Black Wolf

“Her name is Sally McEwen, and she knows Kiev very well,” said Reid. “She was stationed there for years. She speaks the language like a native, and I suspect she’ll be more than willing to come back to work for you. But you don’t have to decide until you meet her.”

“Can I get her perso

“I’d rather you drew your own conclusions once you meet her. She’s the sort of officer you really have to meet in person. She is the right choice, Da

“All right,” he said. “How do I get in touch with her?”

“Ah, that is the problem,” said Reid. “At the moment, she’s not reachable by phone. And obviously we’re not going to trust an e-mail or anything that’s not encrypted. I’m afraid you’ll have to contact her in person. She shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll give you her address.”

Sally McEwen lived in a small hamlet just outside the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge in southern Georgia. The hamlet consisted of a few houses, a church, a restaurant that served only breakfast, and a small shop that proclaimed itself a Notions Store. All but the last were located on the old county highway, which had been bypassed in favor of a straighter route some eighty years before. From the size of its potholes, Da

The Notions Shop sat on the hamlet’s lone side street, a narrow, muddy street that dead-ended in a thicket of punk weeds and a murky pond after twenty yards. There were no numbers on the building, but since it was the only building on James Road, Da

“What do you think happened to one through eighteen?” asked Hera, who’d come down with him.

“Probably sank into the swamp,” said Da

Da

“Cripes, Colonel—are you sure the car’s not going to sink? All I see here is mud,” said Hera, opening the door.

“Get out on my side if you want,” said Da

“Aye aye, skipper.”

A dog began barking as Da

“It’s a store—you can go right in,” said Hera behind him.

“It’s polite to ring the bell.”

“It’s a store,” she said, reaching for the screen door.

The barking increased in intensity, then suddenly changed to a howling cry.

“Hush now, Brat. Hush now,” yelled a woman in her early seventies as she opened the door.

She was short—perhaps five-two—and wore an oversized cotton sweater over a simple black skirt. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a knot behind her head. She had the look of a slightly genteel lady who had fallen on more difficult times and had to support herself by muscle and ingenuity.

“Come on in, come on in, don’t mind the dog,” she said. “He gets lonely sometimes and wants to play.”

Da

The room extended to the left, then to the back of the house in an el shape. The leg of the el contained an assortment of different paintings, watercolors and acrylic landscapes. Directly ahead of them was a small kitchen.

“Are you looking for anything particular?” asked the woman, her voice sweet with the old South. “We have many fine items for sale.”

“I wasn’t actually looking to buy anything,” said Da

“Well I’m sorry, suh, but the kitchen is closed today,” said the woman. A slight edge crept into her voice. “If you’re lookin’ for any liquid refreshment, I’m afraid you’ll have to move on.”

“I’m looking for a Sally McEwen.”

“Is that so?” answered the woman.

“You know her?”

“I might. Don’t touch any of those paintings, girl,” added the woman sharply. “Unless you’re fixin’ to buy one of ’em.”

“Sor-ry,” said Hera sarcastically.

“If you could tell me where to find Ms. McEwen, I’d be much obliged,” said Da

“And if I did, who would be going to call on her?” asked the woman.

“Well, that would be me.”

“And you’re with what government agency?” the woman demanded.

“Well, uh, the Air Force.”

“The Air Force? Air Force? Not the Treasury?”

“Treasury?”

“I told you not to touch,” said the old woman, darting past Da

She was quick for an old bat, thought Da

“This is a very nice painting,” said Hera, who was holding the painting in her hands.

“Flattery ain’t go

“How much?”

“For you?” The woman looked at Da

“I’m not with the Air Force,” said Hera.

“Well, at least one of you values the truth.” She took the painting. “But I’m still not selling you the painting.”

“I was told that Ms. McEwen lived here,” said Da

“Well, you can’t. Who told you she lived here anyway?”

“Friend of hers named Jonathon Reid.”

The woman frowned, then put the painting back on its easel. She walked back to the front of the room, looking over the display of items.

“Did you hear me?” said Da

“Damn straight I heard you. Who the hell are you? Really?”

“I’m Da

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s kind of a personal thing. About a job.”

“A job?” The woman laughed.

“You’re her mother, right?” said Hera. “Or grandmother?”

“Whose mother, darlin’?” said the woman, laying her accent on thick.

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you,” said Da

“She don’t put much store in texting,” said the woman, taking the card. “And she don’t phone.”

“Whatever,” said Da

He reached for the door. The dog, which was somewhere downstairs, started barking again.

“I told you shut your trap, Brat,” yelled the woman.

She reached over and closed the door.

“I’m Sally McEwen, Colonel Freah.”

“No offense, but I’m afraid there must be a misunderstanding somewhere,” said Da

“A lot younger,” said Hera.

“If Jonathon Reid sent you here, you’re looking for me,” she said. “He just neglected to give you all the details. Which is pretty much par for the course.”

Sally McEwen had worked in various jobs for the State Department and CIA for more than forty years before being eased out by the past administration.

Eased as in pushed, and none too gently. But she had not retired. She damn well was not going to retire, and in fact went to great lengths to keep her classified clearance in order. She was officially on leave.