data. Anything is potentially of use, but a DNA sample would be useful.”
“How unique is the bullet?” asked Nuri. “Carbon fiber has been around for a while.”
“It’s a carbon-based composite, not a fiber,” said Reid. “It appears to be unique. The design is reminiscent of experiments the Soviets were doing roughly twenty years ago.”
Reid clicked up a fresh slide of the bullets, showing close-ups of the bullets. He then proceeded to a series of cross sections, and finally comparisons with different types. Danny found himself starting to tune out due to information overload. The amount of data the CIA could gather on things dazzled him sometimes, but it was also frustrating — they knew all this, yet what they didn’t know loomed much larger.
“One guess is that the bullets were left over from this old project,” said Reid, his voice increasingly professorial. “That would fit with the theory that the Wolves are a group headed or sponsored by former Russian KGB or military, now on their own. But there’s no hard evidence about that. And some of the murders we think they participated in didn’t have these weapons. The choice would be made to evade metal detectors,” he added. “They’re a versatile group.”
They spent the next half hour discussing logistics. Intelligence gathering wasn’t Danny’s forte, so he had no problem letting Nuri take the lead in handling Berlin. Danny would work from the other end, concentrating on Kiev and the upcoming NATO meeting.
For him, the key question was how closely to work with the security apparatus in Kiev. Close cooperation — under the cover of being a State Department security team — would mean immediate access to whatever intelligence NATO and the Ukrainian intelligence forces developed. But they would also put themselves in a position where they could compromise their own operation.
There was also a subtle conflict between the goal of protecting the NATO delegation and capturing the Wolves. As Nuri pointed out, it would be easier to identify the Wolves once they made an attempt on the NATO ministers. Ideally, once an assassin was identified, they could follow him and gather intelligence on the rest of the group. That meant letting him survive and even escape — or at least think he had. Anyone charged with protecting the NATO ministers wasn’t likely to let that happen.
“Neither should you,” said Reid. “Liaison with the security forces at the appropriate time. We’ll establish you as members of the State Department security team, assigned to guard the American delegates.”
“What’s our prime responsibility then?” asked Danny. “Protect the delegates or catch these guys? Which do you want us to do?”
“Both,” said Breanna. “We know it’s a hard job. That’s why you have it.”
“If these guys are so good, why don’t we just hire them over to our side and be done with it?” asked Nuri.
“As usual, Mr. Lupo, you have the logical solution,” said Reid. “Perhaps when you meet them, you will be in a position to propose it.”
4
With Nuri heading to Berlin, Danny needed someone on the team with experience in Europe — preferably the Ukraine. Hera Scokas, a CIA covert officer who’d worked with him in Africa and Iran, had been in Kiev a few times, but couldn’t speak the language fluently and didn’t have a deep knowledge of the city.
Had this been a standard CIA operation, an officer or two or three could have been siphoned off from the station, temporarily assigned to help. But Whiplash was isolated structurally from the “regular” CIA, and Reid wanted to keep the partition in place. So he suggested they use an operative who was currently on leave from the Agency, but whom he felt might be talked back into active service for the job.
“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 personnel file?” Danny asked.
“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, Danny. I’m positive. But of course it’s up to you.”
“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, Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the last time it had been paved as well.
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, Danny guessed it had to be 19—McEwen’s address. Except for the large sign along the roof that read NOTIONS in five-foot letters, it looked like a small ranch house. There was no driveway, or lawn for that matter — judging from the tracks, cars pulled into the muck between the road and house.
“What do you think happened to one through eighteen?” asked Hera, who’d come down with him.
“Probably sank into the swamp,” said Danny.
Danny maneuvered the car into a three-point turn and slid the car into the most solid spot he could find.
“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 Danny. “Bag the colonel stuff for now, all right?”
“Aye aye, skipper.”
A dog began barking as Danny got out of the car. A small patch of bricks marked a stoop at the front door. He went to the door, then rang the bell.
“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.”
Danny stepped inside. The front room was crowded with tables featuring an assortment of items. Everything from handmade tobacco pipes to an old mechanics tool set was on sale, crowded next to each other in a mishmash. Most had small tags with handwritten figures. A few had two or three, each price different.
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 Danny.
“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.”
