Something hit his chest, then his leg, then his chest again. It was diffuse, a cloud of weighted pain falling on him, like snowballs or rain.

Or shovelfuls of dirt.

Something hit his face. A rock.

Another shovelful on his legs.

Nuri couldn’t move. He tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was black.

60

Outside Prague

“It is 12:05. You are five minutes late. Why are you late?”

The plainclothes security guard turned his eyes toward the carpet. Like the sergeant, he was Polish, a member of the state security force assigned to escort the Polish delegation to the air show.

“Who is your superior?” demanded the sergeant.

“Captain Klose.”

“Klose is an idiot. Take your position next to Stefan. Don’t move for the next four hours—not even to relieve yourself.”

The guard took his position opposite the other guard next to the hotel room door. The Polish air ministry had taken much of the hotel, including the entire top floor, where all eight rooms were reserved for the Polish air minister and his guests. This was a bit excessive; besides the minister’s suite, none of the other rooms were occupied. Two would be used for a reception later that night, and the others were available in case the minister decided to invite guests to stay.

But the security people weren’t in a position to complain about the minister’s spendthrift ways. Their rooms, scattered throughout the hotel, were hardly austere, and came fully stocked with alcohol and sweets.

They were also booked one to a room, a boon to the man who had just come on duty.

“What are you looking at?” demanded the sergeant, turning to the second man manning watch.

“Nothing, Sergeant.”

“The men from Warsaw think they are better than the Krakow detail, is that it?” The sergeant turned back to the man who had just arrived. “And you are Exhibit A of this.”

“I am sorry I am late.”

“You don’t know me, but you will,” continued the sergeant. “The minister is not to be disturbed. You will be relieved in four hours. Neither of you is to go anywhere. No one is to be admitted on the floor without the minister’s approval. A woman…”

The sergeant paused, deciding how to phrase what he was about to say. He looked at the guard from Warsaw.

“The minister may have guests,” he said finally. “Treat them professionally. Be—judicious.”

“Of course,” said the man.

“You will report to me at 0900 hours.” The sergeant pointed at the guard who had been late. “We will discuss the importance of promptness, and your future in the security forces.”

The guard glared at him, but said nothing. The sergeant shook his head, then stalked off.

“Five minutes, what a jerk,” said the guard who had been on time. “As if it would make a difference. You think he has a girl waiting?”

The other guard said nothing, adjusting his jacket above his bulletproof vest. He started to hitch his pants, then turned away out of modesty.

“You’re from Krakow. That’s the real problem. The sergeant hates everyone from outside Warsaw. The whole idea of drawing people from across the country, as if this were some sort of lark—”

The guard stopped speaking in mid-sentence and slumped to the floor, killed by a single shot to the brain from the silenced .22 in the Black Wolf’s hand.

The Black Wolf reached down and took the man by the shoulder, propping him against the wall. Then he slipped a passkey into the door of the hotel room, and let himself inside.

61

Kiev, Ukraine

Danny was almost to the door when Hera stopped him. She had her MY-PID control unit in her hand.

“Nuri isn’t answering,” she said.

“Probably sleeping,” Danny told her.

“No—he’s at the farm. And look at his vitals—his heart’s pumping.”

Nuri’s pulse, recorded by his bracelet, was at 140.

“Something’s wrong,” said Hera.

“The deputy interior minister in charge of the state police who worked with us on that raid,” said Danny, reaching for his sat phone. “We need to talk to him right away. MY-PID should have the contact information somewhere. Get it quick.”

62

Northwestern Moldova

The weight on Nuri’s chest and arms was incredible. He pushed his head to his right, and at the same time scratched through the dirt with his right hand, trying to reach his nose and mouth. He got there finally, cupping a little space over it.

The bastards!

Buried alive!

Out!

He struggled, but the more he struggled, the more dirt seemed to fall. He tried to wiggle to the right. Dirt fell on him there. Left—more dirt.

He wasn’t too deep. He could dig himself out. He could.

His lungs were starting to feel tight, compressed. Nuri pushed his hand over his mouth, making a little pocket for air.

He should wait for them to go away. Wait.

For what? Death?

He was down five feet. Dig, for Christsake!

Nuri tried pulling his left arm up, pushing through the weight that kept it pinned by his side. He pushed hard, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he tried a softer approach, moving it as if it were a snake.

Or a worm. He was a worm. He had to think of himself as a worm, squeezing through the ground, getting out.

A worm.

Is this where he was going to die? In the middle of nowhere in a small country where people wouldn’t even be able to pronounce his name?

I have to get out now. Now!

He curled the fingers on his left hand into a claw and began pushing at the dirt. It seemed to give way slowly.

But it was too slow. He was starting to choke.

Everything! I need everything!

Nuri pulled his other arm up and began to push. He curled his upper lip over his lower lip and tried breathing through his mouth. There was dirt in his teeth. He tasted rot.

Nuri pushed.

Out! Out!

The ground seemed to give way. He moved his elbows toward his ribs, then levered them back against the ground beneath him.

Out! Out!

He couldn’t breathe. He was choking—it felt as if his lungs were full of dirt.