“There’s going to be plenty of security in Kiev,” he said.
“That’s not the point.”
“Hey, it’s not a problem. She doesn’t have to go. Caroline can stay here.”
Caroline was Breanna’s niece, a college-age student who lived nearby and often babysat for them.
“I don’t know if she can,” said Breanna.
“Well then her mom can. You know there won’t be a problem.”
“I don’t know that at all.”
“Hey, I have an idea,” said Zen. “What if Caroline and Teri came with me to Prague, and stayed there while I went to Kiev? That would be great for Caroline, right? She’d love it. The art? Right up her alley. I’m going to call her right now.”
“You really want to take Teri out of school?”
“To visit Prague? In a heartbeat.”
“I don’t know what gets into you sometimes.” Breanna practically leapt off the couch, stalking past him to the kitchen.
Zen took a deep breath, struggling to keep his own anger in check. Prague wasn’t a bad idea at all — he’d only be away from the girls for a day and a half, at most. Caroline had gone with them to Hong Kong just the year before, spending two days alone with Teri while he and Breanna flew to Macau on a secret government mission for the State Department.
More like a secret junket, since it only consisted of having lunch with a hard-to-deal-with Chinese trade official, but that wasn’t the point. Caroline and Teri would be fine.
He rolled into the kitchen. Breanna had taken out the small tub of Ben & Jerry’s she kept in the freezer, and was eating it straight out of the carton.
“I’m not going to ask you about the Stoner operation,” said Zen.
“Good. You shouldn’t.”
“You think you can save him?”
Breanna stared at him.
“If it’s Stoner—” said Zen.
“I know who you’re talking about,” she said sharply.
“Are you going to try—”
“Don’t interfere, Jeff.”
“Did you tell Danny?”
Breanna pressed her lips together. He was sure from the reaction that she had, though he wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what tipped him off.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know that it’s Stoner,” she said coldly.
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you fix him?”
“Jesus.”
“Can you?”
“I don’t know.” Breanna tossed her spoon into the sink, pulled out the garbage can from beneath the kitchen island and dropped the empty ice cream tub into it. Then she stormed out of the room.
“That went well,” Zen said to the empty kitchen.
22
The rain bit at his face as if it were acid. He pushed up the hill, ignoring the sideward slip of his feet on the slick pavement. He pushed to feel the burn in his thighs, the strain of a muscle — to get feeling, any feeling.
Pain was a strange condition. On the one hand it was always there, like the skin that covered his body, the thick clumps of hair, the scars. On the other hand, it was a sensation, something beyond the dull haze he moved through every day, the black swamp of his life. To feel the sharpness, the pressure and strain — it could be savored.
Was it pleasure?
He didn’t know pleasure. He knew where he was, he knew his duty.
The Black Wolf pushed up the hill, arms pumping now. He was breathing hard in the darkness. If there had been houses near the road, he would have woken anyone inside. He was making good time, at a strong pace — an Olympic pace.
Run, a voice told him. Run.
He crested the hill and turned to the left, entering a wide, expansive field. His feet found the dirt path by habit; it was too dark to see.
The rain increased. He didn’t like the water. He’d almost died in water — in many ways he had died in water, even though the doctors said the coldness had helped. He still hated water.
The farmhouse was just ahead. He increased his pace, pounding through the mud.
Five hundred meters from the house a light came on in the kitchen. The light, part of his security system, told him everything was OK.
The farm was secluded and out of the way, but in his business one didn’t take chances. Death was inevitable; every moment led you closer. The question was whether you might force some control over it. That was the aim of his security systems.
The Black Wolf ran full strength to the back door of the house. When he was five meters away, the latch unhooked. He reached down with his hand, swinging the door open on a dead trot.
He stopped abruptly on the threshold and closed the door behind him. Taking off his running shoes, he began peeling off the outer layers of his clothes, throwing them into the nearby washing machine. Stripped to his compression shorts, he went inside to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before hitting the shower.
There was a message on the cell phone he used for work. It was a text message advertising a restaurant in London. Anyone receiving or intercepting it would think it was a junk text. To the Black Wolf, it was anything but.
He poured himself the coffee, then opened his laptop. Booting up, he inserted a small satellite modem into the USB port. When the computer was ready, he opened a Web browser and surfed to Google. He typed in the name of the latest punk-rap band taking Europe by storm, TekDog.
Google gave six hundred pages of hits. He went to their official site, backed out to Google again, then went to the fourth fan site listed in the search results.
The site had photos and music and show listings. It also had a small section titled Nudes&Rumors.
He clicked on it, then scrolled to the third entry.
Heard on the street: band members planning new shows in France for next month. Details soonest.
Still in his underwear, the Black Wolf took his cell phone and called a number that began with a French country code.
“This is Wolf,” he said as the connection went through. He spoke in English.
“The old doctor has become a problem. It must be dealt with.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately. There have been inquiries. You should be cautious.”
“My treatments?”
“We have made other arrangements. We understand they are getting much closer together. That will not be a problem.”
“Good,” he said.
The sudden emotion he felt surprised him. It bordered on elation.
He closed the phone and went to take a shower.
23
Hera smiled at the museum guard as he came around the corner.
He didn’t smile back.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in Ukrainian. Hera didn’t speak Ukrainian, but his meaning was obvious.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“You are in a restricted area. What’s in your hand?”
She had been about to place the bug in the fire hose housing when she was interrupted. It was still in her hand, the door to the hose compartment open a few inches.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Your hand,” repeated the guard, grabbing her arm.
“Hera, dear, did you find the restroom? Oh!” McEwen appeared behind the guard. She was stooped over and looked even older than she was. “Hera?”
The guard turned, still holding Hera’s hand.
“What are you doing with my granddaughter?” asked McEwen in Ukrainian.
“She is trespassing down a restricted corridor.”
“A restricted corridor? In a museum?”