by Dale Brown
“It’s OK,” said Breanna, sitting down on the couch. The flowers he’d bought were sitting on the coffee table.
“You’re under a lot of pressure at work. I know. It’s gotta be—it’s a difficult assignment.”
“Mmmmm.” She picked up a magazine and began leafing through it.
Zen recognized her mood. It was as if she was bruised all over, and touching her anywhere would hurt. Yet he felt compelled to do something, to reach across the distance between them.
“I had lunch with Daly and Sullivan today,” he said, searching his brain for some anecdote that might be even distantly funny. “The dynamic duo. Sullivan was eating this bacon cheeseburger. Didn’t he vote in favor of the fat tax last year?”
Breanna shrugged.
“I think he did. His party suggested it,” added Zen. “What are you reading?”
Breanna held it up so he could see the cover. Traditional Home.
“In the mood for some decorating?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“The hallway could use a new coat of paint.”
She didn’t answer.
“Remember when we painted the apartment?” he asked.
It was a preaccident memory, which put it in a special category, potentially touchy for either one of them. But it was also a happy memory, the two of them working together at a time when they were both very much in love—way beyond that, completely infatuated with each other, unable to get enough of each other’s words and bodies.
“Jeez—what was the color?” he said, growing nostalgic. “Peach or something? Mauve. Something that I would have never thought would be a good color.”
“You’re not really much on color.”
“I don’t have your color sense,” Zen admitted, trying to push through the small opening. “Not at all.”
Breanna put down the magazine.
“You’re still going to Kiev?”
“Well, yeah,” he said.
“I have to go to Brown Lake at the end of the week. Did you remember?”
Brown Lake Test Area was the Technology Office’s facility at Dreamland, part of the expanded complex there. Dreamland itself was an Air Force command; the Technology Office was both a contractor and a customer, and kept a small contingent at leased space there. Zen guessed she was going for the demonstration of one of her projects, though she kept the actual identity of the project itself secret, even from him.
“Sure,” he said, though in fact the date had slipped from his memory. “Are you taking Teri with you?”
“I can’t. You know that.”
“She can come with me, then,” he said.
“Jeff—”
“Actually, I had a thought about leaving a day or two early and stopping in Prague—”
“Prague?”
“There’s an air show. Teri’ll love it.”
“You can’t take her, Jeff.”
“Why can’t I?”
“She has school.”
“Ah, school.”
“It’s too dangerous—didn’t you hear anything I told you the other day?”
The last thing he would ever do was put his daughter in danger. The suggestion that Teri go with him was just a spur of the moment thought, something that just popped into his head. Had he thought about it, he might have rejected it himself. But Breanna’s sharp retort put him on the defensive.
“There’s going to be plenty of security in Kiev,” he said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem. She doesn’t have to go. Caroline can stay here.”
Caroline was Breanna’s niece, a college-age student who lived nearby and often babysat for them.
“I don’t know if she can,” said Breanna.
“Well then her mom can. You know there won’t be a problem.”
“I don’t know that at all.”
“Hey, I have an idea,” said Zen. “What if Caroline and Teri came with me to Prague, and stayed there while I went to Kiev? That would be great for Caroline, right? She’d love it. The art? Right up her alley. I’m going to call her right now.”
“You really want to take Teri out of school?”
“To visit Prague? In a heartbeat.”
“I don’t know what gets into you sometimes.” Breanna practically leapt off the couch, stalking past him to the kitchen.
Zen took a deep breath, struggling to keep his own anger in check. Prague wasn’t a bad idea at all—he’d only be away from the girls for a day and a half, at most. Caroline had gone with them to Hong Kong just the year before, spending two days alone with Teri while he and Breanna flew to Macau on a secret government mission for the State Department.
More like a secret junket, since it only consisted of having lunch with a hard-to-deal-with Chinese trade official, but that wasn’t the point. Caroline and Teri would be fine.
He rolled into the kitchen. Breanna had taken out the small tub of Ben & Jerry’s she kept in the freezer, and was eating it straight out of the carton.
“I’m not going to ask you about the Stoner operation,” said Zen.
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“You think you can save him?”
Breanna stared at him.
“If it’s Stoner—” said Zen.
“I know who you’re talking about,” she said sharply.
“Are you going to try—”
“Don’t interfere, Jeff.”
“Did you tell Danny?”
Breanna pressed her lips together. He was sure from the reaction that she had, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what tipped him off.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know that it’s Stoner,” she said coldly.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you fix him?”
“Jesus.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know.” Breanna tossed her spoon into the sink, pulled out the garbage can from beneath the kitchen island and dropped the empty ice cream tub into it. Then she stormed out of the room.
“That went well,” Zen said to the empty kitchen.
