“I know someone who owns a restaurant in that row of buildings there,” McEwen told him, pointing to a row of one-story storefronts. “It’s not a very popular place, which is a positive for us. We could probably use their back room. For a price, of course.”

“You trust them?” asked Danny.

“To an extent. Never trust anyone, Colonel. Not with your life.”

McEwen took them over, parking along the street about a block away. Danny saw instantly why she liked the area—it had a view of the museum’s entrance, but seemed somehow invisible to it, or at least to the tourists who were mostly arriving by bus. There were four other storefronts; two were empty, and the other belonged to a tailor whom McEwen said only worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

It was just about dinnertime, but the restaurant had only two customers—a young man and woman with backpacks—who sat at a table next to the large plate-glass window in the front. They were staring at the menu as Danny and the others passed outside, talking in whispered tones as they came in.

If the place had ever had a heyday, this wasn’t it. The tables and chairs were made of wood and looked to be about thirty or forty years old, their finish worn down by use, though the thick legs looked and felt sturdy enough. The walls were painted a yellow that had probably been bright when fresh but was now a kind of dull backdrop to the assorted paintings of Kiev that hung across them in a straight line, almost frame-to-frame, on both sides of the room. The paintings were in a variety of styles, by different artists, but were all the same size. They showed different landmarks in the city, along with a few from the countryside.

A waitress came out of the back. Dressed in a light blue skirt with a checkered blue and white blouse, she was twelve or thirteen, just at the age between child and young woman. About five-two, a little chubby, and nearsighted, she squinted when she saw them, pushing her head forward on her neck as if she were a gopher coming out of her hole.

Then she squealed.

“Sal!” she said, rushing toward them. “How are you?”

McEwen folded her arms around the girl. She said something in Ukrainian. The girl replied, then stepping back, said in English that she must only speak English.

“My English has became bad since I haven’t saw you,” said the girl. “I have to practice.”

“Of course we’ll practice,” said McEwen. “These are my friends,” she added, gesturing toward Danny and Hera. “Can we get something to eat?”

“Of course. Wait—mama is in the back.”

“Sit,” McEwen told Danny and Hera. She pulled out a chair, but instead of sitting, went over to the young couple in the front of the room. Danny watched as she asked them, in English, if they were having trouble with the menu, which was in Ukrainian. By the time the cook emerged from the back, she had made several recommendations and told them how to pronounce what they wanted.

The cook was a slightly larger version of the waitress. Her large red cheeks were puffed with a smile. She had flour on her forearms and just a daub of it in her hair. Her white apron, which was pulled so tight against her body it looked as if it would burst, was spotless.

“Sal, Sal, so long we’ve not seen you!” she said.

They embraced.

McEwen introduced them. The cook was the owner; her name sounded like “Nezalehno” to Danny. She promised to fix them a nice dinner, then disappeared with the waitress into the back.

“You’re everybody’s friend,” said Danny.

“That’s my job,” answered McEwen. “Or it was.”

“Can we trust them?”

“I keep telling you—we don’t trust anyone. Not completely. But yes, to the extent we trust anyone.” She lowered her voice. “Her husband died shortly after Kira was born. Kira’s our waitress. She’s the youngest of eight children.”

“Eight?”

“They all worked here, at one time or another,” said McEwen before continuing her explanation. “The father was killed in an auto accident with a man who turned out to be a Russian army major in the city on unofficial business. He seems to have been drunk at the time. It wasn’t clear exactly what he was doing, but the end result was that he went back to Russia, and no compensation was paid to the widow. There was no trial, of course. So, Nexi and her family don’t particularly like Russians.”

“And they need money,” said Danny.

“You’re catching on, Colonel. But they’re nice people besides. If I could pick someone to help, and who could help me—Nez would be a perfect fit.”

“Are some of those yours?” Hera asked, pointing to the paintings.

“The one all the way to the right, over there,” said McEwen, beaming.

“You had a lot of time to paint when you were here?” asked Danny.

“It was part of the job,” said McEwen. “A way to meet different people, to circulate. It makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it, Colonel?”

“Painting?”

“It doesn’t fit with your stereotype of what a spy does. And I don’t look like one. That’s what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice just loud enough for Danny to hear. “People get certain notions in their head, and they operate on them without really examining them. They feel a certain way about something before they even have a chance to experience it or see it. And that preconception colors everything. So you don’t think that an old lady who paints—paints!—could possibly be gathering intelligence, persuading people to betray their country, or at least help another one. Right?”

“I guess.”

“Who better to be a spy?”

After they ate, Danny had McEwen take them around to different hotels where she thought the Wolves might stay if they needed to rent rooms. The hotels were third and fourth tier establishments, places Ukrainians on a budget or small businessmen paying their own way might stay. The staffs, while friendly, spoke limited English. Asking about a concierge would have made them laugh. There were dozens of such places in the city, and keeping them under complete surveillance would have been impossible, even with MY-PID’s help.

“We could plant a video bug near each entrance,” suggested Hera. “That would give us at least some idea of who’s going in and out.”

“That might work,” said Danny.

“If you don’t mind my saying, Colonel, I’m not sure video surveillance would be anything more than a shot in the dark,” said McEwen. “And it could even work against us.”

“Against us how?”

“We can’t possibly cover every place. They could stay outside of the city just as easily as in. Putting the video bugs in might give us a false sense of security—we’d focus on those sights.”

“Good point,” said Danny.

“I’m not suggesting we ignore them entirely, but if we have limited resources…”

“Where would we put the bugs?”

“The airport for starters. Train station. Obviously the area around the fort. If we have bugs left over, then we can think about the hotels. If I was planning some sort of action here,” McEwen continued, “then I would be casing the area. That’s the person we should look for. The team that would do the assassination wouldn’t be here yet.”

“When would they come?”

“Not until the day before. Maybe not even until that day. Unless there was a reason for it.”

Danny nodded. He wasn’t comfortable with the espionage aspects of the mission. Covert action tended to be relatively straightforward, even when extremely difficult—here’s the target, hit it. This was considerably more nebulous—find assassins whom no one knows, stop them from killing anyone, and then apprehend them.

This wasn’t a classic Whiplash mission, he thought.

Then again, what was the classic Whiplash mission? He was thinking about the old days, when everything seemed more straightforward. This was the new Whiplash, in a much more complicated world. Alliances shifted every day, technology improved seemingly by the second.