Black Wolf

34

Northeastern Moldova

Da

There were two men inside the main house, in what seemed to be some sort of control room at the back. Probably it was a security post. Otherwise, the place was empty.

Surveillance network established, Da

“That says restaurant and hotel in Russian,” said Nuri when they drove up. He pointed to the sign, hand painted in a neat script.

Da

“How come the sign’s in Russian?” asked Flash. “I thought all the Russians were on the eastern end of the country?”

“That’s the greatest concentration,” said Nuri. “But remember, this was part of the Soviet Union before the breakout. Russians are everywhere.”

There was no special reason to be suspicious, but Da

“You sure you’re not getting paranoid, Colonel?” asked Flash as they got out of their cars.

“I’m always paranoid,” said Da

They left their mikes open while they ate, hoping the MY-PID would pick up and translate useful local gossip. But the talk was mostly about the weather and a hike in government-controlled gasoline prices, pla

Nuri went over and spoke to the hostess, asking about hotels. Bits and pieces of French and Spanish flooded into his head as he spoke. This was both a help and a hindrance, giving him more vocabulary and at the same time making it harder for him to get the right pronunciation.

Nuri had always had a certain fluidity with languages. It was one of his prime assets as a CIA officer. MY-PID helped tremendously—but it also made his ability less important. The next generation of field officers would operate with implants in their head, speaking fluently in any language they dialed up.

The waitress mentioned a few chain hotels back close to the capital. Nuri said he wanted something local.

“You are an American, though,” she said, switching to English. “You want to stay here?”

“Yes,” he said. “My friends and I are researching locations for a movie. We’re from Hollywood.”

“Movie?”

“The Sound of Music,” he said. “We’re doing a remake.”

Nuri was particularly happy about this cover story, and he had to practically bite his tongue to keep from embellishing it. There was always a temptation to add details when you had a good story. And this one was perfect—a movie version of the famous musical, to be shot here in Eastern Europe, with elaborate village scenes. Who wouldn’t eat it up? But the more details, the more likely you were to be tripped up.

“Hollywood,” said the waitress, practically gushing.

She started talking about a movie she had seen being made in the States some years before, when she had been an exchange student in California. If it was during her college days, thought Nuri, it must have been at least twenty years ago.

The memories sprang out in a jumble. Even if her accent had been pure, Nuri was sure he would have understood only a third of it.

Finally, he managed to steer the conversation—or monologue—back to hotels. There were several places in the area, she said, but none worth the trouble.

“Well, we do have to sleep,” he told her.

“Then the Latino, two kilometers on the road, that direction,” said the woman. “And I know just the place where you can set your movie.”

Nuri listened to her suggestions, mentally noting that they were all to the south. He asked if there might be anything to the north, trying to get information about the farm without mentioning it. But even when he named the town it was located in, she just shrugged and said she didn’t know that area very well.

“Give you her life story?” Da

“Just about. There are a couple places down the road.”

They found the motel the waitress recommended in the center of a village two miles away. It wasn’t hard: A large 1950s era farm tractor stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, as much a landmark as mascot.

During the Soviet years the town factory had churned out tractors, as many as five hundred a week. The plant had closed soon after independence, and the old buildings now housed a variety of small businesses, including two that repaired and rebuilt the tractors originally produced there.

The town had a population of about five thousand, most living in the village center. Housing projects from the 1970s and early 1980s, their yellow bricks weathered to a dull brown, crowded around somewhat newer structures, brightly painted, which sat around the edges of the small business district. Main Street was the local highway; a pair of blinking lights slowed cars down as they approached, though crossing from one side to the other could be a dangerous undertaking.

The motel was wedged in beside a small grocery store and one of the factory buildings. Two stories tall, it was a narrow box of rooms with a balcony on the left. It presented its narrow side to the street, ru

The clerk took little interest in them once Nuri proffered his credit card. They got three adjoining rooms on the second floor toward the rear. They checked them out, planted some video sensors around the rooms and the motel to keep guard, then drew lots to see who had the first watch.

Flash lost. He set up the laptop in his room, watching the farm via a satellite feed, while Nuri and Da

Nuri felt as if he had only just drifted off when his satellite phone began ringing. He jerked upright in bed, dazed, before grabbing the phone.

“Yeah?” he said, fumbling for the Talk button. “Yeah?”

“This is Reid. Can you talk?”

“Uh, yeah.” He pushed upright in the bed and glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past one. He’d had two hours of sleep.

“Are you awake?”

“I just—we’re trying to nap a little.”

“Where’s Da

“He’s sleeping, too.”

“Get him, please. Contact me through MY-PID.”

Da

“It’s window dressing only,” said Reid. “One of our people in Chisinau is already working on the arrangements. If the Moldovans decide to send someone along on the raid, then you simply arrange for them to show up after the area is secure.”