19

Washington, D.C.

The argument with his wife still felt a little raw as Zen wheeled himself into the congressional dining room, where he was planning to lobby a pair of congressmen on the companion bill to his scholarship measure. Both were from the opposing party, but he didn’t figure either would be a hard sell—they had large military installations in their districts, and one had a brother who was still on active duty with the Marines.

The ease of the assignment let his mind drift a bit, and he thought of the NATO meeting even as he came up to the table where the congressmen had already been seated.

“Senator, good to see you,” said Kevin Sullivan, an upstate New Yorker in his third term. He practically jumped out of his chair as he grabbed Zen’s hand.

His companion, Brian Daly, was more reserved. But it was Daly who began the conversation by mentioning that he’d talked about the bill with his brother in the Marines. His brother, a lieutenant colonel, had heartily endorsed it.

That was good enough for Daly.

“I think it’s a good idea, too,” said Sullivan. “I’m on board.”

“Great,” said Zen. “Let’s eat.”

“My brother remembers you from your Dreamland days,” said Daly as they waited for their lunches. “He was on a deployment in Iran when you were active.”

“Hell of a time,” said Zen.

“He said you guys were something else. You took out a laser site in broad daylight? Ballsy.”

“Your brother was probably in a lot more danger than I ever was,” said Zen. “The guys on the ground always had it worse. Hell, if I was in trouble, I could just fly away.”

That was more than a slight exaggeration—piloting the Flighthawks from the belly of a Megafortress, he couldn’t “just fly away” at all. He was completely at the mercy of whoever was piloting the big plane—or firing at it.

During the war between Pakistan and India, it had almost cost him his life. At one point, the plane in flames, he parachuted out with Breanna. They’d spent several days shipwrecked on an island.

Air-wrecked. Whatever.

Their lives had changed so much since then. It wasn’t just because they weren’t in the same line of work anymore either. They had different outlooks on things, different attitudes toward Teri and how to raise her. Different priorities with their jobs and lives.

So what did any of that have to do with their argument?

Nothing.

Was that what really bothered him, their growing apart?

They weren’t apart—they were just older, with more things to worry about.

“There was a rumor today on one of the blogs—Politico, I think—that you were headed to Kiev,” said Sullivan.

“I am,” said Zen, returning from his brief daydream. “Senator Osten’s going to be in the hospital awhile.”

“Oh yeah, how is he?” asked Sullivan.

“I talked to him yesterday. He was joking about all the things he’s not supposed to do now.”

“You wouldn’t figure him for a heart attack,” said Sullivan.

Actually, thought Zen, you would—he didn’t exercise, was more than a little overweight, and had a complicated family medical history. But it was the sort of polite comment people made in passing.

“Do you really think Ukraine should be part of NATO?” asked Daly, changing the subject.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” said Zen. “What do you think?”

Daly was neutral; Sullivan was opposed, though only mildly. Both seemed worried about diluting NATO as a military force by adding relatively weak allies on the border of Russia. It was a reasonable argument, even if Zen disagreed. He wasn’t in much of a mood to get into a philosophical discussion of how to best offer a counterweight to Russia.

But Sullivan and Daly were.

“Russia is a diminished force,” said Sullivan. “A nonentity militarily.”

“That’s what worries me, to some extent,” said Daly. “When you’re beaten down is when you get dangerous.”

“They haven’t been beaten down.”

“They think they have. That’s what matters.” Daly turned to Zen. “I’d be careful at that summit,” he told him. “I’ve heard plenty of rumors that the Russians are out to disrupt it somehow.”

“I’ll be as careful as possible,” said Zen.

Sitting at a committee hearing two hours later, Zen decided he would be more than careful—he’d spend a little time at the shooting range before leaving, something he hadn’t done in a few months.

And he’d buy Breanna some flowers. That was also long overdue.

20

Chisinau, Moldova

The doctor’s house was an American-style McMansion that would have looked right at home on Florida’s Gold Coast. In Chisinau it looked like something from outer space.

Three stories high, with lots of glass and stone, it lorded over the nearby houses, which would have looked large in any other context. Two parallel runs of spiked iron fencing surrounded the property. Eight feet high, the fence was a deterrent to trespassers, but not any more so than the dogs that roamed the interior. Unlike the one Nuri had encountered in Italy, these were rottweilers, and appeared to be trained guard dogs; they moved in twos with almost military discipline.

The dogs were more than enough to dissuade Nuri from sneaking in the way he had at Moreno’s, but in addition there were video cameras and infrared motion sensors all along the fence line. As Flash put it, the doctor did not want anyone making unannounced house calls.

So Nuri decided they would settle for NSA wiretaps, and in the meantime plant some video bugs in the neighbors’ yards in hopes of getting a picture.

Flash volunteered for the job. The game plan was straightforward: he’d rent a motorcycle, whiz up into the area, plant the bugs per Nuri’s directions, then head back to the hotel where they were staying. Danny would back him up in the rental car. Meanwhile, Nuri would access the accounts they had set up at the bank, giving MY-PID a route into the bank’s computers.

The first problem they encountered was with the motorcycle: they couldn’t find one to rent. Flash was ready to do the job on foot when he spotted an open bicycle shop on the way out of town. The owner wouldn’t rent anything, but was willing to part with an older ten-speed for fifty euros.

They put the bike in the trunk of a rented Dacia and drove out of the city toward the development just after dusk. The houses around the doctor’s were all relatively new, built within the last ten years. MY-PID’s scan of the property records listed several Russians with connections to Russian organized crime, but for the most part the homeowners were part of the small class of nouveau riche Moldovans who’d made money in various legitimate enterprises, the most popular of which was the pharmaceutical industry, which the Moldovan government had set out to encourage a number of years before.

Flash got out of the car about a half mile north of the doctor’s house. He took the bike they’d rented earlier from the trunk and began pedaling slowly through the neighborhood. Danny drove around until he found a spot where he could see most of the house with his night glasses.