Day of Wrath

Determined not to draw any further official attention to his activities, Ibrahim had ordered Talal to bring both Brandt’s body and the missing FBI man’s Ford back to the estate — where they could be disposed of without awkward questions from the authorities.

It didn’t require much imagination to piece together what must have happened. Somehow the two Americans, Thorn and that woman Gray, had turned the tables on Reichardt. Somehow the predator had become the prey.

Ibrahim scowled. He had cautioned the German before against overconfidence. Evidently, his warnings had fallen on deaf ears.

What troubled him most was the possibility that Thorn and Gray might have taken Reichardt alive. That would greatly complicate his plans.

He didn’t believe the ex-Stasi officer would break under questioning, but he could not be absolutely sure. For an instant, Ibrahim became disoriented — his mind casting up images of American agents appearing in force outside his gates, destroying the grand scheme he had worked so hard and spent so much to prepare.

Be still, he told himself. What will be, will be. So far the Americans show no signs that they are aware of their imminent peril.

If Reichardt were alive and in Thorn and Gray’s hands, he had not yet betrayed his master.

Of course, there were also the documents the other man would have carried on his person. The German was often circumspect, prone to wrapping even the most basic information in a concealing layer of code, but even vague references might provide the two Americans with more details about the Operation. And they already knew far too much.

Talal’s quiet, deferential voice broke in on his thoughts.

“Should I report the Chrysler stolen, Highness? Perhaps the American police could do some of this work for us?”

“No.” Ibrahim shook his head forcefully. “We would need to explain the circumstances of the car’s disappearance. For now we shall let sleeping dogs lie.”

He sighed. “In any case, I am quite sure that Colonel Thorn is no longer anywhere near Herr Reichardt’s vehicle. He could not have survived this long by behaving stupidly.”

Ibrahim stood up suddenly. The hours were flying by. Whether Reichardt were alive or dead, the German’s abrupt disappearance so close to the end had thrown sand into the Operation’s once smoothly turning gears. There were decisions to be made — and now only he could make them.

“Captain Talal,” he snapped.

“Highness!”

“Instruct the staff to continue packing. Then organize and equip a four-man squad of your best troops as an escort. I’m going to the Chantilly facility. You will accompany me. Understood?”

Talal nodded hurriedly.

Ibrahim would learn from Reichardt’s mistakes. If Thorn and Gray wanted to come after him on the road to Chantilly, so be it. They would be met by overwhelming firepower.

Outside Leesburg, Virginia A little more than thirty miles west and slightly north of Washington, Sam Farrell turned south off the highway onto a narrow, two-lane blacktop road. The area around them had once been predominantly rural — a stretch of green hills and fertile farmland.

Now, though, the District was pushing its urban tentacles up Route 7, the old Leesburg Turnpike of Civil War fame. A few scattered farms still held out, but most had fallen prey to new housing developments and gleaming corporate buildings. Light industry lined both sides of the road now — and the scars of new construction in the green fields showed where still more houses and shopping malls would soon rise.

Colonel Peter Thorn leaned forward from the back seat, squinting as the early afternoon sun poured in from the west. His head still ached, despite Helen’s soothing ministrations. “You mind telling me where you’re taking us, Sam? Fun’s fun, but we’ve been on the road for a while now.”

Farrell raised his eyes to the rearview mirror. He smiled crookedly.

“You just can’t stand secrets, can you, Pete?”

“Not really,” Thorn admitted.

Farrell turned their rented Ciera off the blacktop road and into a parking lot about half the size of that of any typical supermarket.

He pointed toward the single asphalt runway just visible behind a pair of buildings. “Welcome to Godfrey Field, aka the Leesburg Municipal Airport.”

“An airport?” Thorn heard Helen ask. He scanned the five long rows of private planes tied down just left of the parking lot.

Most were small — single-engine two-, four-, and six-seaters.

“Yep. They’re all airports,” Farrell said. “From Berkeley, South Carolina, to Nampa, Idaho, to Page, Oklahoma, all the way to Shafter-Minter out in California. It took some work to narrow my search down to exactly what linked those names, but that’s it — that’s the common denominator.”

“And they’re all this size?” Thorn asked, eyeing a line of hangars beyond the airpark — three pairs paralleling the road.

The path between the two nearest buildings, one a two story FAA office, the other a small flight school, was the quickest way out onto the runway. No metal detectors. No boarding areas. No jetways. No security.