22
Northwestern Moldova
The rain bit at his face as if it were acid. He pushed up the hill, ignoring the sideward slip of his feet on the slick pavement. He pushed to feel the burn in his thighs, the strain of a muscle—to get feeling, any feeling.
Pain was a strange condition. On the one hand it was always there, like the skin that covered his body, the thick clumps of hair, the scars. On the other hand, it was a sensation, something beyond the dull haze he moved through every day, the black swamp of his life. To feel the sharpness, the pressure and strain—it could be savored.
Was it pleasure?
He didn’t know pleasure. He knew where he was, he knew his duty.
The Black Wolf pushed up the hill, arms pumping now. He was breathing hard in the darkness. If there had been houses near the road, he would have woken anyone inside. He was making good time, at a strong pace—an Olympic pace.
Run, a voice told him. Run.
He crested the hill and turned to the left, entering a wide, expansive field. His feet found the dirt path by habit; it was too dark to see.
The rain increased. He didn’t like the water. He’d almost died in water—in many ways he had died in water, even though the doctors said the coldness had helped. He still hated water.
The farmhouse was just ahead. He increased his pace, pounding through the mud.
Five hundred meters from the house a light came on in the kitchen. The light, part of his security system, told him everything was OK.
The farm was secluded and out of the way, but in his business one didn’t take chances. Death was inevitable; every moment led you closer. The question was whether you might force some control over it. That was the aim of his security systems.
The Black Wolf ran full strength to the back door of
the house. When he was five meters away, the latch unhooked. He reached down with his hand, swinging the door open on a dead trot.
He stopped abruptly on the threshold and closed the door behind him. Taking off his running shoes, he began peeling off the outer layers of his clothes, throwing them into the nearby washing machine. Stripped to his compression shorts, he went inside to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before hitting the shower.
There was a message on the cell phone he used for work. It was a text message advertising a restaurant in London. Anyone receiving or intercepting it would think it was a junk text. To the Black Wolf, it was anything but.
He poured himself the coffee, then opened his laptop. Booting up, he inserted a small satellite modem into the USB port. When the computer was ready, he opened a Web browser and surfed to Google. He typed in the name of the latest punk-rap band taking Europe by storm, TekDog.
Google gave six hundred pages of hits. He went to their official site, backed out to Google again, then went to the fourth fan site listed in the search results.
The site had photos and music and show listings. It also had a small section titled Nudes&Rumors.
He clicked on it, then scrolled to the third entry.
Heard on the street: band members planning new shows in France for next month. Details soonest.
Still in his underwear, the Black Wolf took his cell phone and called a number that began with a French country code.
“This is Wolf,” he said as the connection went through. He spoke in English.
“The old doctor has become a problem. It must be dealt with.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately. There have been inquiries. You should be cautious.”
“My treatments?”
“We have made other arrangements. We understand they are getting much closer together. That will not be a problem.”
“Good,” he said.
The sudden emotion he felt surprised him. It bordered on elation.
He closed the phone and went to take a shower.
23
Kiev, Ukraine
Hera smiled at the museum guard as he came around the corner.
He didn’t smile back.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in Ukrainian. Hera didn’t speak Ukrainian, but his meaning was obvious.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“You are in a restricted area. What’s in your hand?”
She had been about to place the bug in the fire hose housing when she was interrupted. It was still in her hand, the door to the hose compartment open a few inches.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Your hand,” repeated the guard, grabbing her arm.
“Hera, dear, did you find the restroom? Oh!” McEwen appeared behind the guard. She was stooped over and looked even older than she was. “Hera?”
The guard turned, still holding Hera’s hand.
“What are you doing with my granddaughter?” asked McEwen in Ukrainian.
“She is trespassing down a restricted corridor.”
“A restricted corridor? In a museum?”
“This is not just a museum.”
McEwen walked close to him, practically touching his shirt, then pitched her head back to look into his face.
“I sent her to find the restroom,” she said. “Perhaps you could help us.”
The guard let go of Hera’s arm. She rubbed it—he’d clamped it so hard it hurt.
“That way. Out there,” he said, pointing.
“Are you married?” asked McEwen.
“Yes.”
“Too bad. My granddaughter is from America,” she added.
“You must go back. Get out of this corridor.”
“Of course, of course,” said McEwen. She put her hand to her side. “I do have a cramp.”
“A cramp?”
“Could you help me?” she asked. “Just walk me to the restroom.”
As the guard bent toward McEwen, Hera took a step to the side and put her hand against the wall, pushing the small video bug into the fire hose assembly, then closed the door. She caught up with McEwen and the guard just as they reached the main corridor.
“You must not come down here again,” warned the guard, pointing them toward the ladies’ room.
“No, no, of course.”
“You can make it?”
“My granddaughter will help.” McEwen smiled at him. “You are sure you are taken?”
