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CHAPTER 7



Kyle’s cell phone rang.

He twitched awake and grabbed it. “Monroe.”

“We have Logadze,” Cafferty said.

“Roger that. Where?” Yes!

“He’s been seen in Constanta, and is heading here by car. We know where he usually hangs out. We’ll want you to wait near there. I’ll email to confirm, and here’s the info I have . . .” He rattled off an address on the west side of town, named landmarks and suggested two buildings. “The first one is an old Communist-built office from the nineteen fifties, now vacant. It’s abandoned and has plenty of windows. The second is an old apartment block, officially vacant and abandoned but likely full of two-legged homeless rats.”

“We’ll try your first suggestion, then.” Kyle looked across the room. “Wade has the map up. I think I see where.”

They hurried downstairs separately, Kyle by the stairs, Wade by elevator. They were dressed in casual office-type clothes reinforced with trench coats and civilian work boots, all of which they considered expendable and expected to trash. Wade had the digital cameras, a spotting scope and NVGs plus his pistol. Kyle had the Ruger in its briefcase and his Ed Brown and Colt in the pockets of his trench coat. Both carried small rucksacks of food and water, changes of clothes, PDAs with all the info downloaded, tactical gear, and accessories like eyepatches and gloves.

The car was running and ready by the time Kyle got downstairs, and Wade pulled out immediately.

“People drive like idiots here, anyway,” Wade said, “so there’s no need to take our time.”

“No, just don’t wreck.” People did drive like idiots here. Not as bad the DC Beltway or Chicago, but close. Nor were the Americans familiar with the social mores that went along with driving here.

Wade ignored the comment. Four minutes later he said, “There it is. Where do we park?”

“Dunno. Should I get out and you catch up? No, better not risk it. There must be a space along here.” He indicated an angled line of cars.

They found a space. American civilians think in terms of parking within a block at most. They were used to walking, and thought in that regard more like Europeans. It was four blocks along before Wade parked on the street.

“We want the south side,” Wade said as they got out, “so we’re overlooking that square.”

“Got it. Let’s hope it’s really vacant.” The building was ugly, straight sided, and brick. The roof sagged in spots, and the gutters had pulled loose.

It was also barricaded, with heavy timbers over the doors and windows on the first floor. Some had steel bars. A few were bricked up.

“Ain’t that lovely?” Wade commented.

“We’ll have to break in,” Kyle noted.

“Around back.”

“Right.”

A cobbled alley stinking of urine and trash led them past windows. Those, too, were boarded. They turned into a loading area inset into the back edifice, wide enough for two trucks and with loading docks. There were no openings not covered with wood, bars, or steel. “Damn,” Kyle said.

“This one’s a bit loose,” Wade said. “And they’re bolted in place. Why don’t you shoot out a couple of those bolts?”

Kyle thought for a moment. The window started about five feet off the ground. “As long as I shoot obliquely in case of a ricochet, I don’t see why not.” It took only a few moments to slip his pistol and the suppressor inside his coat and assemble them. “Watch for brass,” he ordered.

Wade said, “Will do. It’s clear.” It was dingy and dark in the alcove, and the building behind had crazed and painted windows that looked abandoned, anyway.

The pistol thwapped twice, brass tinkled on the bricks underfoot. Wade bent down and scooped up the empty cases as Kyle stuffed the pistol away.

“That seemed to do it,” he said. The bolt heads had been blown cleanly off, and the plywood sheet bent back as he pulled.

Then they were grunting and straining, because the plywood was three quarters of an inch thick and well secured. “Might have been easier,” Wade panted, “to have brought a grappling hook and climbed up a couple of floors.” He nodded up at the third floor, its windows protected by rusted bars and broken glass.

“Put it on the list,” Kyle said through gritted teeth.

Then he twisted and was underneath the wood as Wade swore and pulled to stop him from getting squeezed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and fished out leather gloves, which he yanked on quickly before trying to tackle the broken sill and frame. He sought areas free from glass and heaved himself up, bracing his feet on Wade’s knees for support.

