Текст книги "Black Wolf"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Music was playing in the back; it was an Italian version of hip-hop, an odd blend of rhythms. Nuri slipped down to the bottom of the wall and peeked around. There were two or three girls in the pool, splashing each other and drinking out of champagne glasses. A man, presumably Moreno, was floating on a raft, his back to Nuri.

Let’s go, Nuri told himself. Get it on.

He moved back to the French door and tried pulling it open. It was locked. A thin shiv took care of the simple latch, and it gave way easily. He slipped in behind the light curtains, walking into the mafioso’s lair.

He got three feet when he heard the dog coming.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Nobody told me about dogs.”

11

Chisinau, Moldova

The thirst was overwhelming. His whole body ached. His hands shook. He curled his fingers into a fist and put them under his legs. He tightened his stare at the woman at the desk across from his chair near the door to the examining rooms and offices inside.

The drugs. He needed the drugs.

The clinic waiting room was nearly full. He willed the other patients away. The doctor had to see him now.

Now!

An intercom buzzed at the desk.

“Mrs. Gestau?” said the receptionist, looking down the list of patients. “Dr. Nudstrumov will see you now.”

A middle-aged woman sitting near him got up. She walked as close to the opposite wall as possible, clearly sensing his displeasure that she had been called ahead of him.

He waited a few more seconds. They seemed like hours. He had to do something. He leaned forward—then got up, practically rolling into motion.

“When am I going in?” he said to the woman at the desk.

“The doctor is very busy today. But I’m sure as soon as—”

He didn’t need to hear the rest. He stepped to his left and pushed through the door. The hallway seemed darker than normal, the walls closer together. Very close—they seemed to push against his shoulders as he strode toward the doctor’s office at the end of the hall.

“Wait!” the receptionist called behind him. “Wait—you can’t just barge in here. Wait!”

Her voice fell back into a deep pit far behind him. He stopped at the first examining room, threw open the door. A man in his sixties sat on the examining table in his underwear, feet dangling off the side.

The doctor wasn’t there. He turned and walked to the next room.

“Stop!” said a nurse. “What are you doing?”

“It’s OK,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, appearing at the end of the hall. “I was just going to send for Herr Schmidt.”

“The examining rooms are full,” said the receptionist.

“Herr Schmidt and I can use my office.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Herr Schmidt, please,” said the doctor, extending his arm. “So good to see you today.”

He walked into the office. Without waiting for an invitation, he pulled off his shirt.

“You’re shaking,” said the doctor, closing the door behind him. “It’s getting worse.”

“Give it to me,” he said tightly.

“A year ago you only needed the shots every six months. Now it is every six weeks.”

“I don’t care to hear my entire medical history.”

“I suppose not.”

The doctor took a stethoscope from the pocket of his lab coat. The coat seemed almost gray, though he knew that the doctor habitually wore them bright and freshly starched.

“My heart is fine.”

“I’m listening to your lungs,” said Dr. Nudstrumov, an edge creeping into his voice. He was in his sixties, short and bald. He’d gained a considerable amount of weight in the decade and a half since they had known each other, to the point that he was now fat, rather than skinny.

But that was the least of the changes. He’d gone through several different names, so many that even the Black Wolf didn’t know which was real. He even used “corporate” names—common aliases that were supposed to belong only to the Wolves.

“Breathe, please.”

He took a deep breath and held it.

“Again… one more time.”

“Enough with the damn breathing!” he yelled, slapping the doctor’s stethoscope away. “Give me the shots!”

The doctor stepped back, surprised, frightened.

Where did the bastard keep the drugs? He could get them himself.

He needed the serum, and the pills. The pills were for every day; the injections lasted longer.

There were other doctors who would supply him; he knew there were. It was only because of the perverse machinations of the Directors that he had to come to Nudstrumov.

A reminder of who was in control. As if he needed one.

Dr. Nudstrumov stepped over to his desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. He placed a metal case on the top of his desk and opened it. There were three hypodermic needles inside.

“Roll up your sleeve, please,” he said, taking one of the needles.

There was a knock on the door.

“Everything is fine,” said the doctor. “Please see to the patients.”

“Doctor?” said one of the nurses.

“It’s fine. Please see to the patients.”

The doctor took a small antiseptic wipe and cleaned a spot on his arm. A second later the long, thick needle plunged through his skin.

Warmth began spreading through his body immediately. By the time the third shot had been administered, he was back to his old self.

