"I know the way," she said.
Stoner slipped the seat to the rear, adjusting it so he could lean his head back and get a more comfortable. The seat belt sat right over his wound, but he managed to bunch his jacket to the side and relieve most of the pressure on it. The drugs didn't seem to have much of an effect at first, but after twenty minutes or so he realized his mouth was hanging open and his upper body was starting to feel numb. He pushed back up in the seat, wincing at the pain yet grateful that it helped wake him up.
A few minutes later, Sorina braked hard to avoid rear-ending a car stopped around a curve. There was a checkpoint ahead, soldiers checking IDs.
She started to put the car into reverse. "Don't," said Stoner, putting his hand on the shifter. He fought against the shock of pain. "They already see us." "I don't have identification." "I'll deal with it."
"No."
"You're going to have to trust me," he told her. "This isn't a question of trust."
Stoner reached beneath his belt to the small pouch where he kept his ID and took out his diplomatic passport, along with a folded letter. He considered taking out money as well, but decided against it — better to play the arrogant American with nothing to hide, impatient at the delay.
"You're my interpreter. You work for the embassy."
"My name?"
"Pick something you'll remember. And I can pronounce." "Jon. It was my father's name." "That's a last name?" "Yes. Call me Ms. Jon."
Stoner undid his seat belt and brought his seat back up to horizontal. The line moved slowly. They were three cars from the front.
"You are sure of this?" said Sorina Viorica.
"We have no choice. If you get out, they'll probably start shooting. They'll hunt you down."
She frowned, probably thinking it wouldn't be that hard to get away.
Stoner noticed a bloodstain on his pants as they pulled near the soldiers, but it was too late to do anything. He folded his hands down against it and put an annoyed look on his face as the two soldiers peered into the car.
The sun was just rising, and it was dark inside the vehicle; the man on Stoner's side shone a flashlight around, hitting Stoner's eyes. He had to fight the reflex to cover his eyes with his hands.
The man on the driver's side rapped on the window. When
Sorina Viorica opened it, he told her in Romanian that they must hand over their IDs.
Stoner didn't wait for the translation.
"Here," he told Sorina, giving her the passport with his left hand. "Tell him we're in a hurry. If I'm late, you're going to be fired."
Something flickered in the man's face. Stoner realized he spoke English.
So did Sorina Viorica, though she pretended she didn't.
"You have to be patient," she said to Stoner. "They are just doing their job. Things are different in our country. You cannot be an arrogant American. It is an insult."
"I don't care. If I'm not in Bucharest by seven, the ambassador will have a fit."
"I told you, we're not going to make it."
"Then you'll be finding another way to feed your kid, whether your husband was killed by the guerrillas or not. I didn't hire you for charity."
Sorina Viorica began explaining to the soldier that her boss was an American on official business and due in the capital.
The soldier grabbed his passport and the letter from the defense ministry saying that Stoner was to be given free passage and professional courtesies. The letterhead impressed the soldier, though he tried not to show it.
"You work for a jerk," the soldier told Sorina.
"My boy is only three. I work where I can," she said. "What's going on?"
"The rebels attacked the pipeline last night."
"No!"
"They did some damage. Not much." He flipped through the passport. "And your identity—"
"Get the damn flashlight out of my face," Stoner snarled, rolling down the window and leaning out. "I'll have you busted down to private!" he shouted. "And if you are a private, I'll get you into a latrine!"
"I'm sorry," Sorina told the soldier near her. "These Americans."
She turned to Stoner. "Please. Just relax. Please relax. There's no sense getting angry. He's doing his job. Please. He probably has a family."
"What's his name? Get his goddamn name. I want to have him on report. I'm going to tell the ambassador this is why I was late. Get his name."
Sorina pushed back in the seat, glancing toward heaven and muttering something Romanian.
"Get his name!"
"You can go," said the soldier at her window, handing back Stoner's passport. "I'm sorry for you."
"Get his name!" demanded Stoner.
Sorina Viorica stepped on the gas.
Neither of them spoke for a full minute.
"That checkpoint was not normal," she said finally. "There was an attack last night, on the pipeline."
"I see."
"But there couldn't have been."
"Why not?"
"We decided six months ago that we wouldn't. That is not what we want. It must have been the Russians."
"Right."
"It's true," she said sharply. "And besides, I know."
"If your friends tried to kill you, what makes you think they'd tell you what they were doing?"
"My friends didn't try to kill me. It was the Russians. The movement itself — it's dwindled. Those who remain are misfits."
"How do you know they were Russians who attacked us?" asked Stoner.
"Their boots were new. None of our people have new boots. Not even a year ago. And now — the only ones left are misfits."
An interesting point, thought Stoner. A very interesting point.
"I don't know why I told the kid that. I don't know why I said anything."
Breanna watched as Zen wheeled himself backward across the room. It had been a long time since she'd seen him so agitated, so angry with himself.
"God, Bree. Why couldn't I keep my mouth shut? What if he doesn't walk?"
"I don't think it's going to be that bad, Zen," she told him. "I'm sure the doctors will be able to do something."
Zen shook his head. "I saw the looks on their faces when we brought him into the base. I've seen that look. God, I've seen that look."
"Jeff, you can't get so down on yourself. It's not up to you whether he walks or not. God, if anyone would understand—"
"He's not going to understand."
"I mean, if anyone could understand what he's going through, it would be you. It is you. Jeff?" But Zen had already rolled out of her room.
By 9:00 a.m., General Locusta had provided Bucharest with a full report of the bombing of the gas pipeline. Two rebels had been killed, he claimed — not exactly a lie, since he did have two bodies to present, though Locusta knew that the men had been left by the Russian special forces troops that launched the attack.
He downplayed his own losses, though he had already ordered full military honors for both men killed.
The damage to the pipeline was minimal, Locusta assured Bucharest; it would be repaired within days and there would be minimal disruption of the gas supplies.
Locusta was playing a dangerous game. The attack was part of a payoff for Russian cooperation in the coming coup, cooperation that would include the use of an assassin against the defense minister when the time came. It was also meant to convince the government to send the last units he felt he needed to assure himself victory when he moved against the president.
But it could also backfire and encourage Bucharest to sack him. Even though he'd been warning for weeks that an attack might be imminent, and even though he'd claimed that he didn't have the necessary troops for the growing threat, there was still a possibility that he could be blamed for failing to stop the attack, and be replaced by someone else.