He almost dislocated his spine as he bent backward inside. Then his hands touched dusty, filthy floor and he found it easiest to roll backward into a handstand, feeling like Olga Korbut.

As he collapsed in a heap, he decided old Olga had far more grace and control. But what the hell, he was inside.

It was also pitch black. He dug for his Maglight. That let him find a chunk of pipe, leftover from who knows what, which he slid down and out and pried with. His weight opened enough of a gap that Wade was able to easily toss in their rucksacks and clamber up himself.

With both flashlights out, they were able to look around.

“Time for night vision,” Kyle said. Wade opened his bag and they both pulled on goggles. With the lights and occasional bright dots through knotholes or cracks, they could see well enough. The floor was concrete, pierced with mounting holes for long-removed machinery, and was very rough. It was littered with boxes, crates, lumber, metal, and assorted cobwebs, dead birds, and junk. “Fun place.”

“That gray area over there,” Wade pointed. Even though everything was monochromatic green, it was a habit to refer to something halfway between light and dark as “gray.”

“I think that’s stairs with light above.”

“Could be,” Kyle said. “Let’s check it out.”

They were stairs. Once up a floor, the light from above was soft and diffused, everything showing as lurking shadows. After that it was easy, except for the mess and loose debris on the stairs. The metal clanged softly and swayed a little, but it seemed to be no more than the vibration one would expect.

“No one’s been up here,” Kyle said. “Probably too cold and drafty, and no place to get a fire going, so no homeless people.”

“Whatever,” Wade said. “Vacant is what we want.”

They pushed on to the sixth floor, and stopped at the top of the stairs. Neither man had any intention of running across floors that might give way, or showing a silhouette at a window. They were cautious professionals. “Safe up here. But I think the third floor is high enough, gets us closer to the shot and leaves us a shorter escape route.”

“Makes sense,” Wade agreed. “Back down we go.” They slipped quietly back along their steps and down.

“Okay, open windows on all sides,” Wade said once they were there. “We’re expecting him on the south, but he’s coming from the east. Should we each take a side and wait?”

“Yes, that seems correct,” Wade said. “I’ll watch east with the spotting scope. You use the rifle scope. Switch every thirty minutes?”

“Okay,” Kyle agreed.

Then it got down to waiting. Kyle found a rickety, splintered table he could reinforce with some old crates. He used his knife to peel off a few large splinters and used them to wedge the legs more tightly in place. That gave him a good platform for watching and shooting. He was back about ten feet from the window, which made him all but invisible but still afforded a good view. Behind him, he could see Wade, tucked back against a pillar, shoulders hunched and seeming willing to wait like a statue.

It wasn’t especially cold. It was probably over fifty outside. But the building was effectively open up here, and they weren’t moving at all. Chill leaked down the front of Kyle’s coat, up his sleeves and in through his boot tips. Part of him noticed and grumbled. The other part kept watch.

There were couples, business people, ragged poor, and indeterminate others. The ages ranged from ten to ancient. With the bipod out and his hand on the grip, Kyle was professionally comfortable. He could—and on occasion did—stay like this for more than a day. He had his ruck open to his left, the food and water in easy reach and easily closed and removed with no evidence left behind. A color picture of Logadze was taped inside the open top to help in recognition.

Nothing happened for two hours. They stayed still and cold, eyes alert for their target, ears straining to catch any sounds from below that would indicate trouble. Lumps and bolt heads on the table were poking Kyle through his clothes, leaving indentations in the skin and to the bone in some places. His headset was irritating his ear.

Wade came over and slid down beside him, and he rolled off the table to take the spotting scope on the east. Standing let him work the kinks out, then it was time to sprawl on the table again.

Besides people, there were buses, trucks and cars, shifting shadows from clouds, and other movements. There were also the crazed and cracked windows. It helped that there was always something to look at. It hindered in that it distracted attention from the street. The eye patch over his left eye let him avoid squinting, and he panned slowly back and forth across the field of view the window offered.

