The political dynamics were difficult. President Todd was trying to wean Moldova toward the West, as she had done with Ukraine. But the government was on even shakier grounds, with a poor economy, and Russia anxious to prevent further defections to NATO.

Go in and out quietly, and no one would complain. No one would even know. Strike too loudly or trip over the wrong contingency, and the Moldovan government would be forced to renounce the attack, and the U.S., playing right into Russia’s hands. And if they didn’t, popular opinion would surely turn against the Moldovan government, an even better development for Russia.

Those considerations don’t outweigh the necessity of striking, Reid thought, but he could understand the President’s hesitation.

And he had a solution.

“I was speaking with the men in the field before coming over tonight,” he said. “It turns out that a very large amount of marijuana is grown on the site where we would like to strike.”

“Marijuana?”

“Quite a cash crop in Moldova, as it happens.” Reid reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out two sheets of paper. They contained satellite photos of the property and the marijuana. He handed them to the President. “I wasn’t aware of its importance until today. But apparently the farmers do quite well. They seem to supply much of Europe. There are almost two acres of it here,” he added. “You can see in these photos. The leaves are very distinct. They are pointy, with five—”

“Jonathon, I hope you don’t think I have no idea what marijuana looks like,” said the President. “This is the Wolves’ compound?”

“Yes.”

“They sell it?”

“Possibly. They may use it on their own—medicinally, shall we say?”

Reid wasn’t exactly sure why the plant was being grown there. While two acres was a lot, given the security measures and their location, they could easily grow considerably more. That seemed to rule out the possibility that the Wolves were running a drug operation on the side, though there was no way to tell. It might even be a way to explain the secrecy surrounding the property, if neighbors became too curious.

“If we told the Moldovan government that this was a drug operation,” he said, “we would give them cover for anything that happened.”

“Under what pretense does an American military force make a drug raid?” asked the President skeptically.

“As part of a NATO task force operating under UN auspices,” said Reid. “As directed by the UN last year. It’s a fig leaf, but it is authorized. The European Union has been pushing for more antidrug enforcement actions.”

“When do you tell them?”

“Right before the raid.”

“What if they want to come along?” the President asked.

“We let them. Once the place is secure. Then we can use Moldovan facilities to hold the Wolves until they can be extradited for murder. Assuming they survive the raid.”

“There’s a place where they can be held?”

“I’ve spoken to our station chief in the capital. He’s confident they could be held at a Moldovan military base. We’d only need to have them stay until we had charges ready in Poland for the murders there. That should only take a few days. It would avoid having to take them to Ukraine on attempted charges. We also wouldn’t have to reveal how we got the evidence against them. It’s much better than taking them to one of our bases.”

“Granted,” said the President. “But what do we do if the Moldovans won’t cooperate?”

“We’ll be back at the same starting point,” said Reid. “You will have to decide whether to proceed without their permission. But then they’ll at least think this was about drugs. And the Russians will as well.”

Reid assumed that the Moldovan government had been penetrated by Russian spies.

“I’d suggest you make that decision beforehand,” he added. “And that we only proceed if we’re prepared to go alone.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Our station chief reminded me that the Moldovan government received thirty million euros in enforcement money from the E.U. Drug Fund six months ago, without anything to show for it. This will allow them to pretend that they are quite on top of things.”

“You must be very good at poker,” said the President.

“I hold my own.”

“Go. All the way. Make it work.”

33

Washington suburbs

The Nationals took it hard, losing 7–2. They were never really in the game, getting clobbered with a five-run first inning.

Just as well, thought Zen as he drove home. He didn’t have to invest much emotion in the game, only to see them lose. And Senator Dirks was an admirable guest, insisting on paying for the food and the single beer Zen allowed himself at the games when he had to drive home.

All the lights were on in the house as he drove up. That was unusual. Breanna generally holed up in bed the nights he was out at games, either with work or with a book or a movie. Usually he found her out like a light, her computer or Kindle lying next to her.

Maybe she wants to apologize, he thought. Or maybe she just left the lights on.

The smell of coffee as he rolled himself up the ramp from the garage tipped him off that it was probably none of the above. And sure enough, she was sitting in the kitchen, frowning at a laptop.

“Hey,” he said, coming in. “We lost.”

“So I heard.”

“Check the scores?”

“I wanted to see what kind of mood you’d be in.”

He laughed. “Nah. You can’t really expect the Nats to win. So when they lose, it doesn’t really bother me. Someday, maybe.”

He couldn’t quite read her expression. Was she working? She was using the family laptop, so he thought not.

“Checking the news?” he asked.

“The weather. My flight schedule has been changed. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Oh. OK.”

“I talked to Caroline. She’ll be here right after class. From what I understand, she’s very excited about going to Prague.”

“I told you she would be.”

“I also spoke to General Magnus today,” said Breanna.

“How is he?”

“He’s going to Prague, too.”

“Really? Suddenly, it’s the cool place to be.”

“He wants to show off the Tigershark to the Germans and the English. He thinks he can sell it as a next-generation NATO fighter.”

“Tigershark?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Hey, being dumb is something I don’t have to pretend to be.” Zen popped the top on a Rogue Porter—he could tell he needed something substantial.

“You set this up, didn’t you?” said Breanna. “So I’d come with you.”

“Honey, I have no idea what you’re talking about. The Tigershark—it’s a dead deal. You can’t even get it past your own Air Force brass. Manned interceptors have no future in the Air Force. It’s not what I want, but—”

Breanna got up from the table and stormed away.

“Hey—what’s up?” asked Zen. “I didn’t talk to Magnus. Is that what you think?”

The Tigershark had been to air shows before. It was just a coincidence.

He glanced at his watch, wondering if it was too late to call Magnus and see if there was something else involved.

More than likely, not.

Quarter past eleven. Far too late to call. Too late, really, to do anything but drink his beer.