Day of Wrath

Caraco’s a multibillion-dollar corporation, which means Ibrahim personally has to be worth at least a few hundred mil.”

“Maybe the money’s not enough,” Peter said. “Or maybe money was never the real objective — just a means to an end. This end.”

Helen jumped in. “We can leave finding the motive up to the U.S. attorney’s office, Sam.” She frowned. “I think Peter’s right.

From what you’ve told us, Caraco is practically Ibrahim’s personal fiefdom. I doubt Wolf could run such a huge show without his knowledge-or consent.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” Farrell turned back to Peter.

“Which still leaves us with a problem. How do you propose divvying up the assignments for this little shindig you’re planning?”’

“I think that falls out pretty logically,” Helen said, after a rapid glance at Peter. “You’ve got a cell phone, don’t you?”

Farrell nodded. He patted his jacket pocket. “Last year’s Christmas gift from Louisa. I don’t like the damned thing, but she wants to keep tabs on me when I’m out of the house.”

“So that plus Mcdowell’s binoculars makes you the lookout,” Peter said. “Between your Beretta and this”—he hefted the SIG P228 he was still pointing at the white-faced Mcdowell— “Helen and I shouldn’t have much problem persuading Herr Wolf to listen to reason.”

Seeing Farrell starting to look stubborn, Helen laid a hand on his arm.

“Please, Sam. Let Peter and me do this. This was our fight first.”

She left the other reason she wanted to leave the general behind as their watcher carefully unspoken. No matter how Peter tried to dress it up, what he’d proposed was actually a lot closer to kidnapping than to any recognized form of lawful arrest. If things went wrong, she wanted to build as big a firewall between Louisa Farrell’s good-hearted husband and their actions as she possibly could.

Farrell looked down at the ground for several seconds before raising his eyes to meet theirs again. “All right, I’ll stay put and keep watch.” He handed over his pistol and nodded toward Mcdowell.

“What about this little shit? Does he stay with me, or go with you?”

“He comes with us,” Helen heard herself say tightly. She glared at her nemesis. “I want to be right there when Mr. Mcdowell meets his real employer face-to-face for the first time.”

Mcdowell turned even paler.

JUNE 18

_{Just Off Route 50, Near Middleburg, Virginia (D MINUS 3)}

It was nearly one in the morning. Despite the hour, Reichardt sat rigidly upright in the front passenger seat of his Caraco owned Chrysler Lebaron. He stared out at the blackened landscape blurring past without seeing any of it — not the dark masses of trees stabbing up toward the star-speckled night sky, or the occasional, isolated flicker of light that marked a human habitation.

Ostensibly, Ibrahim had summoned him to Middleburg for a conference to discuss minor revisions to the Operation. In reality, Reichardt knew the Saudi prince wanted to vent his displeasure over his failure to trap and eliminate the four Americans — Thorn, Gray, Farrell, and Mcdowell — as promised.

Mcdowell. The German felt his jaw tighten. The FBI traitor had obviously tipped his hand somehow.

Reichardt grimaced. He’d thought about eliminating Mcdowell earlier but he’d needed the information given him by the American to keep track of Thorn and Gray. And now that had all gone wrong. Perhaps he’d made a mistake in allowing Mcdowell to live this long.

Johann Brandt, his closest aide and bodyguard, spun the wheel, turning onto the narrow, two-lane road that eventually ran past Ibrahim al Saud’s sprawling Virginia estate. The road wound up and down over a chain of gentle, rolling hills and then cut through a dense, dark stretch of forest.

“We’re being followed, sir,” Brandt said suddenly, with a quick glance at the rearview mirror.

Reichardt felt that shiver run down his spine again. Too many of his carefully laid plans had gone astray these past few days. He was beginning to lose faith in his own cunning and powers of calculation.

“Are you sure?” he demanded.

Brandt nodded. “It’s the same car. It turned off the highway after us. And now it’s drawing closer.”

Reichardt had noticed the headlights behind them gleaming in the sideview mirrors from time to time, but he’d discounted them. Many of the high-priced lawyers, lobbyists, and corporate executives who made their homes in this area were famed for working inhumanly late hours.

“How far are we from the estate?” he asked.

“Four or five miles.”

Too far. Reichardt craned his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the car that was following them. Nothing. Just the glare of the headlights. He narrowed his eyes against the dazzling light.

A new light blinked into existence — this one on top of the car pursuing them. Red and blue flashes strobed against the darkness, flickering against the tangled woods on either side of the road.

“The police?” Reichardt murmured, more to himself than to Brandt.

Why? What had they done wrong?