District of Columbia. There were dozens of stations along its five interconnecting lines. Essentially, Farrell had now vanished into one of the world’s largest haystacks. Reichardt risked a quick glance at Ibrahim.

The Saudi prince stared back at him dispassionately — an expression the German found somehow more worrying than even an open display of anger.

“What now, Herr Reichardt? Do we simply admit defeat and pray to Allah that our enemies sit idly by until it is too late?”

“No, Highness,” Reichardt said, thinking rapidly. The outline of a basic plan flowed into his consciousness with lightning speed.

“Farrell will reemerge. He must — if he is to function as a go-between.

More to the point, the general is still a lawabiding man — despite his recent defiance of the FBI. Given that basic fact, PEREGRINE should prove of great use in persuading Farrell to bring Colonel Thorn and his female associate within our reach.”

The German smiled coldly. “After all, why not kill four birds with one stone — instead of just two?”

Ibrahim nodded in both understanding and approval. “Let it be so. And do it today. These people have already diverted too much of our time, energy, and resources.”

The Madison Inn, Washington, D.C. The Madison Inn had rooms spread across three adjoining Victorian town houses — all located on the same treelined cul-desac within blocks of the Woodley Park Zoo. The bed-and-breakfast was quiet, discreet, and reasonably priced. Peter Thorn and Helen Gray had managed to secure a third-story corner room with a good view of the whole street.

Sam Farrell took the staircase two steps at a time — pleased to notice that he wasn’t winded when he reached the top landing.

All those years of calisthenics were paying off — even in retirement.

Thorn opened the door at his first knock and ushered him inside with a strained smile and a quick, firm handshake. Helen turned from the window where she’d obviously been keeping watch. She hurried over and hugged him tightly with a whispered “Thank you” in his ear.

Farrell took the chair they offered him and waited until they were both sitting down. He studied them carefully, noting the signs of surface fatigue and deep-seated worry. “You two look a little wrung-out.

Something go wrong on the way from Ramstein?”

“Almost,” Thorn said quietly. “I nearly walked us right into the Dover brig …”

Farrell listened while they filled him in on their narrow escape and the comparatively uneventful train trip down to Union Station.

When they finished, he shook his head. “That was a little more nip-and-tuck than I’d planned. You were lucky, Pete.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you’re here and that’s what counts.”

“Does it?” Helen asked in a soft voice. “We’re still wanted by our own people. And we’re not any closer to nailing the bad guys we’re chasing — not unless you’ve pulled a rabbit out of the hat in the last couple of days, Sam.”

“No magic, I’m afraid,” Farrell admitted. “But I haven’t been sitting on my hands, either.”

He briefed them on his trip to Fort Bragg and the EMPTY QUIVER alert he’d managed to trigger. Both Helen and Thorn smiled at that. But their faces fell when he broke the news that the FBI’s first raid hadn’t netted any hard evidence. And they grew longer still when he told them how Caraco’s senior executives had used their political influence to shut the FBI probe down cold. He finished up with by recounting the meeting he’d had with Prince Ibrahim al Saud and Heinrich Wolf, his European security chief.

“What did you think of this Ibrahim character?” Thorn asked.

Farrell thought about that for a moment, looking for the best way to summarize his impressions of Caraco’s chief executive.

“He’s formidable,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t want to bet against him in a fight.”.

“And this guy Wolf?”

Farrell frowned. “A nasty piece of work.” He thought back to the meeting. “He was holding back — trying to make me think he was just Ibrahim’s lapdog. But I’d lay odds that there’s a lot more to Herr Wolf than appears on the surface.”

“Have you heard anything from either of them since?” Helen asked.

“No.” Farrell shrugged. “But that was less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“True.” She got up and walked over to the window, standing with her arms crossed while staring down at the street.

The silence dragged uncomfortably. Farrell felt the tension building in the room, and suddenly realized that both he and Thorn had turned to watch Helen.