"You were heading the unmanned bomber project."

"So? You still need a pilot. And UMB isn't scheduled for more test flights for another three months. If that," Breanna added, "because I hear that General Samson wants to cut it."

She'd heard correctly. General Samson's priorities for the base and its projects emphasized manned programs, with only a few exceptions. He also tended to favor improvements to traditional weapons systems, like the development of smart microbombs, over what he called "gee-whiz toys" like the airborne lasers that had yet to prove themselves.

"Maybe it'll get cut, maybe not," said Mack. "Ultimately, it may not be up to the general."

"He has a lot of say."

"True."

"So, when do I fly?" asked Breanna.

"Um-"

"Tomorrow's not too soon for me."

"Wait a second, Bree. Yeah, I need pilots, but-"

"What's the but?"

"You're supposed to be in the hospital, aren't you?"

"No. I was released the other day."

"That doesn't mean you're ready to fly."

"Look. I'm fine." Breanna got up from her chair and did a little dance in front of his desk.

"I'm tempted. I'm really tempted," said Mack. "But you came in here with a limp."

"Did I?"

"And what about that concussion or coma or whatever you had?"

"Doctors didn't find anything wrong."

"I don't know."

"What do you need to say yes?"

"Medical clearance, for one thing."

"Done."

"Oh yeah? Let's see the medical report."

"I haven't bothered to schedule it yet. I will."

"Fine. No problem," said Mack. "A clean bill of health, and then you're back in the c.o.c.kpit."

"Not a problem."

"A doctor has to say you can fly."

"Of course."

"A flight surgeon, not a veterinarian."

"Hard-de-har-har."

"McMichaels," said Mack, naming the toughest doctor on the base. McMichaels had once threatened to ground him for a sore bicep.

"I like Mickey."

"Good then. It's a deal."

Bucharest, Romania

2005.

STONER SLID HIS WATCH CAP LOWER ON HIS HEAD, COVERING his ears and about half of his forehead. Then he turned the corner and walked to the apartment building where he'd left Sorina Viorica. He had his head down but was watching out of the corners of both eyes, making sure he wasn't being followed or watched.

The building's front door was ajar. Stoner pushed in, wearing an easy nonchalance to camouflage his wariness. He double-pumped up the stairs to the second floor, then went directly to the apartment door and knocked.

No answer.

Stoner surveyed the hall and nearby stairs, making sure he was alone, then turned back and knocked again.

He'd left the key under the mat, but there was no sense checking for it-she would either open the door for him or he would leave.

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 eyegla.s.s. 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."

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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."

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 pa.s.sed, 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."

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.