Kyle picked out several missing panes he planned to shoot through when the time came. A silenced weapon did no good if one then broke out glass that would fall and clatter to give away one’s position.

It was at 10:43 a.m. when Wade said, “I think I’ve got him.” They were using their headsets to avoid shouting.

“Where?”

“East, one block, approaching on foot, north side of street. Now crossing to south side.”

“Good.” He wanted to keep the talk to a minimum, and no names would be used on air. He turned his face from the microphone and said, “Pretty good find. And they can’t just arrest this asshole?” Wade was moving closer, window to window, keeping Logadze in view.

His partner said, “I get the impression they’re like Colombian drug lords. Everyone knows about them, but no one wants to fuck with them.”

“Yeah. How’s progress?”

Wade said, “Coming into your field of view any time. Navy trench coat, short, scruffy beard, gray slacks, and white shirt.”

“I see him. That’s our target?” He was suddenly large in Kyle’s scope, disappearing momentarily as he shifted across window spars, to reappear again.

“I’ve got a positive match,” Wade said. “That’s our man.”

“Got it,” Kyle said without a movement. “I can’t guarantee I’m going to get a shot.”

“Okay.”

“Because I am not shooting where I might hit a civilian, and I’m not shooting where it’ll be obvious which direction the bullet came from, and I am not shooting outside of two hundred meters.”

“Kyle, I’m on your side. Do what you have to,” Wade told him.

“Right. Sorry.” He resumed silence. It was easier to work that way, anyway. He could easily see Logadze in his scope. But there was no certainty he would get close enough. It was back to a waiting game.

But Kyle was patient, and trained to be more so. If this shot didn’t work out, then perhaps the next one would. He rose carefully and moved to keep an open window pane between him and Logadze, skipping lightly sideways like a dancer, but a dancer poised with a rifle matched to his almost inhumanly accurate skill.

Logadze was obviously waiting for something.

Of course, innocent people waited for things, too. Girlfriends, business partners, even to kill time between buses. But this man was waiting for the transfer of a case of explosives to take out more civilians with. Kyle just hoped that information was correct. It wasn’t the remorse he’d feel over a bad shot, though that was real enough. It was the satisfaction of putting a cowardly, murderous terrorist asshole into the dirt.

Kyle Monroe really hated terrorists. If they wanted to kill people, he stood ready to receive them. But none of them dared meet men like him, because they knew they’d lose. Their targets were the small, the weak, and the helpless. And those were the people Kyle had sworn to protect.

So beyond the intellectual challenge of the shot, the tactical complexity of an urban environment with witnesses, and the political intrigue and risk, was a cruel but real thrill at the thought of making this scumbucket the guest of honor at a funeral. Or maybe “ghost” of honor, he thought with a tight smile.

He was there, across the circle, and easy to see. That wasn’t the only consideration, however.

At much beyond one hundred yards, the little .22 rounds would be inadequate. Certainly five or ten solid hits at two hundred yards would cause enough trauma to the heart or lungs to bring him down, but that took time, allowed easier tracking of the shots, and meant he might reach a hospital in time. He might catch AIDS from a dirty transfusion, but that would mean years to die. Their schedule called for it to happen somewhat sooner.

So there was nothing to do but wait, and hope. If they didn’t catch him here, they could try again somewhere else.

“Watch concealment,” Wade said. Kyle took a quick peek, nodded, and stepped back. He was getting too close to the window.

“I’m getting photos,” Wade said. “Video and still. We’ll have something they can update records with at least.”

“Roger that.”

Just then Logadze leaned back against the wall and pulled out a cigarette pack. He shook one loose as he fumbled for a match or lighter in his jacket pocket.

Got you, you son of a bitch, Kyle thought. All he needed now was a moment’s break in the crowd. Even if the .22 exited the body, it would be so slow as to barely make a mark on the aged and weathered bricks. One shot only, then duck. It wouldn’t do to have anyone try to trace the shot back. He leaned back, left arm braced against his body to minimize oscillations.