Not his old, old self, whatever that was. Back to what passed for normal now.

The doctor said nothing for a few minutes, returning the needles to the box, then tossing his gloves into a waste can at the side of the room.

“Do you think about the changes?” the doctor asked, sitting down.

“I don’t think at all.”

“The progression. It’s a downward slope. There’s going to come a point…”

Dr. Nudstrumov’s voice trailed off. He stared at the man he knew by many names, though he called him only Herr Schmidt.

“Do you shake when you take the pills?” the doctor asked finally.

“They have no effect.”

“I’m going to give you something to calm the shakes, and the pain.” Dr. Nudstrumov pulled over his prescription pad. “It’s not—it won’t have the effect on your metabolism that the shots have. It won’t restore you. But when you feel things getting bad, you can have some relief. It’s a sedative. You should be careful driving.”

He took the prescription without comment.

“I remember that first week,” said the doctor, his voice tinged with nostalgia and pride. “How we had to fight to keep you alive.”

“I don’t appreciate your sentimentality,” said the Black Wolf, rising and striding toward the door.

12

Fuggire, Italy

Nuri had barely enough time to pull out the mace as the dog charged into the room, saliva lathering from its mouth. His fingers were misaligned and much of the spray shot sideways. The dog’s teeth clamped around his left arm.

Nuri sprayed again, then smacked the dog in the snout. The animal let go, howling.

Off balance, he grabbed at the animal and fell to the side, tumbling against an upholstered chair. He reached into the fanny pack for one of the syringes. The dog tried to push itself away, snarling and shaking its head, crying, disoriented, and hurting at the same time.

It was a large mastiff. More pet than watchdog, it lacked a true killer’s instinct—fortunately for him. He grabbed a syringe, pulled the plastic guard off with his teeth and plunged the needle into the animal’s rump.

It whimpered, then crumpled over on its side.

Nuri swung his legs under him and grabbed for his pistol, sure the commotion would bring one of the mafia don’s guards in any second. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat.

He heard something squeaking behind him. He spun quickly before realizing the noise was coming from the earphone, which had fallen out.

No one was coming, or if they were, they were taking their time.

“What’s going on?” hissed Flash.

“I’m OK,” said Nuri.

“What happened? I heard you grunting.”

“There was a dog.”

“MY-PID didn’t say anything about it.”

“Are you looking at the image?”

“This screen is so small—I can see it now.”

“Tell the computer it has to scan for dogs—for anything living,” said Nuri, realizing he’d been too precise when he gave it the earlier instructions. “It’s only looking for people.”

“Shit.”

Nuri looked down. As powerful as the gear aboard the Reaper was, it had its limits.

This was why you always got someone else to do the dirty work, he reminded himself. He got down on his hands and knees, searching for the cap to the syringe. He found it under a marble table. He stuffed it back into his fanny pack, then pulled the dog under the table.

The scent of mace was pretty heavy on the animal, and undoubtedly in the room. There was nothing he could do about it now, he told himself.

Change your plan. Grab the computer and get the hell out. Now!

Nuri got to his feet and walked quickly to the door, pausing near the opening. The music was loud enough to vibrate the floor slightly—a good thing, he thought, slipping down the hall.

The hall led to an outside patio above the pool. Along the way there were two rooms on the right; the office was farther down on the left.

Neither of the doors on the right were closed. Nuri leaned in, glancing around. Both were richly furnished bedrooms. No computers, no people, and most importantly, no dogs.

The office was on the left. The door was locked.

A good sign, he thought.

Until Flash warned him that someone was coming from the pool toward the door.

He slipped back to the first open room on the right, just ducking out of the way as the outside door opened. It was one of the girls; he heard her humming to herself as she walked past him down the hall.

“Coast is clear,” said Flash.

Nuri started out of the room, then stopped as he heard the humming get louder. He slipped back, waiting for the girl to pass. She seemed to take forever, changing her song three times before finally coming past.

He waited another two or three minutes before easing toward the door again. Once more he had to stop mid stride as MY-PID alerted him that another girl was coming in. He stepped back against the wall a few feet from the threshold, holding his breath until she passed—then holding it again as she came back and went outside.

The long day had started to wear on him. He crossed the corridor, mentally cursing everyone—the Italians, the bureaucracy, Gregor, Moreno, even himself. Damned if he wouldn’t have been better just shooting his stinking way inside the compound. The hell with the goddamn Italians and their corrupt justice system, the hell with Reid telling him to work with the FBI, the hell with everything and everybody.

