Revolution

by Dale Brown

  The men nodded.

  “I’m sorry that I don’t speak Romanian. I’m not even sure my English is all that good,” continued Dog. He meant that as a joke, though he was the only one who cracked a smile. He continued, reminding himself to speak slowly and distinctly. “Beginning today, we will have aircraft up around the clock, helping survey the border areas. Captain Freah and his men will help prepare—”

  The defense minister raised his hand a few inches, his forefinger extended as if to ask a question.

  “Sir?” prompted Dog.

  “Will two aircraft be enough?” the minister asked in English. “In light of this attack, I am sure we would welcome more.”

  “The number isn’t up to me, sir, but I will definitely ask for more,” said Dog.

  Apparently feeling that the Americans were being criticized, the colonel whose unit had been responsible for surrounding the house began explaining that the Dreamland team had played an important role in finding the guerrillas.

  “We believe they were intending another attack today,” said the Romanian. “Perhaps they would have hit a school, or a bank. The Americans helped us a great deal.”

  “One thing I don’t understand,” said Danny, interrupting. “Why don’t you guys attack their bases? Hit them where they live?”

  General Locusta shot an angry glance at Cazacul, then rose, saying something in heated Romanian before stalking from the room.

  “He said, ‘That’s the first thing that anyone’s said that makes sense,’” whispered the Romanian general who’d accompanied Dog to the meeting.

  “I DIDN’T MEAN TO CAUSE TROUBLE,” DANNY TOLD DOG after the meeting broke up. “It just seemed pretty obvious.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The politics are complicated. Obviously Locusta and Cazacul don’t like each other. The general told me that Locusta wants to go over the border, but the government is afraid it will start an incident that will get out of control.”

  “It’s already out of control,” said Danny. “I talked to Mark Stoner this morning. The CIA officer we worked with in Asia.”

  “Sure, I know Stoner.”

  “He’s been assigned special duty out here. He thinks the Russians are involved somehow.”

  “In this attack?”

  “No, not directly. But he wanted samples of the explosives if I could get them. He thinks that probably came from them.”

  Dog nodded.

  “They could send scout teams across the border and watch for them,” said Danny. “Or better, follow the guerrillas after an operation and track them down.”

  “That’s their call.” Dog rubbed his forehead. “If they mount an operation, we won’t be able to support it. Our orders are explicit. The border is off limits. And you’re included in that.”

  “We have to get the rules changed.”

  “Copy that,” said Dog.

  Bacau, Romania

  1103

  THE GUERRILLA RAID ON THE VILLAGE POLICE STATION AND the guerrillas’ subsequent decision to blow themselves up left General Locusta in a foul mood. It was probably true, as his aides insisted, that a much more serious attack had been averted; clearly the guerrillas were planning to do serious harm. But that was of small consolation. Coming so soon after the attack on the pipeline, politicians in Bucharest were raising questions about his ability. If he was stripped of his position, his entire plan would crumble.

  The Russians were no doubt behind this. They were more trouble than they were worth. As for the Americans…

  Well, at least they had the right idea about what should be done. Though they were a problem as well.

  The general was mulling the difficulties on the way back to his headquarters when he received a text message from a Yahoo address declaring that the state oil company’s stock was going to split and that it would be wise to invest as soon as possible.

  The message looked like a routine piece of spam, but in fact it had nothing to do with oil or stock. It was from the Russian military attaché, Svoransky, asking for an immediate meeting.

  Asking or demanding?

  Locusta preferred to think the former, but the arrival of a second message twenty minutes later drove him to cancel his afternoon schedule. He called a number ostensibly registered to the Romanian information ministry but which in fact forwarded his call to a machine at the Russian embassy. He named a time—2:00 p.m.—and hung up.

  Locusta got up from his desk and began pacing, thinking about what he had done—not now, but months making contact with the Russians, using them to advance his dream of running Romania the way it should be run, of establishing the country as the most important in Eastern Europe.

  From the start, it had been a deal with the devil. But what other choice did he have?

  He needed to extricate himself somehow, perhaps with American help.

  But wouldn’t that simply be making matters worse?

  The only solution was to move ahead with the coup as quickly as possible. Then these complications could be untangled.

  Locusta hoped that Svoransky would send another message, saying that the meeting was too far from the capital for the Russian to make, giving him a perfect excuse to call it off. But no message came; the meeting was on.

  Two hours later, Locusta told his aides that he wasn’t feeling well and was going home for a nap.

  “Perhaps I’ll take a ride in the country,” he added off-handedly, as if it wasn’t his intention all along.

  He stopped at his house, a modest cottage on a large piece of land owned by a family with royal blood. The housekeeper had come and was just finishing; he told her not to worry about him, that he had just stopped by to feed his cat. The woman, a portly grandmother type who had been employed on the estate in one capacity or another since she was a teenager, nodded approvingly, then went back to work as he got out the kibbles to fill the pet’s bowl.

  There was something soothing about the mewing of a cat. Locusta waited on his haunches as the pet scampered into the kitchen, rubbing its side against his bent leg as a thank-you before digging in. He gave it a scratch behind its ears, then rose. He told the housekeeper she was doing a very good job. With one last stroke of the cat’s back, he walked out to his car and drove toward the highway.

