by Dale Brown
More than just the venue had changed. There was now a butler available to keep the drinks filled.
The cigarette smoke was still horrendous. Mr. Todd was an unreformed hacker.
The President visited the session generally at 10:00 P.M., ostensibly on her way to bed, but most often on her way to do more work in her private office upstairs. She was a night owl, and in fact rarely got more than four hours of sleep.
“My God, Mr. Todd,” she said, coming into the family dining room where the games were held. “So much smoke!”
Everyone, except her husband, stood.
“Next week we do cigars, Mrs. Todd,” he answered.
It was a routine of theirs: she always complained about the smoke; he always threatened more. She walked around to the head of the table and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Good cards?” he said.
“Four queens,” she said dryly. “Should I be jealous?”
Her husband smiled. No one was ever sure if she was reading the cards accurately or if they were teasing each other. But the prudent thing to do was drop out, and they all did.
“Mister Rockfert,” she said, noticing Sam Rockfert. “We haven’t seen you here in quite a while.”
“No, I know, Mary. Been a while.”
She went over to Rockfert. He was an old friend—a plumber who had befriended the Todds even before the lotto election, when Mr. Todd was working as a Senate staff assistant. He was the only person besides her husband who would use her first name—including her brother-in-law James, who was sitting on her husband’s right.
“How’s Margaret?” the President asked.
“Her knee has been giving her fits. Or I should say, giving me fits.” Rockfert laughed. “Other than that, she’s fine. Grandkids came up last week.”
“You have to arrange to bring them around. We’d love to see them.”
She was sincere, though her schedule meant that it was unlikely she’d be able to spend more than two or three minutes with them, even if such a meeting could be arranged.
“Mr. Reid, I hope you are not betting your pension money,” said the President, seeming to spot him for the first time.
“It wouldn’t be much to lose,” said Reid.
“It’s the money he got from selling guns to the Contras that he doesn’t want to lose,” quipped James. “You notice he doesn’t bet that.”
The President looked over and scowled at him. Her husband laughed.
“Ignore them, Mr. Reid,” said the President. “They’re just jealous of your good fortune. I wonder—could you spare me a moment? I have a few questions, now that you’re here.”
“Of course. The way my luck has been going, I’m glad to take a break.”
Reid got up and followed the President down the hall to the study.
“You have something new for me?” asked the President, sitting down in a chair next to her desk. It was a reproduction of a piece of furniture that James Madison was said to have brought into the White House. The original was in a Smithsonian storeroom.
“We think we’ve found a complex the Wolves use,” said Reid. “In Moldova.”
“Interesting.”
“We’d like to send Whiplash in to find out. But that may involve bloodshed.”
“In Moldova.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. If they are there, striking them now—before the conference—would preempt the possibility of their attack. The conference could go off without a hitch.”
“How good is the evidence?”
Reid laid it out.
“Sketchy,” said the President.
“At this stage, things often are.”
“Yes.”
The President leaned back in the chair. She stared at the wall behind him, her eyes facing a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt, one of her favorite predecessors.
“Can we pull this off without being detected?” she asked. “In and out, no complications? No witnesses?”
Reid had given the question considerable thought. An American raid in any foreign country would create a major incident, even if it went off without a hitch. He believed that Whiplash could get into the compound and complete its mission, but there was no way to guarantee it could be done without attracting attention, especially if the Wolves chose to resist. And everything indicated they would.
“I can’t guarantee that nothing would come out,” said Reid. “There is always some possibility of failure.”
The political dynamics were difficult. President Todd was trying to wean Moldova toward the West, as she had done with Ukraine. But the government was on even shakier grounds, with a poor economy, and Russia anxious to prevent further defections to NATO.
Go in and out quietly, and no one would complain. No one would even know. Strike too loudly or trip over the wrong contingency, and the Moldovan government would be forced to renounce the attack, and the U.S., playing right into Russia’s hands. And if they didn’t, popular opinion would surely turn against the Moldovan government, an even better development for Russia.
Those considerations don’t outweigh the necessity of striking, Reid thought, but he could understand the President’s hesitation.
And he had a solution.
“I was speaking with the men in the field before coming over tonight,” he said. “It turns out that a very large amount of marijuana is grown on the site where we would like to strike.”
“Marijuana?”
“Quite a cash crop in Moldova, as it happens.” Reid reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out two sheets of paper. They contained satellite photos of the property and the marijuana. He handed them to the President. “I wasn’t aware of its importance until today. But apparently the farmers do quite well. They seem to supply much of Europe. There are almost two acres of it here,” he added. “You can see in these photos. The leaves are very distinct. They are pointy, with five—”
“Jonathon, I hope you don’t think I have no idea what marijuana looks like,” said the President. “This is the Wolves’ compound?”
