"We can share the information that he's alive," said Hart-man.
"If it's him."
Under other circumstances, the President might have been amused by the role reversal that his two cabinet ministers had undergone: Ordinarily, Chastain was in favor of intervening no matter how complicated the situation, and Hartman was for sitting on the sidelines no matter how clear the case for action. But over the last few days, Romania and the gas line had become so critical to Europe's future that Martindale was hardly in a mood to be anything other than worried.
While he believed that all countries were best governed by democracies, he knew foreign democracies would not always act in America's best interest. It could be argued that a stable Romania was much more important to the United States, and to Europe, than one with a weak and divided government. In the long run a takeover by the military might not be bad; for one thing, it would probably bring a change in spending priorities that would fund better defense to protect the pipeline.
Still, a military coup in Romania would kill any hope for NATO and EU membership, and add greatly to the sense of instability currently sweeping the continent. The new regime might also veto Martindale's tentative arrangements with Voda to utilize bases in the south of the country, where Mar tindale hoped to shift some forces from Germany to bring them closer to the Middle East and Iran.
"If we say Voda is alive and he turns up dead, we'll be crucified," said Chastain.
"But if he is alive and he needs our help," countered Freeman, "we should give it."
"How?" said Chastain.
"Dreamland."
"Even Dreamland can't take on the entire Romanian army."
"Maybe not," said Martindale, rejoining the conversation. "But they could rescue Voda. If he's alive. If they found him."
Philip Freeman came into the room. He shook his head— the Russians had refused to communicate with him so far. Martindale explained what he was thinking.
"Very dangerous, Mr. President," said Freeman.
"Worth the risk," said Hartman immediately. "We take him out of harm's way, then let the Romanians sort it all out. We'll be the heroes."
"Or the people caught in the middle, catching hell from both sides," said the President. "But let's see if we can do it. Jed. Put us through to Dog."
"General Samson is in charge of the detachment now," said Admiral Balboa, speaking for the first time since joining the conference.
"Yes, my mistake," said Martindale. "Jed, get me the general. But make sure Bastian is there too."
"Locusta has finally made his move," Svoransky said into the phone. "Now is the time to strike."
The Russian military attache put his elbow on the desk and reached for the vodka he had poured earlier. The only light in his office was coming from the flickering LEDs on his computer's network interface, and from the machine that scrambled his telephone communications to Moscow.
"We have lost two planes already to the Americans tonight," replied Antov Dosteveski. "Your entire program was too provocative."
"The program came from the president, not me," said Svo-ransky. "I am telling you — if we are ever to strike a lasting blow against the pipeline, the time is now. The country is in confusion. General Locusta has launched his coup and will not be in a position to stop your attack."
"And the Americans?"
"Shoot them down! I cannot fly the planes for you!"
Svoransky slammed the phone down angrily. Dosteveski was a general in the Russian army, detailed by the Kremlin specifically to work with him on the project to disrupt the gas line. Like all too many generals these days, he seemed particularly risk adverse.
Svoransky took a strong swig of his vodka. In the old days, generals gave brave orders: shoot down American planes when they violated Soviet air space, sink a submarine in revenge for sinking one of theirs, crush piddling governments when they stood in the way. Now the men leading the Russian army were afraid of their own shadows.
The Osprey ferrying Danny Freah and Sergeant Boston back to Iasi was about twenty minutes from touchdown when the call came through from General Samson. Danny took a headset from the crew chief and sat in one of the jump seats next to the cabin bulkhead.
"This is Freah," said Danny, suppressing a yawn.
"Captain, we have a particular tactical situation you may be able to assist with," said Samson. "We're going to need your input on it."
"Sure," said Danny. "We're about twenty minutes shy of landing."
"We want your ideas right now," said Dog, coming onto the line. "Can you talk?" "Um, sure. Why not?"
Danny listened as Dog described the situation. The president of Romania had apparently been attacked by troops posing as guerrillas and was believed to be hiding somewhere on his mountain property.
"President Martindale wants us to rescue him, as discreetly as possible," said Dog. "But we don't know exactly where he is. And the place is ringed by Romanian soldiers."
"Can you formulate a plan to extricate him?" asked Samson.
"If I knew exactly where he was, maybe."
"The ambassador is working on that," said Samson. "In the meantime, prepare a plan."
"Tell us what you need," added Dog. "Equipment, other information. We'll have it waiting for you when you land."
The pump house was more overgrown than Voda remembered. Brambles covered about three-quarters of the front and side walls. A tree had grown so close that it appeared to be embedded at the back. Hiding here was out of the question.
"We'll rest behind the tree," he told his wife and son. "We'll rest, and then we'll find another place." "Where, Papa?" asked Julian.
"On the other side of the hill," said Voda. He glanced at his wife. Her expression, difficult to make out in the shadows cast by the trees, seemed to border on despair.
"I'm going to scout ahead. Stay here with your mother," Voda told his son. Then he pointed to a clump of trees. "Mircea. Hide there. I'll be back."
"Don't leave us, Papa," said Julian.
"I'll be right back," he told him. "I won't be far."
Voda was lying — he wanted to use the phone but didn't want either of them to hear how desperate he was. He had to stay positive, or at least as confident as he could, to buoy their spirits.
So far, he hadn't heard the dogs, but that was just a matter of time.
Voda walked in as straight a line as he could manage, stopping when he could no longer make out the large tree that rose from the side of the pump house. He took out the mobile phone and dialed the American ambassador's number. The phone was answered on the first ring.
"I am still alive," he said.
"Mr. President, we will help you as much as we are able to. Where exactly are you?"
Voda hesitated. There were many reasons not to trust the Americans. But there was no other choice.
"There is a pump house behind my property, half hidden in the woods. We cannot stay there very long. There are many soldiers still arriving. I hear many trucks. What is going on?"
"The news is reporting that the defense minister was assassinated by guerrillas," said the ambassador. "They are also reporting rumors of your death."
"Prematurely."
"Our satellites have seen troop movements all across the country. It seems pretty clear that there's a coup, and that the plotters intend to kill you."
"Who is behind it?"
"I don't know, Mr. President. I would hesitate to make a guess without some sort of evidence, and I have none."