Danny tightened his seat belt for the landing. After so many years in military jets, the smooth, unhurried descent felt almost like a car ride. He waited as the plane left the runway for the taxi strip, then got up and grabbed his things as soon as he could see the small terminal in the window. He was the first one off, practically running for the open terminal door.

Relax, he told himself. Slow down. Nothing was going to be gained by haste.

The white-haired customs agent who checked his passport was impressed that he was an American. His English, though heavily accented, was very good.

“You’re here on business?” said the man.

“I have some appointments,” Danny told him.

“This is very good—you will like Moldova. A very good climate for making money. I studied in U.S. of A. myself.”

“Really?” said Danny.

“Nineteen seventy,” said the man proudly. “Amherst. But I returned. We always return to our home.”

“True.”

“A good place for business,” said the man, handing his passport back.

“Maybe you should open a business yourself,” suggested Danny.

“Too much to do,” said the man. He looked down at the floor, as if lamenting decisions he had made long ago. But then he immediately brightened. “Good luck to you.”

“Thanks,” said Danny.

Danny’s ostensible goal in Moldova was to visit the Russian bank branch in Chisinau, where he would plant some bugs and attempt to gather more information about accounts associated with the Wolves. But he also intended to check out the crash site. And to do that, he had to head north to Balti. He decided he’d get that out of the way first; not only was MY-PID still pulling together information on possible connections to the account, but Nuri and Flash were due to arrive in the morning; they could bug the banks as easily as he could.

Balti was something he preferred doing on his own.

His flight to Balti in the north, barely eighty miles by air, was in a brightly painted former Russian army helicopter. To get in, he and his fellow passenger had to squeeze past the copilot’s seat, buckling themselves into the tandem seats in the cabin. The engines whined ferociously as they took off, and the noise hardly abated as they flew, the cabin vibrating in sync with the three-bladed prop above.

The Balti International City Airport had a long runway, but was used so rarely there were no car rental or other amenities there. The terminal building was deserted and locked, and the grass around the infield of the airstrip overgrown.

Danny had arranged for a driver and car to take him to the bus station, where a small car rental shop promised to rent him a car. But the driver wasn’t there when he got off the plane. He called the company twice and got no answer; after a half hour he decided he had no choice but walk into town, a six or seven mile hike. He took his bag and started down the long concrete access road.

Weeds grew through the expansion cracks. Danny pulled his earphones from his pocket and connected to MY-PID, asking the computer if there were any other taxis in town.

There weren’t.

“There is a bus route along the highway to the airport,” advised the computer. “The next run is in three hours.”

“I can walk there in that time.”

Just then, a small red Renault came charging off the highway down the access ramp. Danny stopped, hoping it was the taxi. But it sped past.

Gotta be for me, thought Danny. He stood waiting. Five minutes passed. Ten. Finally, he started walking again.

He’d just reached the highway when the car sped up behind him, braking hard and just barely missing him though he was well off the road. A short, skinny man not far out of his teens leaned across the front seat and rolled down the window.

“You American, yes?”

“That’s right,” said Danny.

“I am your ride.”

“Where have you been?” Danny asked.

“Trouble,” said the driver, sliding back behind the wheel.

Danny opened the door, pushed up the seat and put his bag in the back. Then he got in next to the driver, who grabbed the gearshift and ground his way toward the highway. “This your first day?” Danny asked.

“Oh no—I drive since fourteen.”

“You’re older than that now, huh?”

“Twenty-two. Legal.” The driver grinned at him. “You like my English?”

“Better than my Moldovan,” said Danny. He could, of course, use the MY-PID to translate for him if he wanted.

“I learn Internet. School, too.”

“Great.”

The highway was straight and there were no other cars—a good thing, because not only did the driver keep his foot pressed to the gas, he treated the lane markings as if they were purely theoretical.

“So—you need bus?” said the driver.

“I have to rent a car.”

“Car?”

“Like Hertz,” said Danny. “Eurocar?”

The driver seemed confused.

“I’m picking up a car,” said Danny.

“No.”

“No?”

“When are you renting car?”

“Today. I made the reservation myself.”

“No car.”

“How do you know?”

“My name is Joe,” said the driver. He held out his hand. As he did, the car veered slightly but decidedly toward the shoulder.

Danny shook hands quickly. “The road,” he said, pointing.

The driver pulled them back toward the center of the pavement. He explained that his family owned the city’s largest gas station, which doubled as its largest, and only, car rental facility. And their two cars had been rented out three days before. Neither was due back for a week.

“You only have two cars?” Danny asked.

“Official, five,” said the driver. One had been wrecked months before and never repaired; the other two were waiting for repair parts.

“I have fix,” said the driver.

“You can fix one of the cars?”

“No—I drive.”

“I have a better idea,” said Danny, grabbing the dashboard as the driver turned off the highway, wheels screeching. “I’ll rent this car.”

“It’s my sister’s car,” said Joe.

“If she lends it to you, I’m sure she’ll rent it to me.”

“But then what will we have for a taxi?”

“Do you do that much taxi business?”

“We are the largest taxi service in all Balti.”

“Then missing one car isn’t going to be that big a deal.”

“We have only two,” said Joe. “One crashed, and two cannot get parts.”

“A hundred bucks for the day,” said Danny.

“One thousand. But we give you lunch, too. Biggest restaurant in Balti.”

Danny worked the price down to seven hundred dollars, with lunch and breakfast in the morning, assuming he was still in town. Joe also promised to give him a ride to the airport, no charge.

Whatever family member was cooking did a much better job at the stove than Joe did behind the wheel. Under other circumstances, Danny might even have stayed for dessert. But he had a lot to do before dark.

Besides the possible DNA match, there was circumstantial evidence of a link between the area where Stoner had crashed and Russian experiments with various physical “enhancements.”

The Soviet Union had run a sports clinic in a small town two miles away during the 1970s and early 1980s. The clinic had specialized in a number of techniques for athletic enhancement, including training in special aerobic chambers and rigorously supervised diets.

It hadn’t been secret—there were several stories about it in the Western media. It closed quietly sometime in the 1990s or early 2000s, never officially linked to the controversies then swirling about steroids and various stimulant use, but it wasn’t much of a stretch to make a connection. Anyone looking back would conclude that while those techniques were never mentioned in the press coverage, they were surely being practiced there as well.

It was rumored to be the site of other experiments as well. MY-PID located an article in Le Monde published in 1987 about the site that stated there were a number of rumors that the plant was aiming at producing “super athletes” and was investigating “genetic techniques.” They weren’t detailed in the story, but the hints were tantalizing enough for Danny, who asked MY-PID if it could track down the writer.