22
Northwestern Moldova
The rain bit at his face as if it were acid. He pushed up the hill, ignoring the sideward slip of his feet on the slick pavement. He pushed to feel the burn in his thighs, the strain of a muscle—to get feeling, any feeling.
Pain was a strange condition. On the one hand it was always there, like the skin that covered his body, the thick clumps of hair, the scars. On the other hand, it was a sensation, something beyond the dull haze he moved through every day, the black swamp of his life. To feel the sharpness, the pressure and strain—it could be savored.
Was it pleasure?
He didn’t know pleasure. He knew where he was, he knew his duty.
The Black Wolf pushed up the hill, arms pumping now. He was breathing hard in the darkness. If there had been houses near the road, he would have woken anyone inside. He was making good time, at a strong pace—an Olympic pace.
Run, a voice told him. Run.
He crested the hill and turned to the left, entering a wide, expansive field. His feet found the dirt path by habit; it was too dark to see.
The rain increased. He didn’t like the water. He’d almost died in water—in many ways he had died in water, even though the doctors said the coldness had helped. He still hated water.
The farmhouse was just ahead. He increased his pace, pounding through the mud.
Five hundred meters from the house a light came on in the kitchen. The light, part of his security system, told him everything was OK.
The farm was secluded and out of the way, but in his business one didn’t take chances. Death was inevitable; every moment led you closer. The question was whether you might force some control over it. That was the aim of his security systems.
The Black Wolf ran full strength to the back door of the house. When he was five meters away, the latch unhooked. He reached down with his hand, swinging the door open on a dead trot.
He stopped abruptly on the threshold and closed the door behind him. Taking off his running shoes, he began peeling off the outer layers of his clothes, throwing them into the nearby washing machine. Stripped to his compression shorts, he went inside to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before hitting the shower.
There was a message on the cell phone he used for work. It was a text message advertising a restaurant in London. Anyone receiving or intercepting it would think it was a junk text. To the Black Wolf, it was anything but.
He poured himself the coffee, then opened his laptop. Booting up, he inserted a small satellite modem into the USB port. When the computer was ready, he opened a Web browser and surfed to Google. He typed in the name of the latest punk-rap band taking Europe by storm, TekDog.
Google gave six hundred pages of hits. He went to their official site, backed out to Google again, then went to the fourth fan site listed in the search results.
The site had photos and music and show listings. It also had a small section titled Nudes&Rumors.
He clicked on it, then scrolled to the third entry.Heard on the street: band members planning new shows in France for next month. Details soonest.
Still in his underwear, the Black Wolf took his cell phone and called a number that began with a French country code.
“This is Wolf,” he said as the connection went through. He spoke in English.
“The old doctor has become a problem. It must be dealt with.”
“How soon?”
“Immediately. There have been inquiries. You should be cautious.”
“My treatments?”
“We have made other arrangements. We understand they are getting much closer together. That will not be a problem.”
“Good,” he said.
The sudden emotion he felt surprised him. It bordered on elation.
He closed the phone and went to take a shower.
23
Kiev, Ukraine
Hera smiled at the museum guard as he came around the corner.
He didn’t smile back.
“What are you doing?” he demanded in Ukrainian. Hera didn’t speak Ukrainian, but his meaning was obvious.
“Excuse me?” she asked.
“You are in a restricted area. What’s in your hand?”
She had been about to place the bug in the fire hose housing when she was interrupted. It was still in her hand, the door to the hose compartment open a few inches.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Your hand,” repeated the guard, grabbing her arm.
“Hera, dear, did you find the restroom? Oh!” McEwen appeared behind the guard. She was stooped over and looked even older than she was. “Hera?”
The guard turned, still holding Hera’s hand.
“What are you doing with my granddaughter?” asked McEwen in Ukrainian.
“She is trespassing down a restricted corridor.”
“A restricted corridor? In a museum?”
“This is not just a museum.”
McEwen walked close to him, practically touching his shirt, then pitched her head back to look into his face.
“I sent her to find the restroom,” she said. “Perhaps you could help us.”
The guard let go of Hera’s arm. She rubbed it—he’d clamped it so hard it hurt.
“That way. Out there,” he said, pointing.
“Are you married?” asked McEwen.
“Yes.”
“Too bad. My granddaughter is from America,” she added.
“You must go back. Get out of this corridor.”
“Of course, of course,” said McEwen. She put her hand to her side. “I do have a cramp.”
“A cramp?”
“Could you help me?” she asked. “Just walk me to the restroom.”
As the guard bent toward McEwen, Hera took a step to the side and put her hand against the wall, pushing the small video bug into the fire hose assembly, then closed the door. She caught up with McEwen and the guard just as they reached the main corridor.
“You must not come down here again,” warned the guard, pointing them toward the ladies’ room.
“No, no, of course.”
“You can make it?”
“My granddaughter will help.” McEwen smiled at him. “You are sure you are taken?”
“Thanks,” said Hera after he’d gone.
“Don’t mention it. I almost got you a date.”
“That would have been something.”
“Ukrainian men are very considerate,” said the older woman. “Don’t be so quick to judge. I thought your MY-PID system would warn you.”
“It did. Too late.”
McEwen smiled, and shook her head gently.
“What?” asked Hera.
“You put too much trust in electronics,” she said.
“MY-PID’s pretty useful.”
McEwen shrugged.
“You don’t think… ?”
“By the time we see anything important, it’ll be too late,” said McEwen. “You can’t replace humans.”
“These don’t.”
“Human intelligence,” said McEwen, her tone almost one of incantation. “Should we look at some paintings?”
“I have one more to place.”
“Then we’ll start with the baroque.”
“The electronics don’t replace humans,” said Hera defensively as they walked into a gallery area. Now that she wasn’t acting, McEwen’s pace was strong, as swift as Hera’s. “They let us do more.”