Day of Wrath

“There’s only one thing we can do,” Thorn said quietly. “Herr Wolf has gone to a lot of trouble to arrange a reception for us near Chantilly.

Let’s at least meet him halfway.”

Mobile Surveillance Unit, Washington, D.C. Max Harzer watched the four Americans emerge from the town house and climb into the FBI agent Mcdowell’s dark blue Ford Taurus. With one hand, he lifted his cellular phone from the seat beside him and punched in Reichardt’s number. The other hand turned the key in the ignition.

“Yes.” It was Reichardt. There was no disguising that clipped, authoritative voice.

“This is Harzer, sir. They’re on the way.”

“All of them?” Reichardt asked.

“Yes, sir.” Harzer watched the Americans drive past him, then put his own vehicle in gear. “The woman is driving.”

He pulled out onto the street and turned after them.

“Very good, Harzer,” Reichardt said. “But stay well back.

There’s no point in spooking the prey so close to the snare.

Understood?”’ “Yes, sir.” The German reduced his speed slightly, careful to keep three or four other cars between his and the Americans’ vehicle.

“Keep me informed.”

The phone cut off. Harzer put it down on the seat again and concentrated on his driving. Ideally, he would have had a partner in the car to help keep the Americans in sight, but with the Operation so close to completion all of Reichardt’s available manpower was fully committed.

He followed the Americans onto Connecticut Avenue heading south, trailed them around Dupont Circle, out onto New Hampshire Avenue, into Washington Circle, and then down 23rd Street. Harzer was four car lengths behind when Mcdowell’s vehicle shot ahead through a yellow light that turned red before he could cross the intersection.

He dialed the phone again.

“Report.”

“I’ve lost them, sir,” Harzer said, quickly explaining what had happened.

“Was their action deliberate?” Reichardt asked.

The German thought back. Since arriving in America he’d noticed that most drivers seemed to view a yellow light the way a Spanish bull saw a red cape. He doubted that the woman Gray was any different. “No, sir.

I don’t believe so.”

The light turned green again.

“And they were still headed for the Roosevelt Bridge?”

Harzer nodded into the phone. “Yes, sir. With no sign of any deviation. They should be almost on the bridge now.”

“Then carry on, Harzer. You ought to pick them up again on Route 50.

Reichardt out.”

Off Route 50, Near Chantilly, Virginia The grass field lay quiet under a dark, cloudless night sky. Crickets chirped ceaselessly in a whirring, rising and falling, rhythm.

A light wind rustled through the trees surrounding the open, empty ground. Only a few survey stakes, a darkened construction trailer, and a newly graded dirt road indicated that the field would soon be the site of yet another office complex.

From his position in the treeline just to the north, Rolf Ulrich Reichardt looked down at the luminous dial of his watch again.

Another ten minutes had gone by. He turned to Schaaf. “Anything?”

The taciturn ex-commando flipped down his nightvision goggles.

He scanned the edge of the field where the new road cut through the bordering woods, and then shook his head. “Nichts.”

Reichardt frowned. Schaaf had four men concealed in carefully chosen positions around the empty construction trailer.

Each was armed with a silenced MP5 submachine gun. Once the four Americans arrived, the ambush team had orders to cut them all down as soon as Mcdowell led them toward the trailer. Thorn, Gray, Farrell, and the traitorous FBI agent would be dead before they even hit the ground.

Once they arrived … His frown deepened into a scowl. They ought to have been here by now.

The cellular phone clipped to his belt vibrated softly. He snapped it open. “Reichardt.”

“This is Harzer. I’m at the far end of the dirt road. But I don’t see any sign of the Americans’ car.”

Unbelievable.

“Clear the area, Harzer. Return to the compound.” Reichardt flipped the phone shut and spun toward Schaaf. “Something’s gone wrong.

Recall your men. We’re getting out of here — now!”

He moved back deeper into the concealing woods while Schaaf loped across the open ground toward the construction trailer. An instinctive, unreasoning shiver ran swiftly down his spine. Thorn and Gray had obviously stumbled onto his plan to ambush them. But how?

And, more to the point, what would they do now?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN THE ABYSS

JUNE 17

_{Outside the Caraco Complex, Chantilly, Virginia}

Helen Gray lay flat in the tall grass beneath the spreading branches of a large oak tree. Sam Farrell lay right beside her, studying the main gate of the well-lit Caraco complex through the binoculars they’d appropriated from Mcdowell’s car. They were a few feet back from the verge of the road and roughly fifty yards away from the perimeter fence surrounding the facility.

Peter Thorn was further behind them, deeper in the belt of trees — holding a gun to the still-cowed Mcdowell’s head.