The office lock was easily manipulated with his small pick and spring. He opened the door and slipped inside, ducking down to avoid the window, which was visible from the pool area.

A leather couch divided the room roughly in half. A desk sat on the opposite side, at the very back of the house. Filing cabinets lined the left wall of the office; an open bottle of wine sat on a small bar next to the window on the far side.

A computer screen sat on a low table to the right of the desk. It was attached to an HP computer below the table.

Nuri crawled over on his hands and knees. When he reached the computer, he took out the USB thumb drive with the virus program and pulled the machine out to locate the USB port. He plugged it in, then turned the power on.

If Moreno found the dog drugged, he’d realize there was a break-in. At that point he would most likely assume the office and computers were bugged and tear them apart. Most experts would miss the virus that he was installing, but there was a chance they wouldn’t. And besides, Moreno might easily decide to take no chances and simply trash the entire computer.

Which meant he would have to start the upload now.

He got back on his hands and knees and looked for the phone line, aiming to tap in and avoid Moreno’s router, which could slow down the transfer. He found the line, and realized the office was wired with an optical line—something he hadn’t expected, but not a problem. He found the small connection box and went to work, carefully unscrewing the cover and pulling the jack out to expose the wiring. He hooked his own in, then ran it up to the computer’s Ethernet port.

A cursor blinked steadily on the screen. Nuri tapped the six digit access code and the rogue program went to work, flexing the computer’s hard drive at a few hundred megabytes a minute.

He considered the dog problem while the hard drive churned. If he could make it look as if the dog had been poisoned, then the mess in the other room and the dog’s sleeping would seem natural.

Not poisoned, but inebriated.

The bottle of wine. The smell might dissipate the scent of the mace as well.

Nuri glanced at the computer screen. The virus needed another twelve minutes to finish.

He went over and grabbed the wine. The bottle was only about a quarter full, but that would do; the dog was already drugged, after all.

Crouching down next to the desk, watching the computer count down, his anger dissipated. He held the bottle of wine to his nose. It was earthy, a fresh red—probably grown and bottled right here.

Nuri felt himself relaxing, just a little. Things were going well. He’d been right about the mafia don letting his guard down. The party complicated things, but only barely. And the dog—the dog was a chance to show his ingenuity.

The computer beeped. The program was done, and sooner than he’d expected.

Leaning to his right over the desk, Nuri looked through the window toward the pool. Moreno was still floating in the middle of the water, a girl hanging on either side of him.

Not a bad life, Nuri thought. Smuggle some dope into the country from time to time, hire international killers to avenge your grandfather, then float the nights away drinking wine and getting laid.

Nuri pulled over the keyboard and typed a new set of letters and numbers: stndby334*.* The hard drive churned again, implanting the virus deep into the operating system. It would send out fresh information each time the computer was booted. Assuming, of course, that Moreno didn’t realize he’d been bugged.

Curious about what had been uploaded, Nuri followed the command with one for a listing of programs on the hard drive. There were dozens, including a shareware encryption program that he had encountered before. He paged through to the e-mail program and fired it up. It wasn’t even protected with a password.

Then again, how many home computer e-mails were?

Nuri flipped through the most recent bunch. They seemed to concern business, but the details were vague—a ship that would leave port, an airplane flight number, nothing of immediate help. There was also a surprising amount of spam—ads for working at home, better erection pills, and invitations to join dating services.

Spam? Or messages disguised as spam? MY-PID would have to sort it all out.

Nuri closed the program and looked at the Internet cache, examining the list of recent sites Moreno had surveyed. For a guy who could pay for whatever real pleasures he wanted, Moreno sure liked his porn. The cache was filled with images.

“How’s it going?” asked Flash.

“Almost done.”

He paged through, looking for bank account screens. He didn’t see any. But he did find a range of search queries on banks and post offices in Moldova.

Did Moreno have business there?

If so, it wasn’t obvious. The pages left in the queue looked almost random, as if Moreno had been thinking about visiting and was just looking for information.

“Guards are moving around in the little building,” warned Flash. “I think we’re up against a shift change.”

Nuri flipped off the computer. He resisted the impulse to look inside the desk or file cabinets and began crouch-walking toward the door.

He was three-fourths of the way there when he realized he’d forgotten the wine bottle. As he went back for it, he looked through the window and saw one of the girls pulling herself out of the pool.