“Yes.”
“They sell it?”
“Possibly. They may use it on their own—medicinally, shall we say?”
Reid wasn’t exactly sure why the plant was being grown there. While two acres was a lot, given the security measures and their location, they could easily grow considerably more. That seemed to rule out the possibility that the Wolves were running a drug operation on the side, though there was no way to tell. It might even be a way to explain the secrecy surrounding the property, if neighbors became too curious.
“If we told the Moldovan government that this was a drug operation,” he said, “we would give them cover for anything that happened.”
“Under what pretense does an American military force make a drug raid?” asked the President skeptically.
“As part of a NATO task force operating under UN auspices,” said Reid. “As directed by the UN last year. It’s a fig leaf, but it is authorized. The European Union has been pushing for more antidrug enforcement actions.”
“When do you tell them?”
“Right before the raid.”
“What if they want to come along?” the President asked.
“We let them. Once the place is secure. Then we can use Moldovan facilities to hold the Wolves until they can be extradited for murder. Assuming they survive the raid.”
“There’s a place where they can be held?”
“I’ve spoken to our station chief in the capital. He’s confident they could be held at a Moldovan military base. We’d only need to have them stay until we had charges ready in Poland for the murders there. That should only take a few days. It would avoid having to take them to Ukraine on attempted charges. We also wouldn’t have to reveal how we got the evidence against them. It’s much better than taking them to one of our bases.”
“Granted,” said the President. “But what do we do if the Moldovans won’t cooperate?”
“We’ll be back at the same st
arting point,” said Reid. “You will have to decide whether to proceed without their permission. But then they’ll at least think this was about drugs. And the Russians will as well.”
Reid assumed that the Moldovan government had been penetrated by Russian spies.
“I’d suggest you make that decision beforehand,” he added. “And that we only proceed if we’re prepared to go alone.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Our station chief reminded me that the Moldovan government received thirty million euros in enforcement money from the E.U. Drug Fund six months ago, without anything to show for it. This will allow them to pretend that they are quite on top of things.”
“You must be very good at poker,” said the President.
“I hold my own.”
“Go. All the way. Make it work.”
33
Washington suburbs
The Nationals took it hard, losing 7–2. They were never really in the game, getting clobbered with a five-run first inning.
Just as well, thought Zen as he drove home. He didn’t have to invest much emotion in the game, only to see them lose. And Senator Dirks was an admirable guest, insisting on paying for the food and the single beer Zen allowed himself at the games when he had to drive home.
All the lights were on in the house as he drove up. That was unusual. Breanna generally holed up in bed the nights he was out at games, either with work or with a book or a movie. Usually he found her out like a light, her computer or Kindle lying next to her.
Maybe she wants to apologize, he thought. Or maybe she just left the lights on.
The smell of coffee as he rolled himself up the ramp from the garage tipped him off that it was probably none of the above. And sure enough, she was sitting in the kitchen, frowning at a laptop.
“Hey,” he said, coming in. “We lost.”
“So I heard.”
“Check the scores?”
“I wanted to see what kind of mood you’d be in.”
He laughed. “Nah. You can’t really expect the Nats to win. So when they lose, it doesn’t really bother me. Someday, maybe.”
He couldn’t quite read her expression. Was she working? She was using the family laptop, so he thought not.
“Checking the news?” he asked.
“The weather. My flight schedule has been changed. I’m leaving in the morning.”
“Oh. OK.”
“I talked to Caroline. She’ll be here right after class. From what I understand, she’s very excited about going to Prague.”
“I told you she would be.”
“I also spoke to General Magnus today,” said Breanna.
“How is he?”
“He’s going to Prague, too.”
“Really? Suddenly, it’s the cool place to be.”
“He wants to show off the Tigershark to the Germans and the English. He thinks he can sell it as a next-generation NATO fighter.”
“Tigershark?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.”
“Hey, being dumb is something I don’t have to pretend to be.” Zen popped the top on a Rogue Porter—he could tell he needed something substantial.
“You set this up, didn’t you?” said Breanna. “So I’d come with you.”
“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Tigershark—it’s a dead deal. You can’t even get it past your own Air Force brass. Manned interceptors have no future in the Air Force. It’s not what I want, but—”
Breanna got up from the table and stormed away.
“Hey—what’s up?” asked Zen. “I didn’t talk to Magnus. Is that what you think?”
The Tigershark had been to air shows before. It was just a coincidence.
He glanced at his watch, wondering if it was too late to call Magnus and see if there was something else involved.
More than likely, not.
Quarter past eleven. Far too late to call. Too late, really, to do anything but drink his beer.
