Revolution (12 page)

“Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot,” said Samson, a little stiffly. “We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks.”

Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK. Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.

“I'd love it, Terrill. Let's do it.”

Bucharest, Romania
1550

S
TONER TOOK
S
ORINA
V
IORICA BACK TO THE SAFE HOUSE
in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal. Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.

Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection—it would be too easy to track communications.

“This is my prison?” said Sorina when they reached the back room.

“It's not a prison.”

“Oh, it's a resort. My mistake.”

Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he'd been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.

“And what do you expect me to do here?” asked Sorina, still standing.

“Tell me more about the Russians.”

She didn't respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head—it was a kind of traitor's regret, trying to pull back from what she'd already decided to do.

He had to reel her in gently.

“We can get something to eat,” he suggested.

“I'm not hungry.”

“If you dye your hair, you won't be recognized,” he told her. “You may not be recognized now.”

She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn't be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She'd insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren't being followed.

“You want me to go out and get you some food?” he asked. “For later.”

Sorina shrugged, then added. “So I am a prisoner?”

“No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want.”

She frowned.

“Unless you'd rather go to the embassy.”

“No. I am not going there at all.”

That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.

“And what are you doing?” she asked.

“I'll get this looked at.” He gestured toward his side. “And I have to talk to some people. I'll be back tomorrow.”

“When?”

“Afternoon, maybe. I don't know.”

“What if I'm not here?”

“I'll be disappointed.”

She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn't been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.

“Well, then I'm leaving,” she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.

He knew she was testing him, but he wasn't sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair—too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn't get up, he'd fall asleep.

Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if
she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.

The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.

If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.

 

“S
O THE
R
USSIANS ARE DEFINITELY INVOLVED
?”

“She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea.”

“Is she going to give you more information?”

Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn't sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.

“But the Russians are definitely involved?” repeated Fairchild.

“That's what she claims.”

“If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that'd be quite a feather in your cap.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn't need any more feathers in his cap.

“Who are the Russians?”

“From the description, it's Spetsnaz,” said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB. “She gave me two names on the way down. First names.”

“Useless,” said Fairchild. “And probably false.”

“Yeah.”

“Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it,” added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. “When are you seeing her again?”

“Soon.” Stoner hadn't told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she'd run away, it'd be obvious soon enough.

“The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if they put a priority on the mission,” said Fairchild. “If George and Sandra were close to something.”

Stoner didn't think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world. But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman's art, but in Stoner's experience it was a vicious business.

“I'll tell the Romanians what happened to their men,” said Fairchild, rising. “Don't sweat it.”

“OK.”

“Their guns weren't fired at all?”

Stoner shook his head.

“I may make them…I may make them sound a little braver than they were.”

Who knew how brave they'd been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?

“Sure,” said Stoner. “Say they saved my life.”

Bacau, Romania
1600

G
ENERAL
L
OCUSTA MADE SURE THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE
was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.

“Still having trouble with the rebels, I hear,” said Karis as soon as he picked up. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“I can deal with the rebels. At the moment, they're useful.”

“So I would guess. You're getting even more men?”

“I've been promised.”

“You have to move soon. There are rumblings.”

Locusta cleared his throat, but Karis did not take the hint.

“Some of our backers think an even stronger hand is needed,” said Karis. “By failing to deal the rebels a death blow—”

“I told you. I am dealing with the rebels.”

“The gas line will be very valuable once you are in charge. The revenue.”

“I would not want anyone to overhear you speaking like this,” said Locusta, finally losing his patience.

“There is no problem on my side. Is there on yours?”

Locusta needed Karis—it would be extremely difficult if not impossible to move on the capital if his troops opposed him. He also trusted him; they had been friends for years, and his fellow general hated President Voda even more than he did. Still, Locusta found Karis's impatient arrogance hard to stomach. He'd always been headstrong, and while it would be unfair to call him impetuous, he showed less caution than Locusta felt he should.

“There are no problems,” Locusta assured him. “But we must be careful.”

“Yes. So?”

“I am almost ready,” said Locusta.

“The Americans?”

“They can be dealt with.”