She wasn’t wearing a top.

She was also heading for the house, as Flash warned a few moments later.

He scooped up the wine bottle and went back to the door to wait for her to pass. But instead of going up the hall as the other girls had, she stopped at the office door and tried the knob.

“Fredo, Fredo,” she called. “La porta—the door is locked.”

She tried the door again.

“MY-PID, locate Alfredo Moreno,” said Nuri.

“Subject is in the pool.”

“Tell me if he moves.”

“Subject is swimming to the western side of the pool.”

Shit.

Nuri reached over to the lock and undid it.

Try it again, he willed the woman outside. But she didn’t.

“Subject is approaching the house,” said MY-PID.

Nuri took out his pistol. The hell with subtlety. He’d just shoot the damn son of a bitch and be done with it all.

“Nuri?” whispered Flash.

“Stand by,” whispered Nuri.

“C’e cosa?” said Moreno, coming into the hallway. The music was blaring behind him. What’s wrong?

“I want more wine,” said the woman.

“You’ve had enough I’m sure.”

“Don’t be a prude.”

Nuri raised the gun. He heard a loud slap outside the door.

Then the woman laughed. Moreno laughed. The woman giggled.

The door opened. Nuri stood against the wall, holding his breath as the pair came into the room. He could smell the chlorine fresh on their bodies.

They went straight for the couch, tumbling over the back.

The girl giggled. Moreno told her that she was beautiful and needed to be made love to. She asked for more wine. He told her first he would fill her up with something more intoxicating. He pulled off her bikini bottom and went to work.

Gun pointed in their direction, Nuri squeezed out from behind the door and backed into the hallway.

The dog was snoring beneath the table where he’d left him. It jerked upward as he poured the wine over its muzzle, but then slipped back down to sleep.

He paused when he reached the French door to leave.

Wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favor going back and plugging the son of a bitch and his whore?

Maybe not the woman, but definitely the mafioso. Who the hell would care?

Only Reid, really. Maybe not even him. The Italians certainly wouldn’t raise a fuss.

The dog stirred.

Time to go, Nuri told himself, and he slipped outside.

13

Washington, D.C.

Zen and Breanna Stockard were one of Washington’s power couples, and while few people would literally trade places with them—Zen, after all, had spent two decades in a wheelchair—they were still envied by many, not least of all because they seemed to have an excellent, even perfect marriage. They supported each other’s careers and worked together to take care of their daughter Teri. While they were only sporadically seen on the political cocktail-dinner circuit, they did get around—Zen had box seats for the Nationals, and Breanna’s position on the board of directors of the Washington Modern Dance Company meant they often attended shows there.

Not a few of which Zen was reputed to sleep through, though no videos of him snoring had yet been posted on the Internet.

But even so-called power couples still took out the garbage: a task Zen assigned himself tonight while Breanna was working on homework with their daughter. Teri’s English Language Arts class was studying Shakespeare, specifically The Merchant of Venice. The language had been scaled back and the theme watered down to make it appropriate for third graders, but it was still an ambitious project.

Teri had won the role of Portia. Two other girls were sharing the part, and to really shine, she needed a judge’s costume to die for. Breanna had many talents, but sewing wasn’t one of them. Still, she was giving it a good try, and not cursing too much, at least not loud enough for her daughter to hear.

Zen wheeled himself outside with the garbage. He loved his daughter dearly, but there were plenty of times when he wished he had a son as well. He could have made a cool sword for Basanio.

Zen wrestled with the plastic top of the can. It never seemed to want to unlatch when he needed it to. That would be an asset, undoubtedly, in a rural area where there were raccoons or even bears prowling for midnight snacks, but in the wilds of the Washington suburbs, it was more than a little annoying. When he finally got it open, he felt as if it was yet another triumph on the day—nearly on par with the passage of his legislation.

Breanna was waiting in the kitchen when he returned.

“How now, fair queen?” Zen asked. “How goeth the princess?”

“The princess is off to bed, awaiting your kiss.”

“Her costume is done?”

“Such as it is.”

“You know we could—”

“Zen, we are not going to hire a seamstress to make it.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” said Zen. He was fudging: he’d been thinking of Anthony, his tailor.

“You spoil her,” added Breanna.

“That’s my job,” said Zen, rolling down the hall to Teri’s bedroom.

Most senators had two homes, one near Washington, D.C., and one back in their home state. Since he represented Virginia, Zen was lucky enough to need only one—though he saw the value in a ready excuse to leave town.