  The peace the cat brought dissipated by the time he was halfway to the small café where they were to meet. Ordinarily, he felt comfortable at the restaurant, which was run by a distant relative in a town about thirty miles southwest of Bacau, but today he felt awkward, moving as if his clothes were a half size too small.

  He was ten minutes early, but Svoransky was already there. And not alone.

  “This is Major Jurg,” said Svoransky, gesturing to the dark-haired, ruddy-faced man in a poorly cut gray suit who sat next to him, nursing a glass of vodka. “He is a good man to know.”

  “I’m sure,” said the general, pulling out his chair. It was the first time since they had been meeting that the attaché had brought a companion.

  Svoransky signaled to the waiter. “Stew?” he asked Locasta.

  “I’m not very hungry this afternoon.”

  “A drink, then?”

  Locusta asked for some bottled water.

  “That was a desperate attack yesterday evening,” said Svoransky.

  “A dozen of my men were killed,” said Locusta. “The only consolation is that all of the criminals died as well.”

  He looked up as the waiter returned with his glass and the bottle of carbonated spring water. He sipped it slowly, waiting until the server had again retreated.

  “My explosives experts believe the criminals may have had as much as a suitcase worth of plastic explosives,” said Locusta. “I wonder where they would have gotten that.”

  “I would guess from the Iranians,” said Svoransky smoothly. “They have made a habit of selling such items very cheaply.”

  “I would think that a chemical analysis would show that it came from Russia,” said Locusta, staring at Major Jurg.
<
br />   Jurg stared back.

  “Russian? Nyet. We would not sell to criminals. Of course, items can always be obtained on the black market. Over that we have no control.”

  “You had nothing to do with the attack, I presume,” said Locusta, his eyes still locked with Jurg’s.

  “General, please,” said Svoransky. “Your voice is rather loud. I thought you chose this place to be discreet.”

  “The death of my men bothers me. A great deal.” Locusta leaned across the table toward Jurg. “I was especially bothered the other evening to find my men were killed in an attack on the pipeline.”

  “Casualties must be expected in a war,” said Svoranksky.

  “I am not fighting a war,” said Locusta. “Yet.”

  Svoransky had the good sense not to answer. It seemed to Locusta that Jurg had a smirk on his face, but if so, he’d covered it with his glass.

  “What precisely is it you want to talk about?” Locusta asked.

  “The Americans are an extremely arrogant people,” said Svoransky. “Pushy and interfering.”

  “They are our allies,” said Locusta.

  “The government’s allies only. I hope. You would not mind seeing them suffer an embarrassment, I think.”

  “What sort of embarrassment?”

  Svoransky shrugged. “An attack?”

  “My people are defending their base,” said Locusta.

  Svoransky turned to Jurg and began speaking in Russian, presumably translating what he had just said, though it seemed to Locusta that Jurg had understood. Jurg’s stubble and dark skin made him appear crude, but he wore a gold watch on his wrist—an expensive watch, Locusta thought.

  The man must be a member of the Spetsnaz. Very likely he was in charge of the squad that had killed his soldiers at the pipeline; it was even possible he had been on the raid himself.

  Locusta worked to suppress his loathing. All he had to do was raise his hand and his cousin would come from the back with a gun. Or he could be more subtle, wait until the meeting was over, then have their car blown up.

  But it would be foolish. Svoransky’s superiors might hate Voda and the government, but they would not stand idly by while their agent was assassinated. They would change sides in an eye blink.

  “Perhaps your people could be moved,” suggested Svoransky finally.

  General Locusta turned toward Jurg. “What exactly do you want, Major?” he asked in English. “Be specific. And have the courtesy to speak to me directly.”

  “We want two things,” said Jurg, switching to English. “We want to embarrass the Americans, as Mr. Svoransky has said.”

  “Embarrassing them is one thing. An attack while my men are guarding them is very difficult.”

  “Not if you help.”

  “I do not need to be at war with the Americans.”

  Locusta started to rise. Svoransky grabbed his arm. “You misunderstand,” he said. “Your men will not be involved. All they need do is look the other way.”

  “I doubt that can be arranged.”

  “You owe us quite a bit, General,” said Jurg.

  Locusta’s anger flared, and for a moment he considered what would happen if he punched the major. The man was shorter than he was, but built like a wrestler, thick around the neck, with large forearms and a chest like a barrel.

  If he decked him, there would be a moment of elation, then consequences.

  “I owe you nothing,” said Locusta. “And I will owe you less if there is an attack on the base.”

  “General, our relationship has been profitable and surely will be more so in the future. You do not want Romania to be a member of the EU, or NATO. Nor do we. You want to be president—we find that very acceptable.”

  “What’s your point?” snapped Locusta.

  “The point is, we will do as we please,” said Jurg. “You will have to accept it.”

