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 regis-tered 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 un-tangled.

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.

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“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 Lo-casta.

“I’m not very hungry this afternoon.”

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“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.

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.

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“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.”

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“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.”