“Hey, Portia, you done for the night?” he asked his daughter as he rolled into her room.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured. “It’s a good uniform.”

“I think they call them judges’ robes.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever,” he mimicked, bending over and kissing her. “Say your prayers?”

“Uh-huh.”

“See you in the morning, all right?”

Her head popped up as he started to roll himself backward.

“Are you taking me to school?”

“Don’t I always?”

“Sometimes Mom does.”

“Sometimes Mom does. Not tomorrow.”

“Can we do my lines in the car?”

“You haven’t memorized them already?”

“I need practice.”

“We’ll practice. Sleep now.”

Breanna took the bottle of champagne out from the bottom of the refrigerator and got two glasses down from the cupboard. It had been a while since they used them, and they were covered with dust.

She ran them under the water in the sink to clean them. They’d gotten them for their wedding, but now she wasn’t sure who’d given them.

“Champagne?” said Zen, startling her.

The glass slipped from her hand and fell on the floor, shattering.

“Damn,” muttered Breanna.

“You OK?” Zen asked.

“Oh, I’m fine.”

She picked up the stem and the largest fragment, dropping them into the garbage bin.

“What are we celebrating?”

“Your law,” she said, going for the broom. “Today’s vote.”

“It’s not a law yet. Still a bill.”

“It will be a law. It should be a law.”

“Tell that to the President.”

“I will.”

“I think she’ll sign it. Hell, I’m going to Kiev for her.”

“Kiev?”

“Well, not really for her. Did I tell you—Al Osten had a heart attack.”

“Senator Osten?”

“Yeah, he’s OK. They got him to the hospital in time, thank God.” Zen swung around to the cabinet and got out another glass. “He was supposed to go to the NATO meeting next week in Ukraine. I’m going to pinch hit for him. I called him at the hospital to see how he was doing—you know that’s all he wanted to talk about? He wanted to go himself.”

Breanna felt something stick in her throat. She swept up the fragments of broken glass and dumped them into the garbage. By the time she put the broom and dustpan away, Zen had poured them both some champagne.

“You’ve got a juice glass,” she told him as he handed her the flute.

“Can’t reach the fancy stuff. Tastes the same. Here’s to us.”

“To your bill.”

They clicked glasses, then each took a small sip.

“Not bad,” said Zen.

“Why are you going to the NATO meeting?” asked Breanna.

“Your President needs someone she can count on.”

“That’s you?”

“Not really. But Tompkins can’t go. She sure can’t send someone from the other party. And we need someone important there. So that leaves me. I suggested it,” he added, shrugging.

“Jeff—there have been threats.”

“Yeah, I know, Bree. There’s always threats. The security people will do a good job.”

Breanna took another sip of the champagne, a deeper one this time. She had thought the days of worrying about her husband were long over.

“I don’t…” she started.

The words died on her lips. What was she going to say? She didn’t want him to go? But she couldn’t prevent him.

“There are always intelligence reports about people who want to break these things up,” said Zen. “Remember last year, the OPEC meeting? The CIA was convinced there was going to be a bomb attack. Nothing happened. Nada.”

“I know.”

“Come on. Let’s go sit inside. Bring the bottle.”

Breanna watched as Zen carefully positioned his glass between his useless legs and wheeled himself toward the living room. How much different would their lives have been if the experimental operations had been a success? she wondered.

How much different if he’d never had the accident?

Breanna sat in the green chair opposite the fireplace, wondering how much to say. Zen turned on the music, sliding the volume low to make sure they didn’t wake Teri. He fiddled with the control screen, bringing up a play list of jazz that included most of her favorites.

“I don’t want you to go,” she said when he turned back around. “I want you to stay home.”

“I’m sorry, babe. It’s too late for that.” Zen took a sip of his champagne. His casual smile was gone now; he looked as serious as if they were back at Dreamland, outlining a mission. “What’s up?”

“I think it’s dangerous.”

“Something else is bothering you. Something big.”

She’d never been able to keep secrets from him. Breanna drained her glass, then reached for the bottle.

“The intelligence is very good,” she told him. “The Russians want the meeting disrupted.”

“So? They going to bomb it?”

“We believe they hired a group of assassins to disrupt it. They’re pretty nasty folks. The idea would be to kill some of the ministers, and make it look like a terrorist attack. Or simply to stop the meeting from taking place.”

“Hired assassins?”