  As a young boy, Locusta had struggled to control his emotions. He had gone to great lengths to learn the discipline needed to push away his anger and clear his head for logic. As a twelve-year-old he had stood in his parents’ kitchen, his hand over the burning wick of a candle, testing how long he could leave his fingers there despite the pain. His goal had been to recite the times tables backward from twelve times twelve while holding his hand above the candle. It was a game as much as an exercise, but it had served him well. When his anger threatened to careen out of control, he often thought back to the candle and the sensation of heat at his fingertips, and regained control.

  “I will accept no more casualties at your hands,” he said coldly as he rose.

  “General, who said anything about casualties?” said Svoransky. He put his hand out and touched Jurg on the shoulder. “A way will be found to embarrass the Americans without involving you. We just want you to be aware of it. My companion and his people won’t even be involved.”

  “Don’t contact me again,” said Locusta.

  “Now now,” said Svoransky. “Remember, we are friends.”

  The words impaled themselves in Locusta’s consciousness, playing over and over as he drove himself back to his Second Corps headquarters.

  Near Tutova, northern Romania

  1400

  IT TOOK ROUGHLY SIX HOURS FOR THE TRAIN TO GET FROM Bucharest to the station near Piatra Neamt. Sorina Viorica spent most of the time sleeping. She lay against Stoner’s shoulder, the weight and her scent pleasant despite everything he told himself.

  “We need a cab,” he said to her when they got to the platform.

  “A town like this won’t have a taxi.”

  “Then we’ll hire a driver.”

  “Where?”

  “The stationmaster will know,” said Stoner, heading toward the ticket office. “He’ll have a brother-in-law or a friend in need of work.”

  It turned out to be a sister, which was fine with Stoner. He gave her the address he’d written down.

  The woman read it and glanced at him, a worried look on her face. Stoner nodded solemnly, then fanned the ten twenty-dollar bills he’d concealed in his fist.

  The address belonged to the house that had been blown up. It took nearly an hour to get there. When they arrived, the police and a small contingent of soldiers were still guarding it, but they were able to drive up the road and park a short distance away, close enough to see the ruins.

  And smell them. The scent of burnt wood and flesh still hung in the air when they got out of the car.

  Stoner led her toward the house. Rags covered with blood lay on the front lawn.

  “What is this?” Sorina Viorica asked.

  “Your friends did this,” he told her. “The ones you don’t want to turn in. The dregs who are left. Six children died. This is their blood. Girls, one to ten years old. Or maybe there were seven. The remains were so mangled, it’s hard to tell.”

  “Look.” Stoner pulled the photos from his pocket. “See if you can tell which were the bombers and which were the victims.”

  Tears streamed down Sorina Viorica’s face. She started to look at the photos, then pushed them away and ran back toward the car.

  Allegro, Nevada

  0508

  BREANNA THREW OFF THE COVERS AND GOT OUT OF BED, wincing a little as she walked toward the bathroom.

  “Time to get up, time to get up,” she told herself, throwing on the shower.

  She’d had only a few hours sleep, but she was determined to get her rehab session over with, then get over to the base, kick butt on the physical and whatever other bs the doctors threw at her, and get herself back on full duty.

  Full flight duty. Flying.

  She was back. During the entire Lakers game she hadn’t thought about being hurt once. Her head felt fine. Her legs, ribs, arms—there were still bruises and a few creaks in her joints, but she was A-okay. There was no reason she couldn’t get back in the air.

  Zen was back. Mack was back. Her father was back.

  The only difference between her and them was her gender. An
d that was absolutely not going to make a difference.

  The cold water hit her like an electric shock. She resisted the urge to pump it up to hot, instead lathering and moving as quickly as possible. She’d do her hair after her workouts.

  Sleek Top had been quite the gentleman after the game. He was such a sweet guy that she hated hurting him. If it weren’t for Zen…

  Her teeth chattered as she hopped out of the shower. She pulled a towel around her, more to ward off the cold than to actually dry herself, and walked out to the kitchen to get Mr. Coffee working. Then she went back to the bedroom to get dressed.

  She was getting back in action, all the way back. There was no other goal, and no rest until that goal was achieved.

  Bucharest, Romania

  1810

  “I WILL TELL YOU WHERE THEY HIDE IN MOLDOVA,” SORINA said in a quiet voice on the train back to Bucharest. “But I must do it in my own way.”

  “You can do it any way you want,” Stoner told her.

  “They were not always so…”

  Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t find the right word. He could think of several—ruthless, despicable, gutless—but he said nothing.

  They were sitting opposite each other in a first class car, the space between them divided by a table. Sorina Viorica got up and slid next to him. Then, clutching his chest, she began to sob.

  THE NIGHT WAS A SLIDE DOWN A LONG SLOPE, PREORDAINED. He brought her back to the apartment and started to leave; she looked at him and took a step, and from that moment he no longer resisted, no longer had another self, a professional self, to stop him.

  He’d had occasion to use sex as a weapon, or, more accurately, as a means to an end several times in his career. This wasn’t like that. It was considerably more dangerous. It was real.

  He slipped into bed with her, moving quietly, softly. Then his hunger grew. Making love, it became insatiable.

  He fell asleep with Sorina in his arms, his last thought that he had crossed a line that should never be crossed.