Stoner took a deep breath. If she wasn’t here, he’d get to work trying to commandeer information about the Russian Spetsnaz, flesh out that angle. Eventually he’d put together a program either to stop them or expose them. The station chief had already made it clear anything like that would need to get approved back in Washington, but Stoner didn’t think he’d have trouble getting something approved if he linked it to the dead officers.

He’d spent the day rereading the police reports and visiting the places where they’d died. Nothing he’d seen convinced him that the Russians were involved. Or vice versa.

There was a sound at the door. Stoner saw a shadow at the eyeglass. A moment later Sorina Viorica opened the door.

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” she told him.

“I got tied up with some things.”

“Come in.”

136

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

He walked inside. Sorina Viorica put her head out the door, checking the hall before coming back in.

“Your lock is better than I expected,” she told him, walking to the kitchen. “But I don’t know if the door would last.”

“It will. Long enough for you to get out.”

“Not even the army would be so stupid to come in the front way without watching the back. And the police are not as stupid as the army,” said Sorina. A small pot of coffee sat on the back burner of the stove. She held it up. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

“The stove is hard to start.”

She ducked down, watching the igniter click futilely. Stoner examined the curves of her body. The austere toughness of her personality was matched by her athletic compactness.

The burner caught with a loud hush, a blue flame extending nearly a foot over the stove before settling down.

“You should get it fixed,” Sorina said, putting the pot on.

“I’ll tell the landlord.”

She opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors.

“While we are waiting,” she said, handing them over, “give me a haircut.”

“A haircut?”

“I need one.” She pulled out one of the chairs and turned it around, then sat so her breasts were squeezed against the chair back.

“I’m not much of a barber.”

“Just cut it straight. Lop it off.”

Stoner took some of her hair. For some reason it felt softer than he’d expected. “How much?” he asked, moving the scissors along its length.

“Above my ears. Short. That’s easy.”

“Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Yes.”

REVOLUTION

137

He worked on it for more than an hour, each cut as tentative as the first. They stopped twice, to check his progress and to drink their coffee. About halfway through, Sorina reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She had to light it from the stove; Stoner thought the flame would singe her face when it caught.

When he was done, she took the scissors and went to the bathroom. After about five minutes she came out with her hair neatly trimmed.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“I liked it better long.”

Sorina Viorica smiled for the first time since they’d met.

“I am going to take a shower. When I am done, we can go for a walk.”

THEY WALKED UP TOWARD THE BOULEVARD CAROL I, around the Piata C.A. Rosetti circle. Stoner watched the expressions of the people they passed, carefully looking for some sign that Sorina Viorica was recognized.

“I’m invisible here,” she told him. “To the citizens—they don’t know who I am.”

“What about the police?”

She shrugged. “That I won’t test.”

They ate in a coffeehouse that served small sandwiches.

Sorina ate hers in only a few minutes.

“Want another?” asked Stoner.

She shook her head, though he could tell she was still hungry.

“That is why we struggle,” she said, pointing with her gaze across the room.

An old woman sat over a cup of tea. Her shoes were held together by string; her coat had a series of small rips on the sleeve and back.

“Before this government, people were helped,” said Sorina Viorica. “But I don’t expect you to understand. Your streets are filled with homeless.”

138

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Stoner called over the waiter. “I would like to buy the woman there a sandwich.”

The waiter frowned, acting as if he didn’t understand English—though he’d understood when Stoner ordered earlier.

“Here,” said Stoner, pressing several bills into his hand.

“Get her something good.”

“Should I be impressed?” Sorina Viorica asked after the waiter left.

“Impressed?”

“By your generosity. Or was it part of an act?”

“It is what it is.”

“Even the people who should understand, don’t,” said Sorina, changing her tact. “You saw the waiter’s expression.

Yet he is not that much different than her.”

“Nor are we.”

She smirked. “When the revolution comes, then we will see who’s different.”

“I’d keep my voice down if I were you.”

“This is the student quarter. If I can’t talk of revolution here, where can I?”

Sorina Viorica spent the next half hour doing just that, explaining to Stoner that all her movement wanted—originally—was equity and peace for everyone.

“That wasn’t the case under Ceausescu,” Stoner said.

“No. He was a dictator. A devil.”

“So you want to return to that?”

She shook her head.

“There are elections now,” said Stoner.

“They are a front for the old line. The hard-liners, the military—they are the ones really in control.”

“Then change it by voting. Not by violence.”

“Will your country let us?”

“It’s not up to us. It’s up to you. To Romanians.”

Sorina Viorica’s face grew sad. “Our movement is dead. It has been hijacked. And if by some miracle we were to win, REVOLUTION

139

we would be a vassal again, a slave to Russia. They are all my enemies.”

Stoner waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Whatever her personal story was—and he suspected there was a great deal to it—she didn’t share. The CIA files had a single reference to her, because she’d been on a Romanian government watch list. She had relatives in Arad, a city near Hungary, but apparently her parents both died when she was young.

After they ate, they walked for a while through University Square. Sorina said no more about the movement.

Instead, she told Stoner some of the history of the city—the old history, each building evoking a different period—nineteenth century, eighteenth century, seventeenth, sixteenth.

“You want me to betray them,” she said as they walked up the steps to the apartment.

“You said they were your enemies. And that the only ones left were misfits, and criminals.”

She took the key out of her pocket.

“They want to kill you,” he said. “You could get revenge.”

“You don’t know me very well, do you, Mr. Stoner?” she said, and closed the door behind her.

Dreamland

1156

MICKEY MCMICHAELS TUCKED THE BELL END OF HIS

stethoscope into his jacket pocket.

“I can’t say you’re in bad health, Breanna,” said the flight surgeon. “You’re in great health. But … Your knee doesn’t hurt you?”

Breanna shook her head.

“Not even a twinge?”

She shrugged.

140

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“No broken bones. Contusions are fading,” he admitted.

“Ribs, not even tender.”

“So what’s the hang-up?”

“You were very dehydrated, you had a concussion, twisted knee, bruised ribs—”

“You’re going to ground me for a few bruises?”

Dr. McMichaels pursed his lips. “Your knee is not back to normal. And as for that coma or whatever it was—”

“I’ve had two CAT scans that say I’m fine. Give me another.”

“I may.”

“X-ray my whole body. Do any test you want. Just give me my ticket to fly.”

“You have to take it slow, Breanna. You have to give your body time to heal.”