34
Northeastern Moldova
Danny, Nuri, and Flash spent the night planting video bugs along the roads, making sure that all of the approaches to the farm were covered. Meanwhile, the Predator V circling overhead was joined by its companion shortly after daybreak. The second aircraft had a ground-penetrating radar that could see into the buildings, as well as hunt for bunkers and other surprises. The pair could stay over the farm, orbiting at roughly 40,000 feet virtually undetectable, for a week.
There were two men inside the main house, in what seemed to be some sort of control room at the back. Probably it was a security post. Otherwise, the place was empty.
Surveillance network established, Danny and the others drove south to find a place to rest. Worried that stopping nearby might inadvertently tip the people at the farm off, Danny drove almost thirty kilometers away, not stopping until he spotted a small inn that sat above a twisting path from the highway. He pulled off the road and waited for the others. It was just after 6:00 A.M.
“That says restaurant and hotel in Russian,” said Nuri when they drove up. He pointed to the sign, hand painted in a neat script.
Danny had seen the Romanian sign in Latin script but not the smaller Cyrillic, which was on the other side of the road.
“How come the sign’s in Russian?” asked Flash. “I thought all the Russians were on the eastern end of the country?”
“That’s the greatest concentration,” said Nuri. “But remember, this was part of the Soviet Union before the breakout. Russians are everywhere.”
There was no special reason to be suspicious, but Danny still decided to look for another place. They found a small café about two miles farther down the road. Two trucks were parked out front.
“You sure you’re not getting paranoid, Colonel?” asked Flash as they got out of their cars.
“I’m always paranoid,” said Danny. “Let’s get some grub.”
They left their mikes open while they ate, hoping the MY-PID would pick up and translate useful local gossip. But the talk was mostly about the weather and a hike in government-controlled gasoline prices, planned to go into effect in a week. The fact that the three strangers in the corner were American didn’t provoke any comments.
Nuri went over and spoke to the hostess, asking about hotels. Bits and pieces of French and Spanish flooded into his head as he spoke. This was both a help and a hindrance, giving him more vocabulary and at the same time making it harder for him to get the right pronunciation.
Nuri had always had a certain fluidity with languages. It was one of his prime assets as a CIA officer. MY-PID helped tremendously—but it also made his ability less important. The next generation of field officers would operate with implants in their head, speaking fluently in any language they dialed up.
The waitress mentioned a few chain hotels back close to the capital. Nuri said he wanted something local.
“You are an American, though,” she said, switching to English. “You want to stay here?”
“Yes,” he said. “My friends and I are researching locations for a movie. We’re from Hollywood.”
“Movie?”
“The Sound of Music,” he said. “We’re doing a remake.”
Nuri was particularly happy about this cover story, and he had to practically bite his tongue to keep from embellishing it. There was always a temptation to add details when you had a good story. And this one was perfect—a movie version of the famous musical, to be shot here in Eastern Europe, with elaborate village scenes. Who wouldn’t eat it up? But the more details, the more likely you were to be tripped up.
“Hollywood,” said the waitress, practically gushing.
She started talking about a movie she had seen being made in the States some years before, when she had been an exchange student in California. If it was during her college days, thought Nuri, it must have been at least twenty years ago.
The memories sprang out in a jumble. Even if her accent had been pure, Nuri was sure he would have unde
rstood only a third of it.
Finally, he managed to steer the conversation—or monologue—back to hotels. There were several places in the area, she said, but none worth the trouble.
“Well, we do have to sleep,” he told her.
“Then the Latino, two kilometers on the road, that direction,” said the woman. “And I know just the place where you can set your movie.”
Nuri listened to her suggestions, mentally noting that they were all to the south. He asked if there might be anything to the north, trying to get information about the farm without mentioning it. But even when he named the town it was located in, she just shrugged and said she didn’t know that area very well.
“Give you her life story?” Danny asked when he came back to the table.
“Just about. There are a couple places down the road.”
They found the motel the waitress recommended in the center of a village two miles away. It wasn’t hard: A large 1950s era farm tractor stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, as much a landmark as mascot.
During the Soviet years the town factory had churned out tractors, as many as five hundred a week. The plant had closed soon after independence, and the old buildings now housed a variety of small businesses, including two that repaired and rebuilt the tractors originally produced there.
The town had a population of about five thousand, most living in the village center. Housing projects from the 1970s and early 1980s, their yellow bricks weathered to a dull brown, crowded around somewhat newer structures, brightly painted, which sat around the edges of the small business district. Main Street was the local highway; a pair of blinking lights slowed cars down as they approached, though crossing from one side to the other could be a dangerous undertaking.
The motel was wedged in beside a small grocery store and one of the factory buildings. Two stories tall, it was a narrow box of rooms with a balcony on the left. It presented its narrow side to the street, running back fifteen rooms deep toward a large fence that bordered a set of warehouses.