“It’s a group called the Wolves. Have you heard of them?”

“No. Should I have?”

“Not necessarily. Whiplash is involved.”

“Oh, really. Why wasn’t the oversight committee notified?”

“No action was endorsed. This is being undertaken as part of a joint task force project lead by the CIA. There’s an NSC finding.”

“A thin white sheet of paper to cover everyone’s behind.”

“Are we talking as husband and wife, or senator and Tech Office head?”

“Both. What’s Whiplash’s involvement? You’re providing security?”

“Not necessarily, Jeff. Don’t ask me.”

“Don’t ask you?”

“I have to draw the line.” Breanna got up.

“Whoa, whoa, what do you mean, you have to draw the line? Wait just a second there, Bree.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said defensively, even though she had started for the kitchen.

“Tell me about what you’re doing,” demanded Zen.

“I can’t, Jeff. You know that. There’s a line.”

Zen took one of his exaggerated, I’m-holding-everything-in deep breaths.

Breanna hated when he did that.

“You’re not talking to a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee,” he said finally. “You’re talking to your husband.”

She remained silent.

“All right, so the Wolves are assassins,” said Zen. “Why should I be more afraid of them than run-of-the-mill Russian spies?”

“You shouldn’t,” she said.

“Good.”

Zen took another sip of his champagne, a bigger one this time.

“Should I be worried?” he asked.

“I don’t think you should go.”

“Because of the Wolves.”

“Just because. Just because.”

Zen let it rest for a while, drinking silently. But he knew there was more to her concern—Breanna didn’t worry easily. She’d show concern over his missions back when he was in the service, but she didn’t show outright fear.

She’d never, ever, told him not to do something.

He brooded on it through another glass of champagne. How far should he press? And was he pressing as a matter of national security or as a concerned husband?

Both.

“Well, I don’t want you to break the law on secrecy,” Zen told her after he refilled both of their glasses. “But you can’t just let that hang out there and not expect me to ignore it.”

“You should ignore it.”

“What’s bothering you, Bree?”

“Jeff—there’s more to the Wolves than I can go into right now.”

“More than I can get in a security briefing?”

“I’m sure you can get a full briefing if you go through channels. You’re on the intelligence committee.”

“How full will the briefing be?”

“Oh, Jeff.”

It stayed there, simmering for the next half hour. Breanna felt the pressure building inside.

She couldn’t keep a secret like this from her husband. Not now. Not under these circumstances.

And yet she felt as if she had to.

If he hauled her before his committee, what then?

That would be silly and petty. Ridiculous.

The bottle of champagne was empty. It was still early, but she decided she would get ready for bed.

Zen caught her arm as she rose.

“Hey,” he said. “What?”

“Jeff…”

She had to tell him.

“This is between you and me, do you understand?” she asked. “Husband and wife—not senator.”

“Go ahead.”

“We think they’re enhanced.”

“Huh?”

“Biologically enhanced,” said Breanna. “Using drugs and implants. We have scattered evidence, but nothing solid. We think they’ve been operated on, and given drugs, and different biomechanics.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. Reid has pieced together a lot of different strands of intelligence.”

“And all that makes them, what? Superhuman?”

“I don’t know,” said Breanna. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. That’s our mission.”

“These are the people who are going to attack at Kiev?”

“We think so, yes.”

“You’re not going to let them, are you?” Zen asked.

“No. Not at all. Not if we can help it.”

“That’s it?” Zen asked.

“No. No. We think we know who one of the assassins is.”

“Does that matter?”

“It should. It’s Mark Stoner.”

Zen felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

“Stoner?” he said finally. “The Mark Stoner?”

“Yes.”

“The CIA officer who worked with us.”

She nodded.

“He died,” said Zen.

“Maybe not.”

“The hell he didn’t. I was on that mission, Bree. I remember—my Flighthawks—I couldn’t get there in time. We weren’t supposed to cross the border. Stoner’s helicopter went into the swamp.”

“His body was never recovered,” she told him.

“There’s no way he could have lived. What? They rebuilt him?”

“Something like that, maybe. We don’t know.”

“Shit. No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too—it’s like science fiction. A crash like that—there were bodies recovered,” he said, remembering. “There were definitely bodies.”

“Not his.”

“You can’t rebuild a human being. Look at my legs. They’re still useless. All those experiments—”

“Those just didn’t work. Maybe the experiments with him did.”

“No.” Zen shook his head. He simply didn’t believe it.