Black Wolf

“You are a brave man, braver than I gave you credit for when we met,” Colonel Brasov told Stoner as the force of the turn threw the two men together.

“You, too,” said Stoner.

“Until we meet again.”

Brasov held out his hand.

As Stoner reached for it he thought of Sorina Viorica, the way she’d looked on the street in Bucharest. He thought of the mission he’d had in China a year before, where he came close to being killed. He thought of Brea

He thought of his first day at the Agency, his graduation from high school, a morning in the very distant past, being driven by his mom to church with the rain pouring and the car warm and safe.

There was a flash above him, and a loud clap like thunder.

And then there was nothing, no memory, no thought, no pain or regret.

Needs

The present: May 2012

2

Berlin, Germany

2012

Y ou are invincible.

The man they called Black Wolf heard the voice in his head, the words playing on an endless loop. He tried to block them out but could not. They were always there, part of an i

But there were many things he could not control.

You are invincible.

He was not invincible at all, nor was he a demigod, though some treated him as one. On the contrary, he knew very well the limits of his abilities, and had constant reminders of his mortality.

But he didn’t care much for what other people thought of him. He didn’t care much for other people at all.

The Black Wolf had obligations which he could not escape. He had duties and assignments. But he considered himself separate from them, separate from everything. They called him Black Wolf. He called himself… nothing.

The man they called the Black Wolf moved up the stairs to the balcony of the Konzerthaus Berlin, the famous orchestra house in eastern Berlin. A large crowd had come to hear a young Czech prodigy play a selection of Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach with the Konzerthausorchester Berlin. Barely fifteen, the pianist was already famous and celebrated; it was said his music would move stones to tears. But a good part of his fame—or was it notoriety?—came from theatrical touches.

He dressed as a pseudogoth. His head was shaved, and while he wore black tie to the concert, he could generally be counted on to pull off his jacket and shirt at the end of the show and toss it to the crowd. Sometimes he would throw his trademark black T-shirt as well, and take his final bows bare-chested.

Witnessing such a spectacle, a reviewer for Le Monde had recently counted five tattoos in various spots on the pianist’s upper body. The prodigy had responded in a Facebook posting that he would gladly show her the rest at a private concert.

This wasn’t particularly adventurous stuff in other genres, but it was a revolution in classical music. The young man’s shows were always sold out, and generally attracted a much wider ranging audience than the typical symphony concert.

Wolf found his seat in the balcony just as the lights dimmed. He listened impassively as the program started. A Mozart selection warmed up the audience. The notes darted back and forth in an intricate web, echoing themes, underlining them, then taking them apart. If many had come for the show, it was the music that transported them. The young man with the shaved head and tattoos played as artfully as anyone who had graced the stage since it was built. In his hands, the music became immortal.

The Black Wolf wasn’t interested in transcendence. He sca

Helmut Dalitz was a wealthy international businessman. Once a banker, he now made his money by buying distressed properties across the world, fixing them or otherwise making them viable, and then selling them. He did this most often with apartment buildings, though he also did it on occasion with commercial properties.

It was one of the commercial properties that had brought Wolf here. For Helmut Dalitz, through a company that he owned, had bought a large, nondescript building in Rome, Italy, the previous year. The building, on Via Nazionale not far from the Termini train station, was a nondescript twelve story structure badly in need of maintenance.

There were many ways that maintenance could be done; since there were a number of vacant stores and offices, workers could have started with the vacant spaces, then gradually moved on, shuffling the existing tenants in and out of the different units like a game of musical chairs. Doing things piecemeal like that was common in Italy, where work tended to progress at a very leisurely pace, and disrupting old traditions for the sake of some new paint and a few daubs of plaster was antithetical to the national psyche.

But Helmut Dalitz was not Italian. More importantly, he disliked disorder, and the idea of slowly renovating his building did not sit well with him. It smacked of chaos and conflicted with his timetable for turning a profit. And so he had the building closed entirely, kicking out all of the existing tenants, something he was allowed to do by the terms of the sale and the tenants’ leases, even if these terms conflicted with the spirit by which most of the tenants had held their property.

Among the tenants he had kicked out was Giuseppe DeFrancisco, an eighty-year-old man who ran a small tobacco shop on the side street. The shop had not turned a profit in several years, and in fact the rent was paid now entirely by the man’s grandson. Unfortunately, the grandson had been concentrating on his business affairs in southern Italy when the first notice of the pending eviction came. By the time he realized his grandfather was going to be kicked out, it was too late to stop it—not that Helmut Dalitz or his minions would have listened to reason.

The thugs his minions hired were deaf as well. They hadn’t listened to the old man’s pleas, who begged them right up to the moment they placed him on the curb. They didn’t listen to his complaints, or even to his cry for help a few moments later, when he began suffering from a heart attack. A passerby called an ambulance when he found the old man on the ground a few minutes later; by the time the ambulance fought its way through the morning traffic, Giuseppe DeFrancisco was dead.

The men who had put him out wouldn’t be listening to anyone now. Wolf had taken care of them two weeks before on a trip to Rome. Now it was their employer’s turn.

Wolf cared little for the justifications of the murder, though they had been important to the old man’s grandson. While he could have used his own organization to extract revenge, the grandson considered this a matter of the heart rather than business, and deemed it wiser to keep the two separate. And besides, the Wolf and his employers were said to be even more efficient than the mafia.