68
The sentry at the complex put his hand up as the Mercedes approached the gate. The driver slowed to a stop, then rolled down his window.
“The deputy minister of Poland,” said the driver in Czech.
The guard bent slightly and peered in the back. He paused a moment, examining the face, then straightened and signaled that the gate be lifted.
The Black Wolf eased his pistol down. No need to use it yet.
He glanced around the courtyard as they entered. The field where the helicopter was to land was at the right, beyond the fence. The choice was counterintuitive — another man might have them picked up on the roof, which would be easy to reach from the guest building. But the helicopter would be an easy target, and survival in an operation such as this always required finesse and misdirection.
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the building. It was 0512.
They were two minutes ahead of schedule. The Ukrainian minister and air force general had landed at the airport a few minutes ago; things were running as smoothly as he could have hoped.
The Black Wolf reached below his seat and pulled out the backpack with his HK MP–5 submachine gun. Then he reached his left hand into his pants pocket and took out a small vial. The red liquid inside looked like blood. It was, in a way.
The package had arrived for him with the money. They were as good as their word — better.
He cracked the seal on the tube and drained it quickly.
“Ready,” he said, dropping the empty vial into his pocket. “Let’s move.”
69
“The golden days of manned dogfights are over,” said Lynch. “I think we all have to recognize that.”
“That may be,” said Zen. “But I think we’ll always have people in the loop. And not just on the ground.”
“Your own air force has shown the way,” said Lynch. “Your own experiences — they were the vanguard.”
“Yes, but my experiences are a case in a point,” said Zen. “The Flighthawks were always under someone’s control.”
“Really? I heard differently.”
“Can’t believe everything you read,” said Zen.
“Quite. More coffee?”
“Yes, please,” said Zen.
Lynch took his cup and headed over to the table where the urns stood.
Zen realized he hadn’t turned his phone on. He didn’t think his staff would be trying to get him at this hour, and didn’t care much to start going through e-mails. But Teri or Caroline might try to text him from upstairs to find out where he was.
“I am sorry, I am sorry,” said the waiter, rushing back out as Lynch returned. “I would get that for you.”
“Not a bother at all,” said Lynch. “I just went for the refill. My legs are working, after all.” He blanched, apparently realizing what he had said.
“I’m not offended,” Zen told him. “I used to call myself a cripple, just to see what kind of reaction I got.”
“How did they react?”
“Oh, they were horrified. It was kind of fun to watch.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said the waiter, a pained expression on his face. “I wonder — we, uh, we were asked to set aside a little area for an early breakfast and I neglected to do so before you sat down.”
“Go right ahead,” said Lynch.
“You see, sir — the curtain usually would be placed right here.” The waiter pointed to a track in the ceiling above them. “I can seat you anywhere else you’d like.”
“How about a window seat?” asked Zen.
The waiter was nonplussed. They were in a basement without windows, and he wasn’t sure whether he understood.
“Just a joke,” said Zen. He picked up his coffee. “Where do you want us?”
“If I might suggest that table at the side,” said the waiter.
“Too far to eavesdrop,” joked Lynch.
“Sir?”
“It’s fine,” said Zen.
“Who needs a private room for breakfast?” asked Lynch.
“Some of our businesspeople are meeting with important people from the Ukraine,” said the waiter.
“Sales call,” Lynch told Zen as they took their places at the new table. “The Czechs are trying to sell their version of the Russian Spider rocket.”
“Oh, yes,” said Zen. “Is it really any good?”
“I think your AMRAAM-pluses are still light-years ahead.”
Zen, who’d seen the reports and knew that what the colonel was saying was true, played devil’s advocate, drawing the officer out. It was always instructive to get the unvarnished opinions of other air forces, even when they agreed with you.
The waiter went to the wall and moved one of the stones. Zen watched as the stones near it popped out, revealing a panel that pulled out into a room divider. The stones were actually only a half inch thick, the facade to a conventional plasterboard wall.
“I wonder if they have a screen that comes down from the ceiling,” said Lynch.
“No, but they probably have a knight hidden behind some of the stones,” answered Zen. “They pop it out if you don’t pay your bill.”
Two men in suits came in the door. Broad-shouldered and very tall, they would have looked like security types even without the ill-concealed armored vests under their jackets. Wires curled to earpieces at the back of their necks. One of the men had a small attache case, the sort used to make an Uzi-sized submachine gun more discreet.
The waiter came out to meet them.
“You’re part of the security detail for the minister?” asked the waiter.
“Where is the meeting to be held?” asked the man with the case.
“This way, gentlemen.”
The two men glanced at each other. The one without the case nodded, then went with the waiter. The other man went up toward the door.
Another entered. Zen looked at the security agent as he walked past. He looked familiar.
Stoner, he thought.
But of course it couldn’t be. This man was taller and broader and younger — not to mention alive. Breanna’s project had put the idea into his head. It was ridiculous.
Once more he remembered his phone.
“I just want to turn my phone on,” he told Lynch. “My daughter might need to reach me.”
“Go right ahead.”
Zen pulled out the phone and powered it up. It beeped at him, then beeped again, telling him he had messages.
“You will hand the phone over to me.”
