“I had lunch with Daly and Sullivan today,” he said, searching his brain for some anecdote that might be even distantly funny. “The dynamic duo. Sullivan was eating this bacon cheeseburger. Didn’t he vote in favor of the fat tax last year?”

Breanna shrugged.

“I think he did. His party suggested it,” added Zen. “What are you reading?”

Breanna held it up so he could see the cover. Traditional Home.

“In the mood for some decorating?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“The hallway could use a new coat of paint.”

She didn’t answer.

“Remember when we painted the apartment?” he asked.

It was a preaccident memory, which put it in a special category, potentially touchy for either one of them. But it was also a happy memory, the two of them working together at a time when they were both very much in love—way beyond that, completely infatuated with each other, unable to get enough of each other’s words and bodies.

“Jeez—what was the color?” he said, growing nostalgic. “Peach or something? Mauve. Something that I would have never thought would be a good color.”

“You’re not really much on color.”

“I don’t have your color sense,” Zen admitted, trying to push through the small opening. “Not at all.”

Breanna put down the magazine.

“You’re still going to Kiev?”

“Well, yeah,” he said.

“I have to go to Brown Lake at the end of the week. Did you remember?”

Brown Lake Test Area was the Technology Office’s facility at Dreamland, part of the expanded complex there. Dreamland itself was an Air Force command; the Technology Office was both a contractor and a customer, and kept a small contingent at leased space there. Zen guessed she was going for the demonstration of one of her projects, though she kept the actual identity of the project itself secret, even from him.

“Sure,” he said, though in fact the date had slipped from his memory. “Are you taking Teri with you?”

“I can’t. You know that.”

“She can come with me, then,” he said.

“Jeff—”

“Actually, I had a thought about leaving a day or two early and stopping in Prague—”

“Prague?”

“There’s an air show. Teri’ll love it.”

“You can’t take her, Jeff.”

“Why can’t I?”

“She has school.”

“Ah, school.”

“It’s too dangerous—didn’t you hear anything I told you the other day?”

The last thing he would ever do was put his daughter in danger. The suggestion that Teri go with him was just a spur of the moment thought, something that just popped into his head. Had he thought about it, he might have rejected it himself. But Breanna’s sharp retort put him on the defensive.

“There’s going to be plenty of security in Kiev,” he said.

“That’s not the point.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem. She doesn’t have to go. Caroline can stay here.”

Caroline was Breanna’s niece, a college-age student who lived nearby and often babysat for them.

“I don’t know if she can,” said Breanna.

“Well then her mom can. You know there won’t be a problem.”

“I don’t know that at all.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” said Zen. “What if Caroline and Teri came with me to Prague, and stayed there while I went to Kiev? That would be great for Caroline, right? She’d love it. The art? Right up her alley. I’m going to call her right now.”

“You really want to take Teri out of school?”

“To visit Prague? In a heartbeat.”

“I don’t know what gets into you sometimes.” Breanna practically leapt off the couch, stalking past him to the kitchen.

Zen took a deep breath, struggling to keep his own anger in check. Prague wasn’t a bad idea at all—he’d only be away from the girls for a day and a half, at most. Caroline had gone with them to Hong Kong just the year before, spending two days alone with Teri while he and Breanna flew to Macau on a secret government mission for the State Department.

More like a secret junket, since it only consisted of having lunch with a hard-to-deal-with Chinese trade official, but that wasn’t the point. Caroline and Teri would be fine.

He rolled into the kitchen. Breanna had taken out the small tub of Ben & Jerry’s she kept in the freezer, and was eating it straight out of the carton.

“I’m not going to ask you about the Stoner operation,” said Zen.

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

“You think you can save him?”

Breanna stared at him.

“If it’s Stoner—” said Zen.

“I know who you’re talking about,” she said sharply.

“Are you going to try—”

“Don’t interfere, Jeff.”

“Did you tell Danny?”

Breanna pressed her lips together. He was sure from the reaction that she had, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what tipped him off.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know that it’s Stoner,” she said coldly.

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you fix him?”

“Jesus.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know.” Breanna tossed her spoon into the sink, pulled out the garbage can from beneath the kitchen island and dropped the empty ice cream tub into it. Then she stormed out of the room.

“That went well,” Zen said to the empty kitchen.

22

Northwestern Moldova

The rain bit at his face as if it were acid. He pushed up the hill, ignoring the sideward slip of his feet on the slick pavement. He pushed to feel the burn in his thighs, the strain of a muscle—to get feeling, any feeling.

Pain was a strange condition. On the one hand it was always there, like the skin that covered his body, the thick clumps of hair, the scars. On the other hand, it was a sensation, something beyond the dull haze he moved through every day, the black swamp of his life. To feel the sharpness, the pressure and strain—it could be savored.

Was it pleasure?

He didn’t know pleasure. He knew where he was, he knew his duty.

The Black Wolf pushed up the hill, arms pumping now. He was breathing hard in the darkness. If there had been houses near the road, he would have woken anyone inside. He was making good time, at a strong pace—an Olympic pace.

Run, a voice told him. Run.

He crested the hill and turned to the left, entering a wide, expansive field. His feet found the dirt path by habit; it was too dark to see.

The rain increased. He didn’t like the water. He’d almost died in water—in many ways he had died in water, even though the doctors said the coldness had helped. He still hated water.

The farmhouse was just ahead. He increased his pace, pounding through the mud.

Five hundred meters from the house a light came on in the kitchen. The light, part of his security system, told him everything was OK.

The farm was secluded and out of the way, but in his business one didn’t take chances. Death was inevitable; every moment led you closer. The question was whether you might force some control over it. That was the aim of his security systems.

The Black Wolf ran full strength to the back door of the house. When he was five meters away, the latch unhooked. He reached down with his hand, swinging the door open on a dead trot.

He stopped abruptly on the threshold and closed the door behind him. Taking off his running shoes, he began peeling off the outer layers of his clothes, throwing them into the nearby washing machine. Stripped to his compression shorts, he went inside to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before hitting the shower.