“Quite a plane,” said the guard.

“Yes,” said the Black Wolf. I jumped from one, he almost added. The words appeared in his brain and almost made it to his tongue.

Had he really parachuted from a C–17?

Shards of the memory flickered into his head. He saw himself going out…

What life was that? What had he been before the crash?

A killer, as he always had been.

“Was there something else?” asked the guard.

The Black Wolf realized he’d been staring into the distance for a few seconds, lost in the muddled memory.

“Nothing,” he told the man, rolling up the window. “Thank you for your kindness. It was good to talk.”

51

Chisinau, Moldova

With the success at the farm, the Wolf operation now entered a new phase, focused on figuring out who had organized the group. The task force that had originally developed the leads would now revisit everything obtained earlier, adding to it the data Whiplash had developed. Technically, the investigation had always belonged to them—Whiplash was in a sense a hired gun, called into action because of the eminent danger. While Whiplash’s job wasn’t over yet, the investigators would now take the lead. Whiplash was an operational unit; detective work was neither its raison d’être nor its forte.

Danny ordered the team to pack up and relocate to the Ukraine. He decided he’d arrange to officially join the security there, though he’d keep Hera and McEwen and the surveillance network they’d established under wraps for now. He would fly to the city immediately, leaving Boston to coordinate the load out here.

Someone had to orient the medical and technical investigators, as well as the task force coordinator, who were on the way. Nuri, as the lead CIA operative, naturally drew the assignment. And since he was doing that, he took charge of having the site secured and wrapping up the dozens of loose ends the operation had left behind.

It was tedious in the extreme. Rather than using the military base, he arranged to secure the dead bodies in a small food packing plant about thirty miles from the farm. Lacu, the Moldovan deputy interior minister, happily volunteered a dozen men to guard them. Nuri decided that wasn’t enough—he had Lacu detail two dozen more, along with the armored car. And then he made sure that a contingent of U.S. Marines from the embassy in Chisinau could beef them up.

He gave Gleeb a quick summary of what had happened, along with the developing official version—crazy drug dealers had decided to shoot it out with the Moldovan task force, which had shown great bravery while miraculously avoiding casualties.

Lacu’s men were taking plenty of photos of the marijuana. Eventually, someone would want to see the bodies and very likely the actual house, but with luck that could be pushed back a few days—long enough that Nuri would be gone by then.

Lacu arranged for an around-the-clock guard at the farm. Nuri assumed the technical team would want to dig through the ruins for more evidence, so he instructed the Moldovans to keep their distance, warning them there were countless booby traps that hadn’t been disarmed. The wreckage of the training building made the point more eloquently than he could have, and he was reasonably certain the policemen would keep their distance long enough for the technical team to arrive.

By four o’clock everything was under control, at least for the evening. Nuri decided it was time to get some rest. But where?

Back in the village where he’d rented a room? It was as good a place as any, he decided, hunting for a policeman who could drive him back to his car.

52

Old State Castle, Czech Republic

“Daddy, look at this room. It’s a real castle room!”

Zen chuckled as he rolled through the large reception room. The Czechs had arranged for some of the NATO air delegates to stay at a large, government-owned guesthouse about six and a half kilometers from Kbely Airport, where the show was taking place. Guesthouse was something of a misnomer—the place was literally an old castle, converted to government use following World War II.

“It is a real castle,” said Caroline.

“I wonder if there are any dragons in the closets,” said Zen. “What do you think, Caroline?”

“I think it’s a real possibility,” she said, winking at her uncle.

The late-afternoon sun cast long shadows on the floor, making it easy to imagine that there were strange creatures lurking nearby, but Teri was having none of it.

“There are no such thing as dragons,” she said definitively. “I’m not three, Dad. I know make-believe.”

“There could still be dragons,” said Zen. “I wouldn’t rule them out just because I never saw them.”

The main keep—the large building at the center of the facility—had been turned into a conference center and museum. The large central room, once used by the lord of the manor to receive accolades from the peasants he owned and hand out punishment for crimes, was now lined with armor and antique weapons. Teri, eyes wide, stared at everything, practically dizzy with excitement, or maybe just jet lag.

Their guide, a young woman about Caroline’s age, swept her hand and declared that all of the weapons on this side of the room had belonged to the last family to own the castle. All had been restored to superb condition.

“The weapons were in significant disrepair,” she said in sturdy English, “when the People took the property over. The People have done a very fine job with them, do not you think?”

“I do think,” said Zen, rolling over to one of the battle-axes. The blades gleamed with the light from the fixtures suspended above.

“Were these ever used?” asked Caroline.

“We cannot to be sure,” said the guide. “Similar weapons would have been intended for show in other families. Sometimes they might be used in ceremonies, certainly. They are very old, so it is hard to tell.”

“I think I see blood on that handle,” said Zen.

He was teasing, but the others all looked.

“Maybe senator is correct,” said the guide.

The tour continued through one of the two doors at the far end of the hall. A suite of conference rooms had been built in the courtyard. These backed into the keep, so that the great room was connected to the meeting area by a short hallway. This transitional space was lit by a large glass skylight. The effect was as if you were stepping into a time machine and materializing back in the twenty-first century.

Zen, tired from the flight, had a little trouble negotiating the threshold, his wheelchair veering with the bumps. He barely kept himself from cursing as he crashed into the wall, fortunately at a slow speed.