“Is the cafeteria open?” Zen asked as he wheeled toward him.

“Staff is on duty at all times, sir,” said the man.

“Is that year-round, or just for the show?”

“For the show. But often, we have special guests.”

“Your English is very good,” said Zen.

“Thank you. When I was young, I studied. Now, with the Internet and travel, everyone speaks English. It is a common language.”

“Lucky for me.”

The elevator operator pushed the button for the lower floor. The doors closed slowly.

“I don’t mean to take you out of a job,” said Zen as they started to descend, “but does this elevator need an operator?”

The man smiled. “Everyone needs a job.”

“True enough,” said Zen. He extended his hand. “Zen Stockard.”

“Yes, Senator,” said the attendant. Zen’s friendliness seemed to worry him a little. He took the hand hesitantly, then shook. “I am Sergeant Greis.”

“You’re in the air force?”

“Forty-two years.”

“That’s a lot of time.”

Greis nodded.

“I’ll bet you did other things besides running an elevator,” said Zen.

“I was a weapons specialist,” said Greis. He straightened a little, almost as if he’d been picked out of a review line by a commanding general and asked to present himself. “I worked with many different aircraft.”

“I was a fighter pilot,” said Zen.

“Yes, Senator. You have won many medals.”

“My fame precedes me, huh?”

Greis didn’t understand the phrase.

“We couldn’t have done our jobs without men like you,” said Zen. “Ordies, maintainers—heart of the air force around the world. But you guys don’t get the credit.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you should.”

The elevator doors opened. Zen rolled out into a foyer whose stone walls looked as if they were part of the dungeon in the keep across the way. A red carpet ran down the center of the space.

He followed the carpet to a sharp left, then past a pair of thick wooden doors lined with black wrought iron. He found himself in a vestibule just before the cafeteria, which he could see through a set of glass doors. There were lights on inside, and a waiter was working at a buffet table not far from the entrance, laying out a platter of breakfast meats.

There was only one problem—the three narrow steps between the foyer and the doors.

One step too many to risk, Zen calculated. As much as he hated to ask for assistance, there was simply no alternative.

Well, he could get out of the chair, push it ahead of him, then crawl down after it. But that was a bit extreme.

Maybe if no one here knew he was a senator.

The waiter disappeared into the back without looking in his direction. Zen decided to go back to the elevator and see if the operator might be able to help him. He was just turning around when a tall, thin gray-haired man came around the corner.

“Not open yet?” said the man. He had a slightly tired British accent.

“It’s open, I just can’t get down the steps,” said Zen.

It took the man a second or two to understand. “Can I help?” he asked.

“If you kind of lean on the back and help balance as I go down, I think it would work,” said Zen.

“Ah, yes. Quite.”

“I’m Zen Stockard,” said Zen as he positioned himself. “From America.”

“Ah, yes, Senator Stockard. A pleasure to meet you. Colonel Lynch.”

Lynch went down to the door and pushed it open. A small latch at the bottom held it in place.

“Alley-oop,” he said, taking the back of the chair.

Zen leaned and pushed gently on the wheels, calibrating his force so he could control his movement down the steps.

As they reached the bottom, the waiter Zen had seen earlier came racing over.

“We are under control,” said the colonel. “We have come through with valor.”

“Can I buy you breakfast?” joked Zen. The breakfasts were complimentary.

“I would rather like that,” said the colonel.

68

Old State Castle, Czech Republic

The sentry at the complex put his hand up as the Mercedes approached the gate. The driver slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window.

“The deputy minister of Poland,” said the driver in Czech.

The guard bent slightly and peered in the back. He paused a moment, examining the face, then straightened and signaled that the gate be lifted.

The Black Wolf eased his pistol down. No need to use it yet.

He glanced around the courtyard as they entered. The field where the helicopter was to land was at the right, beyond the fence. The choice was counterintuitive—another man might have them picked up on the roof, which would be easy to reach from the guest building. But the helicopter would be an easy target, and survival in an operation such as this always required finesse and misdirection.

The Mercedes pulled up in front of the building. It was 0512.

They were two minutes ahead of schedule. The Ukrainian minister and air force general had landed at the airport a few minutes ago; things were running as smoothly as he could have hoped.

The Black Wolf reached below his seat and pulled out the backpack with his HK MP–5 submachine gun. Then he reached his left hand into his pants pocket and took out a small vial. The red liquid inside looked like blood. It was, in a way.

The package had arrived for him with the money. They were as good as their word—better.

He cracked the seal on the tube and drained it quickly.

“Ready,” he said, dropping the empty vial into his pocket. “Let’s move.”

69

Old State Castle, Czech Republic

“The golden days of manned dogfights are over,” said Lynch. “I think we all have to recognize that.”

“That may be,” said Zen. “But I think we’ll always have people in the loop. And not just on the ground.”

“Your own air force has shown the way,” said Lynch. “Your own experiences—they were the vanguard.”

“Yes, but my experiences are a case in a point,” said Zen. “The Flighthawks were always under someone’s control.”

“Really? I heard differently.”

“Can’t believe everything you read,” said Zen.

“Quite. More coffee?”

“Yes, please,” said Zen.

Lynch took his cup and headed over to the table where the urns stood.

Zen realized he hadn’t turned his phone on. He didn’t think his staff would be trying to get him at this hour, and didn’t care much to start going through e-mails. But Teri or Caroline might try to text him from upstairs to find out where he was.

“I am sorry, I am sorry,” said the waiter, rushing back out as Lynch returned. “I would get that for you.”

“Not a bother at all,” said Lynch. “I just went for the refill. My legs are working, after all.” He blanched, apparently realizing what he had said.