Which one belonged to the Russian?

The Hyundai surely, he decided, but with two trackers in his pocket, he bugged both, slipping the devices over the cars’ gas tanks.

Nuri drove around the countryside for over an hour, partly to kill time and partly to get a feel for the area. The gentle hills and abundant streams made for excellent small-scale farming, but small-scale farming couldn’t compete with the much larger operation elsewhere in Europe, let alone the rest of the world.

On the one hand, the Moldovans had an almost idyllic setting and lifestyle; on the other hand, they were poor, at least by Western standards. He had seen incredible poverty in Africa, and no place in Europe would ever match that. But he couldn’t help feeling somewhat sympathetic to this country, which seemed better suited for the nineteenth century than the twenty-first.

His job wasn’t to be sympathetic. He was just starting to head for the meeting with the police when MY-PID reported that the Russians had returned to their rented room. Listening to them was better than the radio, and so he had the computer translate for him as he drove.

The beginnings of the conversation were mundane—they criticized the food they’d just eaten and debated whether the hostess would have been worth taking to bed.

Then they broke out the vodka.

“We ought to just go out tonight,” said one. “Better to sleep there than in this flea trap.”

“And risk Black’s wrath? You’re a fool.”

“So what if he’s mad?”

“He killed Ivanski for less.”

“Ivanski was a fool.”

“A dead fool now.”

“Coming up in two and threes and fours—always cautious. He’s overcautious. A coward.”

“Call him a coward to his face. That I would like to see.” The Russian laughed. “You assume he will be there.”

“We’re to work with him.”

“I wasn’t told that. Were you?”

“No. But every time we come to this armpit, who do we work for?”

“I worked for the Frenchman once.”

“A good man to work for. Plenty to drink. Unlike Black.”

“It will be good to work again.”

“I’m ready. I would go tonight.”

“Going at seven is plenty of time for me. At least we will get a good night’s sleep.”

“Not a good breakfast, though.”

“The café will have a good breakfast. They’ll have strong coffee.”

“I feel like going back and screwing the woman.”

“She’s older than your grandmother, and not half as good looking.”

They traded insults, then fell silent, and soon were snoring.

Nuri was surprised to see a dozen police cars parked outside the church. Even more surprising, there were nearly fifty officers inside, all dressed in riot gear.

“You are the American!” said a thin, jolly man who met him near the door. He spoke English with more enthusiasm than polish. “You are very welcome.”

“Are you Johann Lacu?” said Nuri.

“No, no—there’s Johann.”

“Mr. Lupo—Mr. Lupo.” A tall, thin man with a goatee and moustache separated himself from the crowd. “Here I am.”

“There were only supposed to be six people,” said Nuri. “Less.”

“We need more for a raid,” said Lacu cheerfully. “These are dangerous people. I have more men on the way. And an armored car.”

Nuri rubbed his forehead, wondering how he was going to keep the crowd busy for the next several hours. They didn’t have all that far to go—the farm was under ten miles away—and he didn’t want to give away the location until Danny and the rest of the team was in place.

“We are happy to do something against the drugs,” added Lacu. “These are all honest policemen. Their reputations are solid. People say we do not do anything—but what can they do when the people above them are corrupt?”

“I understand,” said Nuri.

“Where will be our target?”

“There are several possible targets,” said Nuri, making it up as he went. “Four or five homes where they move around between. We’ll figure out which one it is, then you and your people will help surround it.”

“If I saw the plans, I could help.”

Nuri fended him off with assurances that the NATO team—he didn’t use the word Whiplash, of course—had everything under control. The Moldovans were only needed to secure the perimeter, and then take the prisoners. The deputy minister suggested that he should be with the team that made the arrests. Nuri agreed, an easy if empty promise.

The deputy minister began introducing Nuri, showing off not just the men but the equipment they carried. They had an assortment of AK–47 models that would have done a museum proud, along with more pistol types than men. They even had a dozen Russian F1 hand grenades that had to be at least forty years old.

“Good weapon,” said the policeman in charge of them. “Thirty meters, killing radius. Thirty meters. These fuses—four seconds.”

He mimed throwing it.

“Four seconds,” said the policeman. “One… two… three… ka-boom!”

Nuri, willing to do anything to kill time, repeated the ritual himself.

“How far can you run in four seconds?” he asked when he was done.

“Very far, with grenade about to go off.”

Nuri couldn’t argue with that.

A sudden commotion outside announced the arrival of an armored car. Nuri went out with the others to inspect it. He looked at it in great detail, admiring the gun at the top and taking a turn sitting in the driver’s seat.

“A handsome weapon, eh?” said Lacu as he climbed out.

“Very handsome,” said Nuri.

“We will use it on you if this turns out to be a wild goose chase,” added the deputy minister.

Nuri smiled. He thought Lacu was joking, but couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.

42

Northeastern Moldova

At exactly ten minutes after eleven Danny Freah turned off the highway about five miles from the Ukrainian border, pulling down a dirt road to a field he had scouted earlier that afternoon. He got out of the car and checked his watch, then walked up the road about two hundred meters. A broad field lay to his left. Owned by a family who lived on the other side of town some seven kilometers away, the farm had lain fallow for several years.

At eleven-fifteen the sky began filling with clouds. The moon played peekaboo with them for a few minutes, then completely disappeared.

At eleven-twenty a small red light flashed twice from the middle of the cloud bank.

Danny raised his arm and flashed his wrist light in response. A voice crackled over the ear set he was wearing.

“Whiplash Transport to Ground. Please confirm your identity.”

“This is Whiplash One. How do you read me?”

“Whiplash One acknowledged. Strong coms.”

“Bring it in,” said Danny.

The clouds began to descend. Only when they were within a few feet of the ground did it become obvious they weren’t clouds but an array of airships, camouflaged by a combination of LEDs and vapor generators, which poured mist from faceted baffles and outriggers. The baffles were arranged to reduce their radar signal during flight, when the mist wasn’t being used, making them harder to pick up from a distance.

The first dirigible glided down to a landing thirty meters from Danny. Two more touched down directly behind it.

The cargo compartment was a combination of angles and curves; the leading edge looked somewhat similar to the lip of the SR–71 Blackbird, though this aircraft was as slow as that one was fast. The lip dropped down and a four-wheel-drive pickup lurched out, moving silently on an all-electric motor.