“An honor to meet you, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

She pulled her arm up to salute. Martindale smiled and put out his hand to shake.

“Captain, it’s an honor and a pleasure for me to meet you.

You, your husband, your fellow pilots and crew—the world owes you a debt of gratitude. It’s beyond words, frankly. I’m the one who’s honored.”

Martindale, of course, was a consummate politician—no one could become President otherwise. But his words sounded sincere, and Jed believed they were. Martindale was extremely proud of the fact that he had averted nuclear catas-trophe on his watch. And he was grateful for the people who had made it happen.

“We have a lot of good people here, Mr. President,” said Breanna.

“Some of the best. And you’ll be getting more. Right, General?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. With your help, of course.”

“Now where the hell is Dog?” said the President, turning around and looking. “He’s responsible for all this.”

A look flashed across Samson’s face that made Jed think he was going to have a heart attack, but the general quickly recovered.

“Lieutenant Colonel Bastian is up on the stage with our Flighthawk pilot,” said Samson, a little stiffly. “We planned a surprise for you, sir. We thought you might like to take the stick of one of the Flighthawks.”

Martindale glanced over at Jed, as if to check if it was OK.

Not knowing what else to do, Jed nodded.

“I’d love it, Terrill. Let’s do it.”

106

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Bucharest, Romania

1550

STONER TOOK SORINA VIORICA BACK TO THE SAFE HOUSE

in the student quarter near the university in the center of Bucharest. The apartment was a dreary, postwar railroad flat on the second story of a building whose gray bricks seemed to ooze dirt. But its nondescript look was part of its appeal.

Out of the way, it could be easily secured. The door and frame had been replaced with wood-covered steel that looked old, but would stand up against a battering ram. There was only one window, located at the rear of the building. It was blocked by a steel gate that could only be unlocked from the inside.

Sorina kept her arms folded across her chest as Stoner showed her through the place. The furniture was bare. There was a television, but no telephone Internet connection—it would be too easy to track communications.

“This is my prison?” said Sorina when they reached the back room.

“It’s not a prison.”

“Oh, it’s a resort. My mistake.”

Stoner laughed. His wound had stopped pounding; he’d been able to back off on the drugs. He sat down in one of the thick upholstered chairs. The fabric covering it was a green and brown plaid, long faded from whatever dull glory it once had.

“And what do you expect me to do here?” asked Sorina, still standing.

“Tell me more about the Russians.”

She didn’t respond. Stoner thought he knew what was going on inside her head—it was a kind of traitor’s regret, trying to pull back from what she’d already decided to do.

He had to reel her in gently.

“We can get something to eat,” he suggested.

“I’m not hungry.”

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107

“If you dye your hair, you won’t be recognized,” he told her. “You may not be recognized now.”

She bent her lip into a sarcastic smile. Stoner was fairly confident she wouldn’t be recognized in Bucharest, but he had limited means of finding out, and so for now would have to trust her judgment. She’d insisted on taking back roads to get here, then doubled back several times to make sure they weren’t being followed.

“You want me to go out and get you some food?” he asked.

“For later.”

Sorina shrugged, then added. “So I am a prisoner?”

“No, you can leave right now if you want. Leave whenever you want.”

She frowned.

“Unless you’d rather go to the embassy.”

“No. I am not going there at all.”

That was a relief, actually: once there, she became a potential problem.

“And what are you doing?” she asked.

“I’ll get this looked at.” He gestured toward his side. “And I have to talk to some people. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“When?”

“Afternoon, maybe. I don’t know.”

“What if I’m not here?”

“I’ll be disappointed.”

She laughed. It had an edge to it; if Stoner hadn’t been convinced earlier that she was tough, that she was deadly, the laugh would have told him everything he needed to know.

“Well, then I’m leaving,” she said abruptly, and turned and walked through the rooms and out the door.

He knew she was testing him, but he wasn’t sure what answer she was looking for. He remained in the chair—too tired to move, too beat up. He stayed there for ten minutes, fifteen; he stayed until he decided that if he didn’t get up, he’d fall asleep.

Stoner walked warily through the apartment, not sure if 108

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

she was hiding somewhere. The door to the landing was open about halfway; he pulled it back slowly and stepped out.

The stairs were empty. He locked the door, then put the key under the ragged mat in front of the apartment.

If she was watching from nearby, she did a good job hiding herself.

“SO THE RUSSIANS ARE DEFINITELY INVOLVED?”

“She claims they were. The guerrillas were wearing new boots, newer clothes. Whether they were Russian or not, I have no idea.”

“Is she going to give you more information?”

Stoner shrugged. The station chief, a slightly overweight Company veteran named Russ Fairchild, frowned. Stoner wasn’t sure whether to interpret his displeasure as being aimed at him or the woman.

“But the Russians are definitely involved?” repeated Fairchild.

“That’s what she claims.”

“If you got her to tell you where the main guerrilla camps are, that’d be quite a feather in your cap.”

“Yeah,” said Stoner, though he was thinking that he didn’t need any more feathers in his cap.

“Who are the Russians?”

“From the description, it’s Spetsnaz,” said Stoner, referring to the special forces group that was run under the Russian Federal-naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, or FSB, the successor to the KGB.

“She gave me two names on the way down. First names.”

“Useless,” said Fairchild. “And probably false.”

“Yeah.”

“Still, this is all good work. Promising. Langley will like it,” added Fairchild, referring to CIA headquarters. “When are you seeing her again?”

“Soon.” Stoner hadn’t told him how the visit had ended; he saw no point in saying she might already be long gone. If she’d run away, it’d be obvious soon enough.

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“The Russians would have only killed George and Sandra if they put a priority on the mission,” said Fairchild. “If George and Sandra were close to something.”

Stoner didn’t think that was true at all. From his experience with the FSB, most of the agents would kill for nearly no reason. Like the KGB before it, the Russian spy agency had a reputation as one of the most professional in the world.

But they were killers at heart. Fairchild, a decade older than he was, might view the spy game as a gentleman’s art, but in Stoner’s experience it was a vicious business.

“I’ll tell the Romanians what happened to their men,” said Fairchild, rising. “Don’t sweat it.”

“OK.”

“Their guns weren’t fired at all?”

Stoner shook his head.

“I may make them … I may make them sound a little braver than they were.”

Who knew how brave they’d been at the end? They did, and their killers. What did it matter, really?

“Sure,” said Stoner. “Say they saved my life.”

Bacau, Romania

1600

GENERAL LOCUSTA MADE SURE THE DOOR TO HIS OFFICE

was closed before he picked up the phone. The call was from General Karis, leader of the Romanian Third Division outside Bucharest.