“Good. We are ready. But you must move quickly.”

The general hung up without adding that he was moving as quickly as he could.

Dreamland
0700

D
OG STEPPED BACK AS THE
P
RESIDENT SETTLED INTO THE
big chair next to Zen and began manipulating the control stick. No kid with a computer game on Christmas morn
ing had a broader smile than Martindale's as he took over control of the plane, pushing it into a climb straight overhead.

Dog asked himself if he truly deserved the Medal of Honor. Only a few dozen members of the Air Force had ever won one. Nearly all, he knew, had given their lives in combat.

He'd been prepared to do that as well—he'd come very close, within a few feet, but survived.

Death wasn't a criteria for the medal. But he somehow felt he was an imposter, a pretender who didn't deserve it.

The President rose from his chair, turning the aircraft back over to Zen to land. People began to applaud. Dog's thoughts continued to drift. Breanna was wheeled up. He smiled at her, then glanced at Zen, who was beaming himself. They were good kids.

Old enough to have kids themselves by now. Though for some reason he wasn't exactly looking forward to being called
Grandpa
.

“The country, the world, owe you a great deal,” said the President, beginning his speech. “I can't tell you how proud, how very proud and honored I am to be here.”

 

J
ED FELT THE VIBRATION OF HIS
B
LACK
B
ERRY JUST AS
the crowd began to applaud. He pulled it out and thumbed up the message. It was from Colonel Hash, the NSC's military liaison.

Jed slipped the BlackBerry back into his pocket and immediately began sidling toward the side of the audience area. He tried to appear nonchalant, pasting a bored expression on his face before double-timing up the boarding ladder.

The communications officer aboard
Air Force One
nodded at him as he went into the small compartment and sat down at the machine reserved for NSC use. Jed punched in his
passwords and waited a few seconds while the computer connected him with his secure account.

The CIA had forwarded a report from one of its officers in the field, Mark Stoner, and endorsed by the Romanian station chief. Stoner had made contact with a member of the Romanian “resistance movement.” The source claimed that the attack on the pipeline the night before had not been authorized by the rebels' governing committee. She believed that it had been either instigated or made directly by Russian special forces units. She also blamed the Russians for the murders of three CIA officers in the country over the past several months.

There was additional information from the ambassador at Bucharest, indicating that the damage to the Romanian pipeline would be fixed within a few days. The Romanian government had tried to keep a lid on information about the attack, but someone claiming to be a spokesman for the guerrillas had posted photos on the Web earlier that day and contacted the Romanian and German media.

And the country's president, Alin Voda, had called the ambassador on his personal line and requested American air assistance “to hunt the criminals before they make their next attack.”

Jed backed out of his account and went to find his boss.

 

“I
KNOW THERE HAVE BEEN A LOT OF RUMORS ABOUT A
Medal of Honor for Colonel Bastian,” said President Martindale, wrapping up his speech. “Let me just say this—they're true.”

The audience, which had applauded politely a few times as Martindale spoke, erupted with a loud and unanimous hurrah. He stepped back and gestured to Dog, signaling that he should step forward to the mike.

“I really don't deserve this honor,” said Dog, taking the microphone and addressing the others at the base. “You do. You all do. You've made my time here fantastic. Mr. President, there's no better command on the face of the earth.”

“We have another update from Romania,” whispered Philip Freeman, stepping up toward the President. “It may interest you.”

“Let's discuss it on the plane.”

“Yes, sir.”

A few minutes later, aboard
Air Force One,
the President listened to Jed review the message from the CIA.

Meanwhile, a quick scan of the networks and news wire services showed that the energy market was already reacting to the news of the attack. Natural gas prices had shot up nearly thirty percent, and petroleum futures were trading ten dollars higher—which would have an impact on America as well as Europe.

“We have to deal with this forcefully,” said Martindale. “If the Russians think they can get away without consequence, they'll continue to attack.”

“That's only from one source,” protested Secretary of State Hartmann. “And a prejudiced one.”

“I don't see what a guerrilla would gain by blaming the Russians,” said Chastain.

“We're not there—we don't know what the politics are.”