Privately, she thought this move by Gennadiy Gryzlov, her occasional lover, was far more likely to anger the Romanian president than to woo him. Although she rarely sought out details of Moscow’s illegal covert operations, only a fool could fail to draw the obvious conclusion. This was no different than having someone point a gun at your head and then offer to protect you. From himself. For a price.
But that was typical of Gryzlov, she decided. The Kremlin leader handled diplomacy the way he made love — brutally, without any attempt at subtlety or refinement. While she counted herself among those attracted by the younger man’s displays of wild, almost unhinged passion, she strongly doubted many others on the world stage shared her attitude.
Somewhat to Titeneva’s astonishment, Dumitru chose not to react with open fury to his Russian counterpart’s newest bit of thinly disguised blackmail. She could see the anger in his eyes, but very little of it sounded in his voice. If anything, he seemed more tired and disgusted than outraged.
“Tell President Gryzlov I find his candor… clarifying,” he said. “May I ask how long I am being given to consider your government’s proposition?”
“This is not an ultimatum, Mr. President,” Titeneva said, feigning surprise. “There is no artificial deadline.”
“How reassuring,” Dumitru said coldly.
She spread her hands. “Of course, it is also true that international events are moving with great speed. Proposed commitments of valuable resources that make sense on one day may seem unwise, or unnecessary, the next.”
The Romanian met her gaze levelly. “Naturally.”
Titeneva got to her feet. “I am expected to return to Moscow tonight.” She stared across the table challengingly. “As a matter of common sense, I would advise you not to delay too long in deciding to accept our proposals.” She smiled pleasantly, again assuming the role of an experienced diplomat rather than that of an extortionist’s go-between. “I would be truly sorry if the relationship between our two great nations suffered because of any lingering ambiguity.”
“You can safely assume that I completely understand President Gryzlov,” Dumitru said bluntly. With equally contrived civility, he rose to escort her out of the palace. “You may assure him that I will consider his propositions with great care and in precisely the same spirit of friendship with which they were made.”
So he will refuse us, Titeneva realized. Inwardly, she shrugged. So be it. For a moment, she was tempted to emulate Quintus Fabius, the Roman ambassador to Carthage who had openly offered its oligarchs the choice between war and peace. But why bother with such drama? she thought. All too soon, she was sure, Alexe Dumitru would have ample reason to regret his pigheadedness. Then again, so would the Pole Piotr Wilk and all the others across Eastern and central Europe who had joined him in defying Moscow.
ELEVEN
Hunter “Boomer” Noble swiped his key card through the door lock, waited for it to beep softly in approval, and stepped into the vast, dimly lit hangar building. Waiting for his eyes to adjust, he tugged off his gloves and unzipped his jacket. It felt good to come inside out of the icy, fifteen-knot breeze blowing across the long airport runway. This late in the year, it got decidedly chilly out on the high desert of north-central Nevada.
Gradually, his vision adapted, revealing more than a dozen aircraft of varying sizes and shapes. Hangar Five was used to store some of the many experimental planes designed and built by Sky Masters since it went into business. Most were the brainchildren of Jonathan Masters, the company’s founder and chief scientist. His tragic death five years before at the hands of domestic terrorists had left a hole in Sky Masters’ reputation for high-tech innovation and invention that Boomer and his boss, retired U.S. Army colonel Jason Richter, were trying hard to fill.
“But damn, boss, you left some mighty big shoes behind,” Boomer murmured, staring along the rows of plastic-shrouded aircraft. Jon Masters had been brilliant, maddening, quirky, childish, and a hell of a lot of fun to work with. From day to day, you never knew if he was going to come into the lab brimming over with a new concept for a single-stage-to-orbit space plane or with the roughed-out specs for a radar system so sensitive it could pick up the flutter of a bat’s wings at fifty nautical miles.
Jason Richter, Sky Masters’ chief executive officer, was incredibly talented and quirky as hell in his own way, but he would never be another Jon Masters. You only ran across a guy like that once in a generation or two, and then only if you were very lucky.
He glanced down at his phone. Speaking of Richter, where the heck was he? According to the text he’d sent asking Boomer to meet him in Hangar Five, he should already be here.
Three figures stepped out of the shadows on his right and came toward him into the light. Two were men, the third a young woman. Jason Richter was not with them.
“It’s nice to see you again, Dr. Noble,” a smooth, assured voice said.
With a sense of almost resigned incredulity, Boomer recognized Kevin Martindale. Jesus, he thought bitterly. Wasn’t there any level of security that could stop this guy? Or at least give some warning that he was on the way?
Martindale, a former president of the United States and current head of Scion, might still be one of Sky Masters’ best customers — no matter how many wrathful executive orders Stacy Anne Barbeau signed — but the ease with which he popped in and out of even the company’s most secure facilities was beginning to mightily piss Boomer off. He sighed. The ability to hack into the company’s text-messaging system was just one more item on a lengthening list of spooky stunts the Scion chief seemed to delight in.
“My apologies for the small deception,” Martindale said with a devilish twinkle. “But I thought making an appointment through regular channels might cause something of a stir in all the wrong places.”
With an effort, Boomer controlled his annoyance. He was pretty sure the other man took perverse pleasure in startling the crap out of him, so maybe it was just best to let his irritation go. “Yeah, that’s true enough, sir,” he said with a dutiful smile. “I guess being on President Barbeau’s ‘Most Hated’ list must cramp your normal travel schedule a little.”
“It is occasionally inconvenient,” Martindale agreed. “Still, my companions and I manage to make do.”
Boomer’s gaze moved past the gray-haired Scion CEO to a much taller, broad-shouldered young man. His smile widened into a genuine grin. “Hey, Brad! Nice to see you again. You’re looking pretty good for a stateless pirate or bloodthirsty mercenary or whatever nasty name the Russians are calling you these days.”
Brad McLanahan smiled back, though Boomer thought the expression seemed a bit forced. No real surprise there, he decided. It must suck to find yourself effectively exiled from the United States, able to return only surreptitiously, sliding along in the slippery wake of someone like Martindale.
“It’s a living, Boomer,” Brad said quietly. “Besides, the Iron Wolf Squadron is a top-notch outfit — and Poland is a great country, one well worth fighting for.”
That simple, heartfelt declaration earned Brad a dazzling smile from Martindale’s other companion, a slender, dark-haired young woman.
Boomer’s never-too-deeply-buried horndog instincts kicked into high gear. Now, there was one mighty fine-looking lady, he thought. He straightened up, squaring his own shoulders. “Why, hi there, ma’am,” he drawled, sticking out a hand to shake hers. “The name’s Hunter Noble, but you can call me ‘Boomer.’ I’m the chief cook and bottle washer around this joint, except when I’m flying one of our S-19 Midnight shuttles to space and back.”