“Mr. Reid, I hope you are not betting your pension money,” said the President, seeming to spot him for the first time.
“It wouldn’t be much to lose,” said Reid.
“It’s the money he got from selling guns to the Contras that he doesn’t want to lose,” quipped James. “You notice he doesn’t bet that.”
The President looked over and scowled at him. Her husband laughed.
“Ignore them, Mr. Reid,” said the President. “They’re just jealous of your good fortune. I wonder — could you spare me a moment? I have a few questions, now that you’re here.”
“Of course. The way my luck has been going, I’m glad to take a break.”
Reid got up and followed the President down the hall to the study.
“You have something new for me?” asked the President, sitting down in a chair next to her desk. It was a reproduction of a piece of furniture that James Madison was said to have brought into the White House. The original was in a Smithsonian storeroom.
“We think we’ve found a complex the Wolves use,” said Reid. “In Moldova.”
“Interesting.”
“We’d like to send Whiplash in to find out. But that may involve bloodshed.”
“In Moldova.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. If they are there, striking them now — before the conference — would preempt the possibility of their attack. The conference could go off without a hitch.”
“How good is the evidence?”
Reid laid it out.
“Sketchy,” said the President.
“At this stage, things often are.”
“Yes.”
The President leaned back in the chair. She stared at the wall behind him, her eyes facing a portrait of Teddy Roosevelt, one of her favorite predecessors.
“Can we pull this off without being detected?” she asked. “In and out, no complications? No witnesses?”
Reid had given the question considerable thought. An American raid in any foreign country would create a major incident, even if it went off without a hitch. He believed that Whiplash could get into the compound and complete its mission, but there was no way to guarantee it could be done without attracting attention, especially if the Wolves chose to resist. And everything indicated they would.
“I can’t guarantee that nothing would come out,” said Reid. “There is always some possibility of failure.”
The political dynamics were difficult. President Todd was trying to wean Moldova toward the West, as she had done with Ukraine. But the government was on even shakier grounds, with a poor economy, and Russia anxious to prevent further defections to NATO.
Go in and out quietly, and no one would complain. No one would even know. Strike too loudly or trip over the wrong contingency, and the Moldovan government would be forced to renounce the attack, and the U.S., playing right into Russia’s hands. And if they didn’t, popular opinion would surely turn against the Moldovan government, an even better development for Russia.
Those considerations don’t outweigh the necessity of striking, Reid thought, but he could understand the President’s hesitation.
And he had a solution.
“I was speaking with the men in the field before coming over tonight,” he said. “It turns out that a very large amount of marijuana is grown on the site where we would like to strike.”
“Marijuana?”
“Quite a cash crop in Moldova, as it happens.” Reid reached into the pocket of his jacket and took out two sheets of paper. They contained satellite photos of the property and the marijuana. He handed them to the President. “I wasn’t aware of its importance until today. But apparently the farmers do quite well. They seem to supply much of Europe. There are almost two acres of it here,” he added. “You can see in these photos. The leaves are very distinct. They are pointy, with five—”
“Jonathon, I hope you don’t think I have no idea what marijuana looks like,” said the President. “This is the Wolves’ compound?”
“Yes.”
“They sell it?”
“Possibly. They may use it on their own — medicinally, shall we say?”
Reid wasn’t exactly sure why the plant was being grown there. While two acres was a lot, given the security measures and their location, they could easily grow considerably more. That seemed to rule out the possibility that the Wolves were running a drug operation on the side, though there was no way to tell. It might even be a way to explain the secrecy surrounding the property, if neighbors became too curious.
“If we told the Moldovan government that this was a drug operation,” he said, “we would give them cover for anything that happened.”
“Under what pretense does an American military force make a drug raid?” asked the President skeptically.
“As part of a NATO task force operating under UN auspices,” said Reid. “As directed by the UN last year. It’s a fig leaf, but it is authorized. The European Union has been pushing for more antidrug enforcement actions.”
“When do you tell them?”
“Right before the raid.”
“What if they want to come along?” the President asked.
“We let them. Once the place is secure. Then we can use Moldovan facilities to hold the Wolves until they can be extradited for murder. Assuming they survive the raid.”
“There’s a place where they can be held?”
“I’ve spoken to our station chief in the capital. He’s confident they could be held at a Moldovan military base. We’d only need to have them stay until we had charges ready in Poland for the murders there. That should only take a few days. It would avoid having to take them to Ukraine on attempted charges. We also wouldn’t have to reveal how we got the evidence against them. It’s much better than taking them to one of our bases.”
“Granted,” said the President. “But what do we do if the Moldovans won’t cooperate?”
“We’ll be back at the same starting point,” said Reid. “You will have to decide whether to proceed without their permission. But then they’ll at least think this was about drugs. And the Russians will as well.”
Reid assumed that the Moldovan government had been penetrated by Russian spies.
“I’d suggest you make that decision beforehand,” he added. “And that we only proceed if we’re prepared to go alone.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Our station chief reminded me that the Moldovan government received thirty million euros in enforcement money from the E.U. Drug Fund six months ago, without anything to show for it. This will allow them to pretend that they are quite on top of things.”
“You must be very good at poker,” said the President.
“I hold my own.”
“Go. All the way. Make it work.”
33
The Nationals took it hard, losing 7–2. They were never really in the game, getting clobbered with a five-run first inning.
Just as well, thought Zen as he drove home. He didn’t have to invest much emotion in the game, only to see them lose. And Senator Dirks was an admirable guest, insisting on paying for the food and the single beer Zen allowed himself at the games when he had to drive home.
All the lights were on in the house as he drove up. That was unusual. Breanna generally holed up in bed the nights he was out at games, either with work or with a book or a movie. Usually he found her out like a light, her computer or Kindle lying next to her.
Maybe she wants to apologize, he thought. Or maybe she just left the lights on.
The smell of coffee as he rolled himself up the ramp from the garage tipped him off that it was probably none of the above. And sure enough, she was sitting in the kitchen, frowning at a laptop.