Logadze struck a match and raised it in cupped hands. Just as he reached his face, a break in the crowd left him clear and exposed. Kyle gritted his teeth for just a moment, then let icy calm flow back through him. He was waiting for . . .

Logadze cocked his head slightly as he breathed life into his cigarette.

. . . that, Kyle thought, and started to squeeze the trigger.

Then the crowd thickened again. Bodies came en masse from stores and entrances. Swearing, he let off the trigger and eased from his stance. He sagged back on his legs and drew the rifle carefully out of line.

“Son of a bitch!” he said.

“Eleven a.m.,” Wade said from around his scope. “I think people are breaking for lunch.” His squint was still in place and he was swiveling to keep the target in view. “And he’s heading into that store,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

Kyle agreed, “Do. But I’m betting he goes out the back.”

“No bet,” Wade said. “Still, we’ll watch and see.”

“Right,” Kyle agreed. Blast. Just one more second! That’s all he’d needed. “I hate peacetime urban settings,” he said. “I’ve tried them for one day now, and I hate them. I’d rather risk gapping an officer at his desk with a regiment of armor around him than shoot in a crowded city.”

“Yeah, I’m not pursuing the idea of being a police sniper after this,” Wade said. “There are distinct advantages to heavy artillery as backup.” Kyle was already dialing on his phone. “Mick, no go. He went into a store,” he said as soon as it answered.

“Damn. Are you watching?”

“Yes, but there’s another exit, and he may have friends inside. Or hell, he may just bull his way through to the bathroom or something.”

“Right. Call me when you have something. I’ll try to get someone in there to follow up.”

“Understood. Out.” He punched off at once, the phone letting out a beep. It almost sounded like a protest against his rough thumb on the button.

Letting the frustration and anger subside, they resumed their patient watch. Every half hour, they switched off, letting their eyes rest for a few minutes, red and gritty and aching. It was chilly with no heat and no movement.

Lunch was cold MREs and local iron rations of nuts and fruit. The apples were okay, but small, bitter, and tough compared to American ones. Still, it was food, and it broke the monotony.

At 7:00 p.m., dusky and chilly, the Georgian had still not come from the store. It was long since closed and locked, and the foot traffic was dying rapidly.

“That’s it, we’re done,” Wade said.

“Yeah, I concur,” Kyle said. “Let’s report in. Damn.” He dug out the phone again. “Monroe here,” he said when Cafferty answered. “No go. Video and stills.”

“It all helps. We know he’s here and we’ll get another chance. Don’t sweat it.”

“You weren’t able to track him?” Kyle asked. He was a bit miffed that they’d been left here all day.

“No. Can’t explain right now. I’ll meet you at the panzione tomorrow, unless things change. Oh eight hundred.”

“Eight a.m. at the panzione, got it.”


Hadi Kadim logged into his favorite chatroom for the evening. Actually, it wasn’t his favorite chatroom. He hated it. But if he might glean a few grains, it would be worthwhile. He’d come across it by accident one night, and had been about to leave when he caught a reference to a U.S. embassy. He stayed, curious, and found that one of the participants was married to an ambassador. She also liked to talk.

He’d mentioned this to mullah, who’d asked for anyone with information about the American military to come forward. Embassies weren’t exactly military, but he thought it might be useful.

The mullah had thought so. A week later, he had specific instructions on what to look for an listen for, and what to say.


JulianLee has entered the room.

6 people in chat.

redkitty: Julian, good evening.

leo155: Hi, Jule.

julianlee: Greetings, all. I’ll be lurking while I help my son with his math.

leo155: No prob. Crunch those numbers. Show no mercy. :-D


There was no son, and Kadim had no intention of lurking in the chat sense. He watched every conversation that passed, and saved the frame every evening. There were others who did similar things: MedevalMac worked second shift and left chat running so he could read and catch up afterward, then was actually present only on weekends. But it was best that “JulianLee” not talk too much. Watching was better. He couldn’t see the private messages, but from the ones he received he concluded there wasn’t any substantial content to most of them.

Much went on that was neither interesting nor relevant. But he cultivated favor by being quiet and friendly. Often, that was all that was needed.

