There were thirty soldiers in the rear of the helicopter, along with two of the prisoners, a dozen boxes from the church, and the two footlockers. There were also several bodies stacked at the back. The Aerospatiale was designed to hold about twenty-five men, counting the crew; the extra weight slowed it down dramatically.
Brasov returned, a frown on his face.
“We will stay very low to the ground,” he said, shouting in Stoner’s ear. “They may not see us on their radar. But it will be tight.”
The helicopter suddenly veered hard to the left. Stoner had trouble staying on his feet. The chopper ran a tight zigzag across the fields, the pilot trying to get as close as possible to the trees and buildings so the Aerospatiale would blend into their radar returns and be lost to the MiGs. It was a time-honored solution to the problem of escaping more powerful aircraft.
The problem was, the aircraft they were trying to dodge had look-down radar specifically designed to counter that tactic. And the French-made helicopter wasn’t the most maneuverable chopper in the air.
Stoner realized they were going to be caught. They had to do something desperate — sacrifice themselves maybe, to save the others.
“We’re not going to make it,” he told Brasov finally. “We can’t outrun them.”
The colonel nodded grimly.
“A mother bird when its nest is being attacked pretends to be wounded, drawing the predators away,” Stoner continued. “You could do the same — have one of the helicopters peel off, get the MiGs interested, then land. Everyone runs for it — the MiGs come down and investigate. The other choppers get away. We make our way home by foot.”
Instead of answering, Brasov went forward to the cockpit. Stoner glanced around the cabin. The troops were quiet now, aware they were being pursued.
“You are full of good ideas, Mr. Stoner,” said Brasov, returning. Then he added, “The Russian aircraft are almost on us.”
“How far is the border?”
The colonel just shook his head.
“I would not ask my men to make a sacrifice I was unwilling to make myself,” he said.
“Neither would I,” said Stoner. He glanced around the cabin as Brasov spoke to the pilots. It was one thing to risk his own death, another to risk those of the men around him. He’d just saved a bunch of them. Undoubtedly they were thinking about their families, about getting home, and now he was dooming them.
Colonel Bastian was under orders not to interfere. Bastian wasn’t exactly known for following orders, but in this case he might not have any choice. He was too far away to intercept the MiGs.
Still, Stoner found himself wishing he would.
The helicopter popped up suddenly. Stoner fell back against the bulkhead, then slipped and fell on the deck. Two of the Romanian commandos helped him to his feet.
One of them said something in Romanian. Stoner thought he was telling him not to lose hope. He nodded.
Never lose hope. There’s always something.
Something.
He grabbed the spar as the helicopter whirled hard into the turn. The pilot had spotted a small clearing on the hillside ahead. He launched flares in hopes of decoying the Russian missiles, then pushed the nose of the helicopter down, aiming for the hill.
The helicopter blades, buffeted by the force of the turn, made a loud whomp-whomp-whomp sound, as if they were going to tear themselves off.
Everyone inside the helicopter was silent, knowing what was going on outside but not really knowing, ready but not ready.
“When we get out, run!” Brasov yelled. “Run from the helicopter. As soon as you can, make your best way over the border. It is seven miles southwest. Seven miles! A few hours’ walk.”
The men closest to him nodded, grim-faced.
The helicopter pitched hard to the left.
“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.
“You, too,” said Stoner.
“Until we meet again.”
Brasov held out his hand.
As Stoner reached for it he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of Breanna Stockard, who’d parachuted with him into the water. They spent the night together in the rain, without any hope of rescue. Now he saw her smiling face in the aircraft just after they were picked up.
He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.
There was a flash above him, and a loud clap like thunder.
And then there was nothing, no memory, no thought, no pain or regret.
Needs
2
You are invincible.
The man they called Black Wolf heard the voice in his head, the words playing on an endless loop. He tried to block them out but could not. They were always there, part of an inner voice he could not control.
But there were many things he could not control.
You are invincible.
He was not invincible at all, nor was he a demigod, though some treated him as one. On the contrary, he knew very well the limits of his abilities, and had constant reminders of his mortality.
But he didn’t care much for what other people thought of him. He didn’t care much for other people at all.
The Black Wolf had obligations which he could not escape. He had duties and assignments. But he considered himself separate from them, separate from everything. They called him Black Wolf. He called himself… nothing.
The man they called the Black Wolf moved up the stairs to the balcony of the Konzerthaus Berlin, the famous orchestra house in eastern Berlin. A large crowd had come to hear a young Czech prodigy play a selection of Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach with the Konzerthausorchester Berlin. Barely fifteen, the pianist was already famous and celebrated; it was said his music would move stones to tears. But a good part of his fame — or was it notoriety? — came from theatrical touches.
He dressed as a pseudogoth. His head was shaved, and while he wore black tie to the concert, he could generally be counted on to pull off his jacket and shirt at the end of the show and toss it to the crowd. Sometimes he would throw his trademark black T-shirt as well, and take his final bows bare-chested.
Witnessing such a spectacle, a reviewer for Le Monde had recently counted five tattoos in various spots on the pianist’s upper body. The prodigy had responded in a Facebook posting that he would gladly show her the rest at a private concert.
This wasn’t particularly adventurous stuff in other genres, but it was a revolution in classical music. The young man’s shows were always sold out, and generally attracted a much wider ranging audience than the typical symphony concert.
Wolf found his seat in the balcony just as the lights dimmed. He listened impassively as the program started. A Mozart selection warmed up the audience. The notes darted back and forth in an intricate web, echoing themes, underlining them, then taking them apart. If many had come for the show, it was the music that transported them. The young man with the shaved head and tattoos played as artfully as anyone who had graced the stage since it was built. In his hands, the music became immortal.
The Black Wolf wasn’t interested in transcendence. He scanned the audience, looking for Helmut Dalitz. For Dalitz was scheduled to have his own reckoning with mortality before the program ended.