The colonel didn't say anything, though it wasn't hard for Locusta to guess that he was thinking it would be difficult to pay for special medical attention; seeing a specialist outside of your home region was not easy to arrange.
"I think that this would be a special service that could be arranged through the army, through my office," added Lo-custa after just the right pause. "One of my men can handle the paperwork. A man in your position shouldn't have to worry about his mother."
"General, if that could be arranged—"
"There are no ifs," said Locusta grandly. "It is done. I will have it taken care of in the morning."
"I–I'm very, very grateful. If I can repay you—" "Repay me by being a good soldier." Locusta smiled as he hung up the phone.
Danny Freah poked his fork into the red lump at the middle of the plate, eyeing it suspiciously. His hosts' intentions were definitely good, but that wasn't going to make the meal taste any better. He pushed the prongs of his fork halfway into the lump — it went in suspiciously easily — then raised it slowly to his lips.
He caught a whiff of strong vinegar just before he put the unidentified lump into his mouth. But it was too late to reverse course — he pushed the food into his mouth and began chewing.
It tasted… not bad. The vinegar was mixed into a sauce that was like…
His taste buds couldn't quite find an appropriate comparison. He guessed the lump was actually a piece of beef, though the strong taste of the sauce made it impossible to identify. In any event, it was not inedible, and much better than some food he'd eaten while on deployment.
"You like?" asked Lieutenant Roma, the leader of the Romanian army platoon Danny was working with. Roma had watched his entire taste testing adventure from across the table.
"Oh yeah," said Danny, swallowing quickly. "Very tasty." Sitting across from him, Boston suppressed a smile. "More?" offered Roma.
"No, no, my plate's still half full," said Danny. "Plenty for me. Sergeant Boston — he probably wants more." "Hey, no, I don't want to be a pig," said Boston. "Pig?" said the lieutenant.
"Oink, oink," said Boston.
"Animal?" Lieutenant Roma's pronunciation made the word sound like anik-ma-mule.
"It's an expression," said Danny. "When you eat more than you should, you're a pig."
The lieutenant nodded, said something in Romanian, then turned to the rest of his men and began explaining what Danny had said. They all nodded earnestly.
The Romanian platoon was housed in a pair of farmhouses south of Route E581, about three miles from Tutova. From the looks of things, Danny guessed that the buildings had been requisitioned from their owner or owners fairly recently. The walls of both were covered with rectangles of lighter-colored paint, presumably the spots where photos or paintings had hung. The furniture, old but sturdy, bore the marks of generations of wear. The uneven surface of the wooden dining room table had scrapes and scuff marks at each place setting, and the sideboard was topped by a trio of yellowed doilies, used by the troops as trivets for the serving plates.
Dinner included a helping of local beer for each man. The tall glass of golden pilsner was not enough to get anyone drunk, but it did add a pleasant glow as the plates were cleared. Danny, Boston, the platoon lieutenant, and the NCOs retreated to a nearby room to talk over plans for the next few days. Danny intended to stay with the unit for another day at least, so he could get a feel for how it operated in the field. At that point, he'd leave Boston to complete the training and move to the Romanian Second Army Corps headquarters, where he would set up a temporary school. The most promising men from this unit would accompany him as assistant instructors. He hadn't worked out all the details yet, but he thought he would send Boston to some of the units in the field to judge how the training was actually working.
Some of the younger men spoke very good English, and when their lieutenant excused himself to take a phone call,
Danny asked them to describe where they'd grown up and what their childhoods were like. Most came from small rural villages in the southwest. To them, this part of Romania was almost a different country, more closely associated with neighboring Moldova than Romania.
Before they could explain the reason, Lieutenant Roma returned, his face grim.
"There has been a sighting of a guerrilla force three kilometers from here," he said. "Muster the men."
Stoner realized he had made a mistake speaking of revenge to Sorina as soon as the words came out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. All he could do was brood about it, replaying the conversation in his mind as he struggled to find the key to her cooperation.
Sorina Viorica wasn't motivated by revenge, nor by money, the two most likely motivations for a spy. She wanted justice, though her sense of it was distorted. She could rail about a woman starving to death in the streets, but not do anything practical about it, like sharing her sandwich.
She'd railed against her movement, now taken over — in her eyes, at least — by the Russians and fools. But was that enough to make her betray them? Because it was betrayal, as she had said.
Certainly as long as she thought of the movement as a just one, she would not move further against it.
The Russians were a different story. But her knowledge of them was limited. Or at least, what she thought she knew was limited.
Stoner spent the day trying to flesh out the tiny tidbits she had given him, running down information on the Russians and their network in the country. The military attache, like all military attaches, was suspected of being a spymaster. He had worked in Georgia, the former Soviet Republic, possibly encouraging the opposition forces there before coming to Romania eight months before.
Right before the first CIA officer's death.
A coincidence?
Stoner spent the afternoon with a man who claimed to be the only witness to one of the deaths, a town police chief who had just moved to the capital and claimed to fear for his life. The police chief had been down the street when the car bomb that killed the CIA officer exploded. The American was on his way to meet him to learn about the guerrillas, and the chief was filled with guilt, thinking the bomb had been meant for him. According to the chief, there was no doubt that the guerrillas had planted it. Despite gentle probing by Stoner, he never mentioned the Russians, and when Stoner brought them up directly, the chief seemed to think it was a ridiculous idea.
After the interview, Stoner returned to the embassy. He'd asked for access to NSA taps on Russian communications from the country. This was not a routine request, but the nature of Stoner's business here facilitated matters. One of the desk people back at Langley had been assigned to help review the information. She'd forwarded some of the most promising intercepts, starting with a year ago. Paging through them, Stoner realized there was little direct evidence of anything. What was interesting was the fact that the number of communications had increased sharply after the new attache arrived.
Not a smoking gun. Just a point of interest.
There was still considerable information to sort through. Stoner decided to leave it to his assistant in Langley. He emerged from the secure communications room as perplexed as ever, sure that whatever was going on lay just beyond his ability to grasp it.
It was already dark, hours later than he had thought. He caught a ride over to the center of town, then took a cab to his hotel, checking along the way to make sure he hadn't picked up a tail.
Coming into his hotel room, he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror opposite the door. His eyelids were stooped over, making his whole face sag. He needed to sleep.