It was more than an hour before he started making notes. One of his favorite people came online. Others found her to be an annoying chatterbox. He did, too, in fact, but she often said things of interest. She was the ambassador’s wife.


Barbiemouse has entered the room.

fancydancer: Barbie! Hugs.

redkitty: Hi, Barbie.

barbiemouse: I am soooo frustrated and annoyed!

jamesgunn: Oh? What now?

barbiemouse: You wouldn’t believe what’s happening here now.

julianlee: Oh?

barbiemouse: My husband has just been informed that a certain intelligence agency is providing support to an ‘anti-terror’ team here in country.

jamesgunn: And that’s bad?

leo155: SWEEEEEEEEEEEET! :-D


Kadim paid close attention. This was important.


barbiemouse: Leo, you’re too young to grasp how important this is. This country is developing and still trying to grasp capitalism and the modern world. Treading all over their sovereignty won’t let them reach their potential. It’s insulting and condescending to take such a smug, overbearing approach.

redkitty: You seem to be implying a problem beyond the diplomatic issues, Barbie.

Private Message from JamesGunn to JulianLee: You’d think an ambassador would marry someone a bit brighter than Barbie. Doesn’t thrill me about our State Department.

Private Message from JulianLee to JamesGunn: I’m not sure she is an ambassador’s wife.

Private Message from JamesGunn to JulianLee: Oh, she is. Unfortunately. I’ve heard enough to confirm it.


That was interesting. He made notes.


leo155: I’m told they’re pretty good at capitalism. High prices. Screwing tourists. Cheap hookers. Hell, I might have to book a trip.

barbiemouse: Leo, that’s exactly the attitude that causes problems here.

barbiemouse: Anyway, there’s a pair of Rambo types gallivanting about the countryside trying to take shots at terrorists.

jamesgunn: I’m still trying to find the problem with this.

redkitty: I don’t think the intent is to annoy your hosts, Barb.

barbiemouse: Oh, I know. They have Good Intentions, of course. It just bothers me to see our hosts’ hospitality abused like this. Really, there’s no reason it should be hidden from them.

jamesgunn: The less who know, the better. I didn’t really need to know. Are you sure you should be talking?

barbiemouse: They tried a shot downtown today and couldn’t do it. I’m not quite sure who they are, but they’re not impressive.

barbiemouse: And they’re obviously not very good, if they can’t make a 100 yard shot in daylight. Why, when my first husband was in the 3rd Infantry Division, there was a sniping competition at 800 yards.

redkitty: It’s likely a little different with innocent people around the target.

barbiemouse: Yes, I suppose we should all be grateful they didn’t plug anyone on the street. But still, it’s only a matter of time before someone so insecure makes a serious error in judgment and it all comes tumbling down. From what I gather, they don’t even speak the language. They’re just sort of floating around until told what to do. Really, there should be a proper chain of command. It just strikes me as so sloppy and insulting to send two half-competent people over when the Romanian SRI has very good people of its own.

jamesgunn: So glad to hear an analysis from an expert in the field. [sarcasm]

julianlee: Now, James, Barbie is part of the diplomatic mission and is familiar with the area better than we are.

jamesgunn: I suppose so. Anyway, I have to log out. Later.

JamesGunn has exited the room.

redkitty: Bye, James.

leo155: Later, James . . . damn, that was quick.

julianlee: I suppose I should bid you good evening, too. There’s chores to be done.

leo155: Good night, Julian.

julianlee: Good night, all.


Hadi resumed lurking and watching. He found chat rooms to be most unpleasant. It got very awkward when the Americans and the French got onto a kick with sexual innuendos; though rather than being offended as he used to be, Kadim was now largely bored. It seemed they had no depth, no sophistication, and made all their seductions crass and quick. No wonder they were so decadent, shallow, and lacking in respect.

