Day of Wrath

“Vor,” Reichardt said politely, carefully masking his irritation at having to come hat-in-hand to this criminal for help. The unexpected persistence of Major Alexei Koniev and his two American colleagues was proving extremely troubling. Gasparov’s heroin smuggling had proved a remarkable stroke of luck — one he had been quick to seize on. Ordinary police investigators would have been quite satisfied to close their case with Grushtin’s apparent suicide.

The memory of the Russian officer’s screams brought him a brief moment of pleasure. Orchestrating Grushtin’s death had seemed a masterstroke — the capstone on the intricate heroin smuggling cover story he had so rapidly contrived to blind the official inquiry into the An-32 crash.

Reichardt’s mood darkened again. But Koniev and these two Americans had not taken the gift he offered them. Instead, they were coming dangerously close to piercing the security screen he had erected around his activities at Kandalaksha. That could not be tolerated or ignored.

Not any longer.

It especially irked him to involve others outside his control in the Operation, but time was short, and his resources, though enormous, were not inexhaustible. He looked steadily at Larionov.

“Can your people handle the disposal of these packages for me? The ones we discussed over the phone?”

The Russian smiled thinly. “They can.” Then he held up a cautionary hand. “But the proper question, Herr Reichardt, is whether or not I will order them to undertake such a task.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Reichardt gritted his teeth. Beggars could not be choosers, he reminded himself coldly. His own security teams were still scattered around the world. He needed the Russian Mafiya chieftain’s assistance and manpower — for now. “Will you accept this commission, Vor?”

“You can assure me this work is not done at the behest of any government?” Larionov asked. The refusal to perform any work for the authorities was an integral part of the Russian thieves’ code.

“Yes,” Reichardt said firmly. “This is a private endeavor. And so I swear it.”

“Then so I accept it,” Larionov agreed. He motioned toward his adviser. “I believe Kiril told you our price?”

Reichardt nodded slowly. Two hundred thousand American dollars plus expenses was well over the ordinary fee for such services, but it was reasonable — given the short notice, relative importance of the targets, and the fact that he insisted on having one of his own men in direct command.

At his signal, Brandt stepped forward and opened the briefcase he carried for the Russian’s inspection. It contained bundles of small-denomination greenbacks and a stack of airline tickets.

“Good.” Larionov smiled more broadly, showing a set of yellowing, tobacco-stained teeth. “Then our business here is concluded.

My boys will rendezvous with this man Kleiner of yours in Murmansk tomorrow evening.”

Near Taif, Saudi Arabia Prince Ibrahim al Saud looked up impatiently as his personal secretary, Hashemi, brought Massif Lahoud into his private office.

The Egyptian-born head of the Persian Gulf Environmental Trust looked weary. He had traveled half the night from Damascus to Riyadh and from there to Taif. Under other circumstances, Lahoud’s report could have been made in a five-minute phone call, but Ibrahim maintained a single, inflexible rule in these matters. Where possible, his subordinates would never discuss their involvement in terrorist activities electronically. Phone calls, faxes, and electronic mail could all be intercepted, and Ibrahim had a high regard for the code-breaking abilities of intelligence organizations like Israel’s Mossad and the American National Security Agency.

“Well?”

“The Radical Islamic Front agrees to your condition, Highness.

One of our freelance Syrian operatives attended the meeting.

They have contacted Afriz Sallah and hired him for this operation.

Everything is proceeding according to plan.”

Ibrahim smiled. “Very good, Mr. Lahoud. Then I authorize you to release the necessary funds from the trust’s private account.

Take the usual security precautions.”

Lahoud nodded. “Of course, Highness.”

When he was gone, Ibrahim sat back in his chair. A single prearranged order from Lahoud would set events in motion. The funds released from the trust’s account would flow through an intricate network of dummy accounts set up in half a dozen banks — some in the Middle East, some halfway around the world. By tomorrow, the Radical Islamic Front would have the cash it needed to arrange the assassination of the American Undersecretary of State for Arab Affairs. And if anyone ever tried to trace the ultimate source of the Front’s money, they would find only the equivalent of an empty desert — with all the tracks filled in by the wind.

CHAPTER SIX MANIFEST DESTINY

JUNE 4

_{Surplus Engine Storage Depot, 125th Air Division, Kandalaksha}