Free Black Wolf (2010) by Dale Brown Page A

uncomfortably close to the FBI agent once they got inside the car. She smelled as if she’d had salami for lunch.
    “I’ll drop you off at the airport,” he said, programming the GPS. “You want Euro C, right?”
    “Let’s drive there,” said Gregor. “It will only take us a few hours. We can scout it out.”
    “No, I have to get back to Berlin,” said Nuri. “There are a few more things to check out up there.”
    “Drop me off at a rental place, then,” said Gregor.
    Had she guessed what he was up to and called his bluff? Or was she really intending on going there herself?
    Either way, he couldn’t take the chance of her interfering.
    “I don’t think it’s a good idea to just drive around the estate,” said Nuri. “Don’t you have to clear your activities with your Rome office?”
    “Not on this. My boss gave me carte blanche.”
    Nuri wracked his brain for ways to keep her at bay. He drew a blank.
    “I’ll tell you what,” said Gregor. “I’ll go with you to the airport and rent the car there. You have to turn this one in, right?”
    “What would you do?”
    “I give them a credit card—”
    “What would you do with Moreno?” snapped Nuri.
    “I’ll just talk to him,” she said.
    “No one will ever see you again,” said Nuri.
    “I’ve dealt with these types of cases before,” said Gregor. “And with people like Moreno. They’re so full of themselves that they’re easy pickings. They think the law doesn’t apply to them, so they ignore the most basic precautions.”
    “I’d figure a guy like this would have his guards shoot first and ask questions later,” said Nuri.
    “They’re not going to shoot a lost tourist.”
    “Maybe I will go,” he said, finally giving up. “Just to see what the hell his place looks like.”
    “I thought you had a lot to do,” said Gregor with mock innocence. It wasn’t bad enough that she won—she had to rub it in.
    “Yeah,” said Nuri. “See if you can program the address into the GPS so we can at least find out what highway to take.”

9
    Kiev, Ukraine
    “P urpose of visit?”
    “Tourism.”
    “How long are you staying?”
    “A week.”
    The Ukrainian customs official inspected Danny’s passport, flipping it back and forth in his hand to make sure the holographic symbols were displayed. Danny and the others were traveling with standard passports rather than using diplomatic cover, trying to maintain as low a profile as possible.
    Sally McEwen had warned him that their entry at Boryspil Airport, about eighteen miles east of Kiev, would almost surely be recorded by the Ukrainian secret service, which was still run like an offshoot of the KGB. A video camera above the passport control desk was undoubtedly taping him, while the clerk’s computer was running a check against his name. The Ukrainian technology was relatively old, however, and even if Danny was flagged as a suspicious American, it would take weeks for a file to be prepared with his photo. By then the operation would be over.
    It was possible they would tell the Ukrainians that they were here. But for the moment the Ukrainians weren’t to be trusted. No one was. It was the old CIA prejudice—we don’t exist, and if we do exist, which we don’t, you never heard of us.
    Danny’s own prejudice was the opposite: be honest and tell people what was going on. It was a military mind-set.
    “Enjoy Ukraine,” said the customs clerk, handing his passport back.
    Danny saw McEwen and Hera waiting a short distance beyond the stations.
    “How’d you guys get through so fast?” he asked.
    “You have to pick the right line,” said McEwen. “But it helps to look like a little old lady.”
    “The secret to your success,” said Hera.
    “Don’t be jealous, dear.”
    There were two rentals waiting for them at Hertz, so-called mid-sized Fords, which would have been considered subcompacts back in the States. Hera rode with McEwen, while Danny followed. McEwen might have been old,