But he was out again, and prayer would cleanse his soul. In that, he did respect two newcomers, Larry and Walt, who were devout Christians. He didn’t believe in their savior, but they at least kept quiet when the conversations got perverse, and quietly chided the more obnoxious members. They seemed like halfway decent types, unlike JamesGunn, who was a typical anti-Islamic twit. His oft-repeated phrase of “No Palestinians, no Palestinian problem” had driven Kadim to a frenzied rage that only an hour of prayer had cooled the first time he heard it. Clearly, Allah was tasking him with patience and tolerance for such men.

For Allah’s purpose, he could suffer such indignity. Allah had his own plan, and it would show its beauty and perfection when all was done.

For now, he needed to call the mullah and update him. There were shooters from somewhere in Romania under American orders. He wasn’t sure of the significance, but he’d been told to report anything unusual from the dozen chats a day he monitored. Exhaling to clear his mind, he reached for the phone.


The next morning, Cafferty was waiting at the panzione. “Hi, guys,” he said with a wave. “Let’s talk. Problems.” He stood at the back door, but inside and under cover. They hurried up the steps and through the canted kitchen door. Sam was present. He smiled and ducked into the front parlor.

Kyle bristled a little. He was afraid the problem was a perception of how they did their job.

“I hope the intel we have is okay,” he said to try to probe gently. It was tight in the kitchen, and Ms. Cneajna smiled and offered them cups. He and Wade refused with thanks.

Cafferty took a cup and said, “Any pics we can clean up and use are good. The more we have on this guy, the better we can predict him. And anyone near him may turn out to be a coconspirator. If there’s someone in your pics who was in others we have, that’s a good lead.”

“I got about thirty minutes of vid and twenty-three stills,” Wade said as they walked the twenty feet through the house to the bedroom.

“Excellent! Glad to hear it.” Cafferty opened the bedroom door and waved at them while sipping his coffee. Everyone sat back down, knees almost touching in the small space between bed and chair. He pulled a laptop and a bag of accessories from his briefcase, which was already by the chair.

“So what’s the problem?” Wade asked casually, as they slipped in and closed it.

“Ambassador’s wife,” Cafferty said with a disgusted look. “She talks too much and to everyone. She’s an annoying bitch. And he’s too much of a wuss to get rid of her or ignore her. She doesn’t run the embassy, but she sure as hell backseat drives a lot. And I never want to hear about her polyps again.” He shuddered and winced. “At least we know he’s honest.”

“Oh?” Wade asked first.

“Yeah. It’s got to be love, there’s not that much money in the world. So he’s not taking bribes.”

Wade chuckled. “Or if he is, he spends it on a mistress.”

Kyle grinned and asked, “And there’s nothing we can do about her?”

“Kyle, if I could designate her as a target, I would. But it would be illegal, immoral, and cause more trouble than it solved. But, God, I hate that woman.” His face was showing lines.

“What can happen? We’re not up on State issues,” Wade asked.

“As I said, the ambassador can bounce you out of here. He’s first and last word. It’s his job to take advice and act on it. But he listens to her far more than he should. She’s much harder to keep control of. And she knows more than she should. She snoops, he talks, then she talks to others—I won’t say friends. I don’t think she has any friends. But there’s a lot of people who pity her for some stupid reason.” He gulped more coffee.

“That’s why you don’t want us at the embassy?” Kyle asked. “In addition to visibility, I mean?”

“Yup. She was whining and complaining about you ‘missing’ the shot. She overheard something and is making snide comments about the CIA’s assassins.”

“Dammit, I didn’t take the shot because I didn’t want to blow cover or kill a civilian,” Kyle said. “Where the f—”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Cafferty said. “I know the realities. We’ll get another chance. Absolute worst case, we tell the Romanians everything we have and see if they can nail a couple of them before word gets around. Without mentioning that we were trying to do it ourselves because we didn’t trust them.”

“You know,” Wade said, “I rather think I prefer our job to yours a lot of ways.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a coffee habit that would bankrupt most budgets, and if I come out of this without an ulcer, I’ll call it a win.”

“So what’s next?”

“Well,” Cafferty replied, scratching his forehead, “if it goes as before, Logadze here means Florescu will be setting up something regarding a shipment.”

