The WOLVERINEs remained on active duty for another three years, but with their sponsor and advocate Tom Forsyth assigned abroad and then Headquarters-bound, they were eventually retired, and were paid their sizable annuities that had accrued over the years. There was an awkward awards ceremony in Headquarters during which the five WOLVERINEs were presented with individual Distinguished Service medals, a Meritorious Unit Citation, as well as engraved brass-and-wood mantel clocks with a world-time bezel and CIA logo on the face. The presenter who read the citations—she had been born the year Witold had eluded the guard dogs in the Kampinos Forest outside Warsaw—had a little trouble with the Polish names, but the Deputy Director had memorized gratulacje, “congratulations” in Polish, which he kept repeating while shaking hands.
Thanks to their performance in Syria, Forsyth kept the WOLVERINEs on the reserve list, but there was only intermittent work, and they all eventually dispersed to comfortable if spiritless retirements. Three returned to Poland and their families. Agnes, the only woman of the network, was single, earthy, and still a wild child. She settled in Southern California, and found work restoring art at the Getty Museum. Witold, forever serious and driven, and chronically unmarried, chose to live in New York, where he occasionally did freelance security consulting.
So Forsyth’s unexpected call for the WOLVERINEs to pack their bags and meet in New York City was the long-hoped-for recall from their blancmange existences. The rendezvous was set at the exclusive Tiro A Segno Club (established 1888) on Mulberry Street in the Village, where Witold—thanks to his Italian citizenship—was a member. It was a special place: The club’s façade of three nondescript brownstones was identified only by a brass plaque and a red canopy. The entrance foyer was graced by two antique shotguns hung on the wall. The adjoining bar room, sitting rooms, and card rooms were all wood and leather, and the table in the billiard room was gorgeous in orange felt. The dining room was bathed in subdued lighting from copper-bowl pendants, and the intimate tables sparkled with crystal and white linen. The air of the club was heavy with fragrant savory things going on in the Italian kitchen. Members of Tiro (as it was called) knew one another and nodded politely.
Witold had booked the narrow private room with a table that could seat thirty, and had ordered a simple dinner of buttery imported mozzarella di bufala with prosciutto, a sinfully rich lobster risotto, and fresh fruit for dessert. The WOLVERINEs were all there early, greeted by Witold with a glass of prosecco. Their faces lighted up when Forsyth entered the room, and the Poles moved to shake his hand and buss him on both cheeks, a happy Cold War reunion. It had been too long. Faces turned again to the door as Nate Nash walked into the room. Attentive and fit, dark and intense, Nash wore a blazer over a pinstripe shirt with a dark-blue tie. The WOLVERINEs made their individual canny assessments: Witold carefully observed how Forsyth addressed Nash to gauge the young man’s status; Ryszard, the former army captain watched how Nash made eye contact when speaking; Piotr, the former police sergeant registered the strength of Nash’s handshake; Agnes from afar appraised Nash’s shoulders under his blazer.
“You all have been lazing around,” said Forsyth. “We have work to do.” Piotr the ex-cop huffed.
“You kept us waiting long enough,” he said.
“I wasn’t sure you hadn’t grown fat and slow in retirement,” said Forsyth deadpan.
“Piotr is the fattest,” said Jerzy, the electronics whiz. “Too much sernik, Polish cheesecake.”
“Do not worry about me,” said Piotr. “You should worry about losing your hair.” The rangy Jerzy’s hair was thinning on top.
“Thomas, as you can see, discipline is as bad as ever,” said Ryszard. “These worthless fellows have not changed.”
“Enough,” said Witold, always in command. “Thomas, tell us what work you have for us.” He was ever the aristocrat, dressed in a light-charcoal double-breasted suit.
“Russia, the Crimea, Sevastopol.”
“Fenomenalny, marvelous,” said Ryszard. “The weather will be warm and sunny.”
“How long?” asked Witold. He sipped his prosecco, looking at Nate over the rim of his glass.
“Two days, three; the target is a warehouse,” said Forsyth. Faces turned to Nate again.
“But first tell us something of this young man,” said Agnes. She was tall and sharp featured, with gray eyes and thick black hair that fell to her shoulders. She had a snow-white streak in her hair, a white forelock that began at the forehead and swept back. She was wearing a black knit sweaterdress that clung to a body that hinted at Mount Rushmore.
“This is Nathaniel Nash,” said Forsyth. “I’ve worked with him for six years. He will be coordinating the operation.” The Poles were silent.
“Coordinating, or leading?” asked Piotr.
“Leading. He has significant experience in denied-area operations,” said Forsyth.
“May I ask where?” said Witold softly. Forsyth knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Moscow,” said Nate, speaking for the first time. “Helsinki, Rome, Athens.” Agnes thought he was attractive, the confident man-boy.
“Vy govoríte po-rússki?” asked Ryszard. Do you speak Russian?
“I studied in college and kept it up afterward,” said Nate in Russian. The Poles instantly heard in his accent and phrasing that he was fluent, probably better than any of them.
“He’s the best officer I’ve seen on the street, ever,” said Forsyth. Nate looked at his shoes. Yeah, good on the street, my ass in a sling, he thought. Piotr sipped his drink, and Agnes tilted her head, still looking at him.
“Thomas, forgive me, but I’m thinking Pani Nathaniel, Mr. Nate, is too young to be that good,” said Piotr. Heads turned. Everybody knew Piotr the cop—he was testing. Forsyth held his breath. Come on, Nash, he thought.
“If I agreed with you,” said Nate in colloquial Russian, looking Piotr in the eyes, “we’d both be wrong.”
There was a moment of silence, then Witold held out a glass to Nate. “Care for some prosecco?” he said.
After the mozzarella, they had twenty-five minutes before the risotto would reach the final mantecatura stage where cold butter is stirred into the finished rice, so Witold suggested they go down to the basement firing range. The name “Tiro A Segno” in fact means shooting gallery and the incongruous fifty-yard range with three leather-padded firing points was popular with members. Piotr looked at Nate and pointed to the bolt-action rimfire rifles at two of the shooting positions, put on earmuffs, slapped the four-round magazine into the rifle, and worked the bolt to jack a round into the breach. Nate did the same, and both men rested their elbows on the leather padding and looked through the sighting scopes. The paper targets were simple three-ring bull’s-eyes hung on tracked clips that could be run the length of the spotlighted range, to vary distances or to be retrieved up close for inspection.
Agnes moved to stand behind Nate and whispered udachi, good luck, in Russian. The little rifles popped and each target flapped as the .22 rounds tore ragged holes in the center of the paper—excellent, tight groups on both bull’s-eyes. At the fourth shot, both Forsyth and Witold saw Nate’s rifle barrel waiver for a second. The rifles were safed and the targets run back to the firing line. Nate’s target was perfect; all the rounds had gone through the same expanded hole in the smallest ring. There was a bellow from Piotr. His target had a hole outside the rings, near the edge of the paper—a disastrous “flyer.” Nate shook Piotr’s hand with a serious expression. Piotr looked over at Forsyth and Witold, who were smirking, red faced. He looked back at Nate, who was still serious, but his eyes were twinkling. Piotr finally got it: Nate had shot across the lanes to place the apparent pulled shot into Piotr’s target, an old range-master’s prank Gable had once pulled on Nate himself. Piotr held on to Nate’s hand, glowering.