“Thanks,” said Hera after he’d gone.
“Don’t mention it. I almost got you a date.”
“That would have been something.”
“Ukrainian men are very considerate,” said the older woman. “Don’t be so quick to judge. I thought your MY-PID system would warn you.”
“It did. Too late.”
McEwen smiled, and shook her head gently.
“What?” asked Hera.
“You put too much trust in electronics,” she said.
“MY-PID’s pretty useful.”
McEwen shrugged.
“You don’t think… ?”
“By the time we see anything important, it’ll be too late,” said McEwen. “You can’t replace humans.”
“These don’t.”
“Human intelligence,” said McEwen, her tone almost one of incantation. “Should we look at some paintings?”
“I have one more to place.”
“Then we’ll start with the baroque.”
“The electronics don’t replace humans,” said Hera defensively as they walked into a gallery area. Now that she wasn’t acting, McEwen’s pace was strong, as swift as Hera’s. “They let us do more.”
“In some ways. Not in others. You have to be careful, Hera. You can’t let them be crutches. Sometimes you need a little old lady in the back of the alleyway to help you out.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“You don’t think he was cute?”
“His breath smelled like stale sardines.”
“That could be fixed.”
24
Chisinau, Moldova
Communications from the Russian embassy were routinely monitored and translated, but the private homes of the leading members of the mission were not. Nuri had Reid put the request in; it wasn’t clear how long it would be before it was executed, let alone what it might yield.
Getting approval to bug the house itself—absolutely necessary in the case of a diplomat, Nuri knew—would take at least several days at best; by then the Kiev meeting would be over. He wasn’t sure it was worth the risk.
So for now their best bet was to concentrate on the doctor. They set up more video bugs in the area, enough so MY-PID could track his car to the main road. Then they rented two more cars, so they could wait in either direction to follow him. It wasn’t an ideal setup, but Nuri figured that it would give them a good chance at sticking a tracker on the doctor’s car. Once they had that, MY-PID would take over entirely, watching him as he moved around the city.
Danny, though, was getting impatient. Three more of his people—Sergeant Clar “Sugar” Keeb, Paulie Christen, and a tech specialist named Gregor Hennemann—were due to arrive in Kiev by nightfall to help McEwen and Hera. He knew he ought to get there himself, to make sure everything was set up. He also had to make the final call on whether to work with the NATO and local security. At the moment he was leaning toward doing so.
Sugar was a covert CIA op like Hera, though different from her in almost every way. A little older, with a much more easygoing personality, she had become something of a big sister to most of the newbies.
Christen was a surveillance and security expert who’d been recruited from the FBI right after the team’s first mission. While Danny and Boston had a great deal of experience in security, they hadn’t set up pure surveillance networks, and Danny thought the operation in Africa and Iran could have gone smoother with more help.
Hennemann was a technical whiz kid who’d come to Whiplash from the
NSA. There wasn’t a computer in the world he couldn’t hack into or rewire. Neither Hennemann nor Christen were what was generally referred to as “shooters”—weapons-oriented team members. Danny would have to decide whether to bring more on, and when. He couldn’t make that assessment, or felt he couldn’t, from Chisinau.
Unless, of course, they caught the Wolves here.
“Hey, he’s coming at you,” said Nuri over the team radio. “You see him?”
Danny glanced in his mirror, waiting.
“He should be just about to you,” added Nuri.
A black Mercedes swept into view. Danny had to wait for two more cars to pass before he could get out, but the Mercedes was still in view.
“Heading toward the city on 581,” said Danny.
“I’ll be behind you in a few minutes,” said Nuri.
“Flash?” said Danny.
“I’m down on Stefan cel Mare, the big cross street.”
“Cut over.”
“Yeah, well, you should see the damn traffic down here. Looks like every car in the country is in front of me. They got some sort of construction going on, and a cop’s directing traffic.”
“Did you see his face?” Nuri asked.
“No,” said Danny. They still didn’t have an image.
The jam-up actually helped them. The doctor got bogged down in traffic a half mile from the city limits. He took a few turns through the side streets, but they were clogged as well.
Downtown, the doctor pulled into a lot near one of the larger buildings in the business district. Danny saw him get out of the car as he passed.
He was short and fat, bald—he didn’t have time to see the doctor’s face.
“Car’s in the big lot you’ll see on your left,” he told Flash, who was about a block behind him. “Get the tracker on it.”
“On my way.”
Danny went down the block, then turned down the side street. There was plenty of parking, so he pulled in. He got out of the car and trotted back to the building.
There were half a dozen people inside, waiting for the elevator. Danny glanced around—there was a man very close to the button panel, short and fat, bald. He was wearing brown pants.
Was it him?
He thought so, and yet he wasn’t positive. Several minutes had passed—the doctor could be upstairs already.