“And we’ll get a shot at him?”

“If we see him, yes. And then we have to get you up into the tourist areas to get your photos of Dracula’s digs. Otherwise people might start asking about you.”

“Question, and I don’t mean to be rude,” Kyle said. This seemed like an opportune time.

“Sure.” And another gulp of coffee.

“Why are you so terse on the phone?”

“Because I’m trying to pretend you don’t exist,” he said. “If I’m just liaison for a military mission, then I can shrug my shoulders and say it’s not my fault. But if I talk to you too much, it becomes obvious my department is running the show.”

“Fair enough,” Kyle said. “I’m not sure I want to see the chain of command for this nightmare.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty confused,” Cafferty said. “Anyway, if we don’t get anything else in four days, we’ll move you up into the mountains and see if you can offer any help to finding them up there.”

“Fair enough,” Kyle said. Good. Four more days of bad food and a decrepit city, and maybe they could do something worthwhile.

“Meantime, I’m trying to stop her from hearing anything. I don’t know how the info gets out, but she’s good at piecing tiny bits together and blowing them out of proportion. A great conspiracy theorist.”

“She listens at doors?” Kyle asked.

“Dunno. But I do have to talk on the phone and to others, and I’m not the only person in country, or even in the embassy, who is involved. It only takes a comment at lunch to set her off. And some stuff that is public knowledge gets twisted when she gets hold of it. I’ll have to see about getting her some really ridiculous info to discredit her and confuse them. That’s more work for my people.”

“Anyway,” he continued, shaking his head, “Let me see what you have, and give me a report,” he laid down a microphone connected to the laptop, “and I’ll get you more intel. Basic name so I can keep things straight, and talk.” Kyle nodded, grabbed the mic and said, “SFC Kyle Monroe. We departed the hotel at . . .” Forty minutes later, with some leading questions from Cafferty, they were done. He’d split his attention to watch their video on screen, and to plug their camera into his own laptop. The photos were encrypted and emailed out, then the verbal report, then he pulled a chip from the side. He broke it in half with a heavy pair of sidecutters and held it up. He rummaged in a pocket, pulled out a lighter and scorched the broken edges until they melted. That done, he took it to a corner and pulled a very large magnet out of a drawer, then waved the two sections over it for more than a minute.

“Flash RAM?” Wade asked.

Cafferty said, “Yes. Much easier and cheaper than the old way, which was to either smash and slag a drive, or take fifteen minutes to overwrite and then reformat about two hundred times, I think. That’s what the No Such Agency had set up for us. This way, it’s done very quickly and for just a few dollars.”

“What about security here?” Wade asked.

“Worst case, I try to smash the chip enough before anyone comes in, but this info isn’t so critical. If they find it, we say he’s a ‘person of interest’ and negotiate a swap of intel. I’m just being paranoid. Besides, there’s Sam. He’s the tripwire.”

“Ah,” Kyle said. It made sense. And likely the safe house changed from time to time.

“Okay, that’s it for now. I’ll work on this and try to get you another shot. And thanks. The intel is useful, potentially even more useful than a kill.”

“No problem,” Kyle said. He knew that. Every sniper did. But he wanted the kill because he hated terrorists, and to show the doubters that he could do it.

Then he mentally stepped back, because doing it to prove a point was dangerous. The goal here was to do a job only. Not to prove anything. Professionals didn’t take revenge or show off. Professionals knew they were good. And looking back at his own record, Kyle had all the proof he needed that he was good.

They left first, out the back again, smiling at their reticent and almost invisible hostess. Kyle had to wonder what her stake was, but he trusted Cafferty, so he wasn’t going to ask.

Turning to Wade, he said, “Now all we need is lunch.”

“You know, there is a KFC here. It’s real food and hopefully somewhat American.”

“Good idea,” Kyle agreed, smiling. “I haven’t had chicken in a while. And it’s bound to be better than their attempts at Mexican or Russian; there’s corporate standards to maintain.”

“We’ll stop by on the way to the hotel. I think it’s near there anyway.”


