From the looks of things, Danny guessed that the buildings had been requisitioned from their owner or owners fairly recently. The walls of both were covered with rectangles of lighter-colored paint, presumably the spots where photos or paintings had hung. The furniture, old but sturdy, bore the marks of generations of wear. The uneven surface of the wooden dining room table had scrapes and scuff marks at each place setting, and the sideboard was topped by a trio of yellowed doilies, used by the troops as trivets for the serving plates.
Dinner included a helping of local beer for each man. The tall glass of golden pilsner was not enough to get anyone drunk, but it did add a pleasant glow as the plates were cleared. Danny, Boston, the platoon lieutenant, and the NCOs retreated to a nearby room to talk over plans for the next few days. Danny intended to stay with the unit for another day at least, so he could get a feel for how it operated in the field.
At that point, he’d leave Boston to complete the training and move to the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters, where he would set up a temporary school. The most promising men from this unit would accompany him as assistant instructors. He hadn’t worked out all the details yet, but he thought he would send Boston to some of the units in the field to judge how the training was actually working.
Some of the younger men spoke very good English, and when their lieutenant excused himself to take a phone call, REVOLUTION
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Danny asked them to describe where they’d grown up and what their childhoods were like. Most came from small rural villages in the southwest. To them, this part of Romania was almost a different country, more closely associated with neighboring Moldova than Romania.
Before they could explain the reason, Lieutenant Roma returned, his face grim.
“There has been a sighting of a guerrilla force three kilometers from here,” he said. “Muster the men.”
Bucharest, Romania
1900
STONER REALIZED HE HAD MADE A MISTAKE SPEAKING OF
revenge to Sorina as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. All he could do was brood about it, replaying the conversation in his mind as he struggled to find the key to her cooperation.
Sorina Viorica wasn’t motivated by revenge, nor by money, the two most likely motivations for a spy. She wanted justice, though her sense of it was distorted. She could rail about a woman starving to death in the streets, but not do anything practical about it, like sharing her sandwich.
She’d railed against her movement, now taken over—in her eyes, at least—by the Russians and fools. But was that enough to make her betray them? Because it was betrayal, as she had said.
Certainly as long as she thought of the movement as a just one, she would not move further against it.
The Russians were a different story. But her knowledge of them was limited. Or at least, what she thought she knew was limited.
Stoner spent the day trying to flesh out the tiny tidbits she had given him, running down information on the Russians and their network in the country. The military attaché, like 156
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
all military attachés, was suspected of being a spymaster. He had worked in Georgia, the former Soviet Republic, possibly encouraging the opposition forces there before coming to Romania eight months before.
Right before the first CIA officer’s death.
A coincidence?
Stoner spent the afternoon with a man who claimed to be the only witness to one of the deaths, a town police chief who had just moved to the capital and claimed to fear for his life. The police chief had been down the street when the car bomb that killed the CIA officer exploded. The American was on his way to meet him to learn about the guerrillas, and the chief was filled with guilt, thinking the bomb had been meant for him. According to the chief, there was no doubt that the guerrillas had planted it. Despite gentle probing by Stoner, he never mentioned the Russians, and when Stoner brought them up directly, the chief seemed to think it was a ridiculous idea.
After the interview, Stoner returned to the embassy. He’d asked for access to NSA taps on Russian communications from the country. This was not a routine request, but the nature of Stoner’s business here facilitated matters. One of the desk people back at Langley had been assigned to help review the information. She’d forwarded some of the most promising intercepts, starting with a year ago. Paging through them, Stoner realized there was little direct evidence of anything. What was interesting was the fact that the number of communications had increased sharply after the new attaché
arrived.
Not a smoking gun. Just a point of interest.
There was still considerable information to sort through.
Stoner decided to leave it to his assistant in Langley. He emerged from the secure communications room as perplexed as ever, sure that whatever was going on lay just beyond his ability to grasp it.
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* * *
IT WAS ALREADY DARK, HOURS LATER THAN HE HAD THOUGHT.
He caught a ride over to the center of town, then took a cab to his hotel, checking along the way to make sure he hadn’t picked up a tail.
Coming into his hotel room, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror opposite the door. His eyelids were stooped over, making his whole face sag. He needed to sleep.
First, a shave and a shower.
Though the room was one of a block that the Agency had under constant surveillance, he checked for bugs. Satisfied that it was clean, he went into the bathroom and started the shower. Hot steam billowing around him, he lathered up and began to shave.
He was about halfway through when his sat phone rang.
“Stoner,” he said, answering it.
“What are you doing for dinner?”
It was Sorina Viorica.
“I don’t know,” he told her. “What do you suggest?”
“You could meet me. There’s a good restaurant I know. It’s near the Bibloteque Antique.”
“Sure,” he said.
“IT IS NOT SO EASY TO TELL YOU WHERE THEY ARE,” SORINA Viorica told him as they waited for their dinners. “You will kill them. Not you, but the army.”
There was no sense lying to her. Stoner didn’t answer.
“They were once good people. Now … ” She shook her head. “War changed everything.”
“Maybe you don’t need to be at war. Maybe you have more in common with this government than you think. It’s a democracy.”
“In name only.”
“In more than name.”
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She drank her wine. The short hair sharpened her features. She was pretty—he’d known that from the moment he saw her, but here in the soft light of the small restaurant, he realized it again. She’d gone out and gotten herself some clothes—obviously she had money stashed away, wasn’t as poor as he’d thought. She wore a top that gave a peek at her cleavage, showing just a glimpse of her breasts. When they left the restaurant, he noticed how the red skirt she wore emphasized the shape of her hips.
They went near the Sutu Palace, once the home of kings, now a historical museum. It was a cold night and they had the street to themselves. Except for the bright lights that flooded the pavement, they could have been in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, royal visitors come to see the prince.
They walked in silence for a while. He knew she was thinking about what to do, how far to go with it. Eventually, he thought, she’d cooperate. She’d tell him everything she knew about the guerrilla operations.
But maybe none of it would help him fulfill his mission.
“So you come back to Bucharest often?” he asked.
“Not in two years.”
“You seem to know your way around.”