“I’m not offended,” Zen told him. “I used to call myself a cripple, just to see what kind of reaction I got.”

“How did they react?”

“Oh, they were horrified. It was kind of fun to watch.”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said the waiter, a pained expression on his face. “I wonder—we, uh, we were asked to set aside a little area for an early breakfast and I neglected to do so before you sat down.”

“Go right ahead,” said Lynch.

“You see, sir—the curtain usually would be placed right here.” The waiter pointed to a track in the ceiling above them. “I can seat you anywhere else you’d like.”

“How about a window seat?” asked Zen.

The waiter was nonplussed. They were in a basement without windows, and he wasn’t sure whether he understood.

“Just a joke,” said Zen. He picked up his coffee. “Where do you want us?”

“If I might suggest that table at the side,” said the waiter.

“Too far to eavesdrop,” joked Lynch.

“Sir?”

“It’s fine,” said Zen.

“Who needs a private room for breakfast?” asked Lynch.

“Some of our businesspeople are meeting with important people from the Ukraine,” said the waiter.

“Sales call,” Lynch told Zen as they took their places at the new table. “The Czechs are trying to sell their version of the Russian Spider rocket.”

“Oh, yes,” said Zen. “Is it really any good?”

“I think your AMRAAM-pluses are still light-years ahead.”

Zen, who’d seen the reports and knew that what the colonel was saying was true, played devil’s advocate, drawing the officer out. It was always instructive to get the unvarnished opinions of other air forces, even when they agreed with you.

The waiter went to the wall and moved one of the stones. Zen watched as the stones near it popped out, revealing a panel that pulled out into a room divider. The stones were actually only a half inch thick, the facade to a conventional plasterboard wall.

“I wonder if they have a screen that comes down from the ceiling,” said Lynch.

“No, but they probably have a knight hidden behind some of the stones,” answered Zen. “They pop it out if you don’t pay your bill.”

Two men in suits came in the door. Broad-shouldered and very tall, they would have looked like security types even without the ill-concealed armored vests under their jackets. Wires curled to earpieces at the back of their necks. One of the men had a small attaché case, the sort used to make an Uzi-sized submachine gun more discreet.

The waiter came out to meet them.

“You’re part of the security detail for the minister?” asked the waiter.

“Where is the meeting to be held?” asked the man with the case.

“This way, gentlemen.”

The two men glanced at each other. The one without the case nodded, then went with the waiter. The other man went up toward the door.

Another entered. Zen looked at the security agent as he walked past. He looked familiar.

Stoner, he thought.

But of course it couldn’t be. This man was taller and broader and younger—not to mention alive. Breanna’s project had put the idea into his head. It was ridiculous.

Once more he remembered his phone.

“I just want to turn my phone on,” he told Lynch. “My daughter might need to reach me.”

“Go right ahead.”

Zen pulled out the phone and powered it up. It beeped at him, then beeped again, telling him he had messages.

“You will hand the phone over to me.”

Zen looked up with a start. The man who’d gone to the door now stood next to the table, holding a submachine gun pointed directly at him.

70

Kbely Airport

Breanna snugged her seat belt and looked out the window as the C–20 dropped toward the runway, catching a glimpse of Prague in the dim blue haze of early dawn. The buildings had a brownish hue that made them look like a set of miniatures rather than part of a real city.

The sound of the plane’s engines increased as the wheels touched down. As the pilot took the plane to the end of the runway and onto a taxiway to the terminal, Breanna gathered her things, her excitement at surprising her husband and daughter rising.

Besides the aircraft on display, a number of VIPs were arriving this morning, and Breanna’s aircraft had been assigned a parking spot just beyond an Antonov transport. Standing on the ladder at the door, she got her bearings, then went down in a semijog, her suitcase with her.

She was surprised to see Turk, waving at her near the other plane.

“Hey, boss!” yelled the pilot, who was standing with several other men. He was still dressed in his flight suit. “About time you got here.”

“Turk!”

“Had to hook with the maintainers,” said the pilot. He gestured toward the hangars. “They just got here ahead of you like five minutes. They’re going over the plane now.” He turned to the men he was with. “I want you to meet some friends of mine—this is Major Andrei Krufts—I met him a while back at a Red Flag. He’s a great Ukrainian fighter pilot. And this is his boss, General Josef. He’s in charge of the Ukrainian air force.”

Breanna suddenly felt underdressed and unprepared—she hadn’t even done her lipstick.

“General, nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand to the Ukrainian official.

“My pleasure, Ms. Stockard. We have always admired the work of Dreamland.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t believe you know our defense minister,” added the general as a tall, elderly gentleman approached from the stairway of the Antonov. “Dr. Gustov.”

“No, I don’t think we’ve met,” said Breanna.

Despite his age—Gustov was seventy-seven—he moved quickly across the tarmac. Dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, with a full head of jet black hair brushed straight back against his scalp, he held himself perfectly erect, with an athletic air. His face was smooth and his gestures elegant; Breanna thought he must have been quite a ladies’ man in his youth.

Perhaps even now.

“Dr. Gustav, allow me to introduce Breanna Stockard, a member of the U.S. Pentagon,” said General Josef.

The minister took her hand. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss it in the old-world style, but instead he held it and bowed his head slightly. It was just as charming.

“A pleasure, Ms. Stockard. You are with the Pentagon?”

“I’m the director of the Office of Technology.”

“Stockard—I know the name.”

“She was a member of Dreamland,” said the general.

“Ah, Dreamland,” said the minister. “We heard of your battles.”

“We still study the encounters,” said Major Krufts.

“When you faced the Chinese and flew over their capital, were you scared?” asked Minister Gustov.

“I think you may be talking about my father,” said Breanna. “I don’t think he was scared of anything. Is scared,” she said, realizing she had talked about him in the past tense. “But I did have a few encounters with them,” she said hastily. “Some of their pilots were quite good.”

“Who were the best pilots you encountered?” asked the general.

“Hard to say.” They had all been difficult, and Breanna didn’t like to rank them. She was asked the question a lot, though, so she gave the answer she usually did. “Probably the Indians. Their technology at the time was very underrated. They took a lot of Russian equipment and upgraded it tremendously. And they trained very effectively.”