He keyed up the sensor display on the laptop that revealed electric currents. There were computer hard drives active all through the building. Six were moving—the assault team was equipped with portable computers.

“Gotta be training devices,” said Flash. “Smart helmets. They’re working with a combat information system.”

The group worked through the northern quadrant of the building twice, then reassembled for a third try. There were flashes of heat energy inside the building—flash-bangs. A takedown simulation.

The drill went on for another hour. Then the unit emerged, again one by one. They formed up outside the building, then moved out into one of the nearby fields, heading toward a small cluster of ruins. MY-PID analyzed the team based on the images. They were all between six-four and six-six, seemingly in excellent physical condition as they sprinted up the hill at an under sixty seconds per four hundred meter pace. Their weight was more of a guess, but MY-PID pegged it at just over 250 pounds apiece.

They were well equipped with what appeared to be Russian weapons—four brand-new AEK–971 assault rifles and a pair of Pecheneg squad-level machine guns. The assault rifles were using scopes the computer had not encountered before. The scopes employed what appeared to be short-range radar as well as the standard infrared. Danny guessed this was some sort of training device; he couldn’t puzzle out any other use for the radar.

Finding out about the gear would be a side benefit from the raid.

“They’re going to take that building there,” said Flash, pointing to the screen as the team split into two groups.

“I don’t know,” said Danny. “That small a force—would you split up like that?”

“Maybe. Three guys is an army, if you got the right three guys.”

But they didn’t circle the area. The groups headed to two different buildings, about a hundred meters apart. They didn’t assault them, though they were careful about getting inside.

The building on the right exploded, gray smoke blossoming on the screen.

The other building followed.

“Look,” said Danny.

A small helicopter materialized from the cloud of smoke that had consumed the first building. It looked like a stripped down Ka–126, a vintage 1960s helicopter still used in Russia for crop dusting and other utility tasks. It had two counterrotating propellers overhead, which allowed it to fly with a double tail rather than a powered rotor. The helo was little more than a metal frame strapped beneath the engine. The bulkhead for the cockpit held two seats forward and a double bench behind. There were six places in total on the benches.

A similar helicopter flew out of the roof of the second cottage. They headed north to a cluster of ruins. The team members jumped from the helo, humping toward a low mound next to a half-buried foundation. Two of them knelt down. It looked to Danny as if they were going to pray. Instead, they lifted part of the ground, revealing a dugout with a pair of SUVs hidden below.

“We didn’t see that,” said Flash. “The radar couldn’t see through the roof. The building looked empty.”

The cottages that had “exploded” were still intact—the roofs had simply opened as smoke grenades went off. The material on the roof was somehow able to deflect the penetrating radar, without revealing that it was doing so.

Not technically impossible, but not easy either.

“We didn’t see it at all,” repeated Flash.

“Yeah,” said Danny. “The question is, what else aren’t we seeing?”

37

Chisinau, Moldova

The CIA officer in charge at Chisinau was Malcolm Gleeb, an old Eastern European hand who had served with the Agency since the Reagan administration. Gleeb greeted Nuri warily. He’d already done considerable legwork, working contacts in the military and national police force as well as contacting the interior minister. But Reid had been purposely vague on details of the operation, and Nuri could tell as soon as he met Gleeb that he was annoyed. Station chiefs could be very territorial, and anyone running an operation within what they perceived to be their domain had to tread gently.

Treading gently wasn’t Nuri’s forte.

“We have an appointment with the interior minister at nine,” Gleeb told Nuri when he picked him up outside the capital’s fanciest business hotel. “He doesn’t know what’s up, but obviously he knows it’s important.”

“The appointment isn’t supposed to be until tomorrow night,” said Nuri. “We don’t want word to get out.”

“The minister is leaving on vacation in the morning,” said Gleeb. “Unless you want to go with him, this is the best we can do. His deputies are not dependable.”

Nuri, who didn’t want to deal with the Moldovans in the first place, folded his arms in front of his chest and said nothing.

“You didn’t check into the hotel, did you?” asked Gleeb.

“No. Why?”

“You have a room?”

“I just got here.”

“I thought so.”

Nuri tightened his arms. He felt as if he was being interrogated. This was his operation, and Gleeb had better ratchet down or he was going to take the guy’s head off, gray hairs and all.

“I suspect you’d like a shower,” said Gleeb. “And a chance to straighten up your clothes. We have enough time. Just.”

“I’m a little hungry, actually.”

“We’ll eat after. If you need a sandwich or something, I’ll find you something at my flat.”

Nuri realized he looked a little rumpled and very possibly did need a shower—the water pressure had been a joke at the motel. Gleeb took him to his residence. The shower was tiny, but the hot water was strong. While he was showering, Gleeb found him a sport coat that came close to fitting.

“Space has been secured on a military base in the northeast, if it’s necessary,” Gleeb told Nuri after he dressed. “My contacts in the state police will cooperate, if there is authorization to do so. It’s up to the minister.”

“Uh-huh.” Nuri adjusted his shirt collar in the small mirror on the bathroom door.

“You don’t really want the Moldovans to help, do you?”

The comment took Nuri by surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“I’d be a very poor agent if I couldn’t tell how unenthusiastic about this you were,” said Gleeb.

“No, I don’t.”

“How long have you been with the Company?”

“Couple of years,” said Nuri.

“You’ll learn. Politics is everything. At every level. Shall we go?”

Nuri resented the I’m-an-old-hand-and-you’ll-learn tone, but there was no question that Gleeb was acting professionally otherwise. Nuri tried to restart the relationship in the car on the way to the minister’s, asking how long Gleeb had been with the CIA. It was a subtle nod toward the older man, without pretending to fawn, which Nuri couldn’t have stomached and Gleeb certainly would have scoffed at.

“I’ve worked with the Company longer than I can recall,” said Gleeb. “I’ve been just about everywhere in Europe. My first assignment was in Moscow. I never looked back.”

He’d become a field agent just before the end of the Cold War, when human intelligence assets—spies—were still the most valued commodity in the business. Gleeb regaled him with stories as they drove, telling of elaborate dinner parties where he and KGB agents vied over contacts and beautiful women.