40
Getting around without the use of your legs was never exactly fun, but being disabled and flying a commercial airline flight could be a special trial. Most of the major carriers had special wheelchairs designed to fit down narrow plane aisles; the chairs could then be folded away in the cabin storage areas. But that still left you beholden to the stewardess when you had to use the john.
The bathrooms were their own special hell, though at least Zen wasn’t claustrophobic. He also had the money to fly first class, and was a U.S. senator.
Having a cute kid and a good-looking coed in tow didn’t hurt either.
“Senator Stockard, nice to have you aboard,” said the steward, who met him in the jetway to the plane. “And is this lovely lady Teri Stockard?”
“Yes, I am,” said Teri.
“Excited about flying?” asked the attendant.
“I like to fly,” she told him. “My mom lets me take the controls.”
Zen smiled. Breanna occasionally rented a twin-engine Cessna.
“You’re Caroline,” said the steward to Zen’s niece.
Caroline nodded. She tended to be a little shy around strangers. Zen thought she had no reason to be — she was smart and attractive, not unlike her aunt Breanna.
“Major Stockard.” The pilot practically jumped out from behind the door, hand out, looking to shake. “You don’t remember me, I’ll bet, but I was driving MC–17s back when you were with Dreamland. We were on a deployment with Whiplash. Great to have you aboard, sir.”
“Long time ago,” said Zen, who didn’t remember the pilot. He’d left Dreamland as a lieutenant colonel, so the rank narrowed down the time frame a bit, just not enough to help. “How have you been?”
“Great, great. How’s the political life treating you?”
“Can’t complain. I have a lot of bosses. Meet one of them.” He held his hand out to his daughter. “Teri, this our captain.”
“Pleased to meet you.” The pilot bent down and shook her hand, then looked at Caroline. “This can’t be your wife.”
Caroline blushed.
“My niece Caroline,” said Zen.
Two of the other flight attendants came out and helped Zen and the girls get squared away. The rest of the passengers flooded in, most looking a bit harried and anxious to get going.
Cockpit door closed, the aircraft pushed back from the gate, then slowly began trundling toward the runway.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m glad to have you aboard with us this evening for our flight to Prague,” said the pilot, introducing himself and the crew. “Bob and Lisa will be reviewing some of our emergency procedures with the help of a short video in just a second. Before we get to that, though, I wanted to let you know that we’re flying today with a former member of the U.S. military who has been decorated for bravery under fire more times than most of us breathe. He’s now a member of the U.S. Senate. I knew him as Major Zen Stockard; you might just call him Senator. I’d like to salute him and thank him for his service to our country.”
The passengers broke into spontaneous applause.
Zen glanced down at his daughter. His eyes were starting to swell with tears.
“Something wrong, Daddy?” asked Teri.
“Nothing wrong, baby. Now make sure your seat belt’s tight, right? Pilot can’t take off without it good and snug.”
41
Nuri’s suspicions about the minister proved to be correct — within a few minutes of the CIA officer’s visit, the NSA intercepted two calls from the minister to people who lived in the northeastern corner of the country. The phone calls were short and to the point: the minister said he was taking a vacation for a few days, and they should, too.
Nuri guessed that they took his advice. He wasn’t particularly concerned with the details, however, since neither man owned property anywhere near the Wolves’ farm.
He called the minister’s cell phone the next morning at exactly eight o’clock and told him that the farm was near Drochia, the capital of the province of the same name. This was fairly vague as well as incorrect, but it satisfied the minister.
“One of my deputies will call you within the hour,” he told Nuri. “In the meantime, if you need further arrangements, please let me know.”
The minister’s tone suggested that it would be very much all right with him if they never spoke again. Which was fine with Nuri as well.
The deputy, Johann Lacu, called within the hour. He spoke English fairly well and had a clipped, professional style Nuri liked.
The deputy asked how many men he needed; Nuri told him no more than six.
“Six is a very small number,” replied Lacu. “These criminals may be very desperate.”
“Six is all we need,” Nuri told him. “We can even do with less.”
“You will need cars to take them away in.”
Ambulances more likely, thought Nuri.
“We already have transportation arranged,” he said. “The operation really is under control.”
“That is very good,” said Lacu. “We will assist in any way possible.”
They arranged to meet at 11:00 P.M. at a small church in a village two kilometers north of Drochia. Nuri would brief them, then find some excuse to keep them occupied for a few hours until the raid was complete. At that point they would drive to the farm, which was roughly a half hour away. Gleeb, meanwhile, would stay in the capital to cover any further contingencies with the military or the interior ministry.
Not knowing what to expect and not having anything else to do in Chisinau, Nuri left the capital shortly after noon. He arrived at the town just after sunset.
The place looked quiet enough, a typical Eastern European town down on its luck. The church overlooked a small cemetery and an even smaller park with a monument to soldiers who had died in the Great Patriotic War — the Second World War, as the West remembered it.
The town was so small it didn’t have a restaurant. Nuri drove until he came to another village about four kilometers away. The main and only intersection in town featured a cafe. He parked in a lot around the corner.
The restaurant was empty, and the middle-aged hostess nearly jumped as he came in the door.
“Good evening,” she said in Moldovan.
Nuri answered in Moldovan, but his accent drove her to English. She told him he was very welcome and showed him to what she called the best table in the house. This was not coincidentally in the front window, where she undoubtedly hoped his presence would attract other customers. She gave him a menu and asked if he would like an aperitif.
“Just water,” he said.
She returned with a tray of homemade cordials, each brightly colored and most with some sort of fruit in the bottle.
“No, that’s all right,” said Nuri.
“For free, for free,” she insisted.
Deciding that courtesy called for a small drink, he had a glass of what looked like the least exotic concoction,