An hour later, stuffed and sated, they sat back on their beds. They’d killed a twelve-piece drum of chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes, gravy, and coleslaw.

“Yup, American fast food. Not healthy, not exotic, but very predictable, and damn, it was good!” Wade said.

“Shall we look at maps and dossiers again?” Kyle asked. “Or another bull session about hunting vampires?”

“Vampires. I’m thinking this whole crucifix to scare them off bit is inadequate. Who says there aren’t Jewish vampires? So you also need a Star of David, a Buddhist Wheel, a Crescent, a Hindu Lion, a Pentacle, a—”

“I’ll pull up a map and access an online poker game,” Kyle said.

Wade chuckled and said, “Sure.”

They took turns playing rounds of poker online, while looking at the city and national maps, just to be familiar with everything. They also had some tour guides and local publications. The newsstands and bookstores in the area had been very happy to take their money. As it wasn’t their money, and the publications were a necessary expense, they’d been happy to spend it.


Dammar al Asfan checked his email and saw a flagged message.

Actually, it wasn’t his email. It had been set up by someone who did nothing but set up free addresses for the cause, using a public machine in a cafe in France. But he had the username and password.

The message alerted him to another incoming message. That one was marked “spam,” but he opened it anyway. It promised him generi( V!@gra at cheap prices with no prescription.

He copied the .jpg image the message was built on and pasted it into another window. From there, he saved it to a folder of a special program. That program stripped off the excess image and left a handful of letters that were hidden underneath.

The message thus revealed made him snarl. The blasted Americans had two snipers in Romania, courtesy of the CIA. They were stalking his operation, allegedly, though they’d missed a shot at Logadze. As Logadze had not reported an attack, nor were there any news reports, he was skeptical for a moment. But this source was very reliable. He didn’t know where they got the information, but the person in charge of intelligence assured him they were always correct, and so far, they had been. So he had to assume the assassination attempt had failed in the setup.

He sent a message requesting more information, then another alerting the relevant people to be especially alert. The next week was critical if they were not to suffer a setback of major proportions.

In the meantime, he’d inquire at the Serviciul Roman de Informatii through connections. Likely there was a record somewhere.


Engineman Third Class Daniel McLaren didn’t actually work on engines very often. If a patrol boat or a Mk V Special Operations Boat had a problem on a mission, he’s get involved, and he was responsible for maintenance and tuning. He spent more time in the water than aboard, anyway. SEALs usually did.

His swim buddy for the current mission was a Turkish combat swimmer named Tuncer Akkurt. Tunj was bronzed, which was what his first name meant, ironically, and always had a cheerful smile. That smile wasn’t visible at the moment, but it was definitely there. It always was.

The two of them were in the harbor of Constanta’s port, keeping low and hidden from most of the shipping, and awaiting orders to observe or pursue the Chernomertvetz as she came in to port this evening. Pursuit might involve boarding with others to secure her (unlikely) or to plant surveillance equipment (more likely). For now, they were cold, wet, coated with Vaseline under their wetsuits, and burdened with weight belts, flotation jackets, and vests with pistols, knives, and other gear. They were mostly above the surface, their hoods decorated with odd-shaped bits of black fabric and their faces blackened with a waterproof grease. The sum effect was such that anyone looking at them from aboard a ship would think them mere debris of the kind that floats in every port, washed overboard from ships or kicked off piers, or, more commonly, thrown in carelessly or on purpose.

Two other swimmers, one American and one Turkish, were on the breakwater, where they could use night scopes and special filters to determine probable contents of various cargo. At a signal from them, McLaren and Akkurt would try to get near enough to use a chemical sniffer to verify the findings. Nothing could be 100 per-cent accurate, but the closer they could get to a conclusive answer, the better. From there, there were assets ashore who would take over. McLaren had no idea who those assets were, or if they were local, American, or some other ally. All he needed to know was that his part would help the whole mission. For a professional, that was enough. That he was in foreign waters without permission wasn’t a consideration. That’s what SEALs did.


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Framed