“So what was her name?” Bunin asked, grinning back. The worry faded from his friendly, open face.

“A gentleman never tells,” Petrov retorted. His headache dialed back a bit as the fast-acting drugs took effect. Now it was more a sensation of steady, unrelenting pressure than of pulsing, stabbing torture. The indicators on his HUD swam back into focus.

“Just so long as it wasn’t that hot blonde,” Bunin laughed. “You know, the curvy captain in Operations?” His hands sketched out what he considered the officer in question’s most obvious assets. “Because I’ve already got my eyes on her.”

Half closing his eyes against the dull pain still squeezing his head in a vise grip, Petrov settled back against his seat. Beside him, his copilot droned on and on, outlining an elaborate scheme to woo and seduce the young woman. Although he nodded encouragement from time to time, inside he was far, far removed from any real interest in Bunin’s sex life. Unfortunately, he thought coldly, the late and unlamented Dr. Viktor Obolensky had been right. His headaches were definitely increasing in both their frequency and severity. With that in mind, perhaps he should be more grateful that the PAK-DA bomber’s autonomous systems had just demonstrated their operational readiness. The time could be coming, and much sooner than he hoped, when he might be forced to rely very heavily on the prototype’s soulless computer programs to carry out his secret plans.

Ten

Prague Castle Riding School, the Czech Republic

A Few Days Later

Set high on a hilltop just west of the Vltava River, Prague Castle was a sizable complex of several Renaissance and Baroque-era palaces and towers, a Gothic cathedral, and other churches and convents that could be seen looming on the horizon from almost everywhere in the Czech capital. Long a seat of government, culture, and religion, tourists thronged to its picturesque grounds and world-famous museums throughout the year.

One of those art museums, the Riding School, stood not far outside the north gate, bounded by scenic gardens on either side. Centuries before, the large, red-roofed Baroque hall had been built so that the Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I and his courtiers could exercise their horses indoors in bad weather. Stucco reliefs of leaping steeds, lances, and other weapons still decorated the front above its main doors. Inside, under high ceilings and wooden rafters, the works of various modern painters and sculptors were periodically exhibited.

Miranda Reynolds paused just inside the entry to assess her surroundings. Dozens of life-sized, though oddly distorted, human sculptures filled the gallery. Some were painted entirely red or green or blue. Others were a pallid white or gray. Still others wore long strands of fake hair that morphed strangely into clothing. A handful of visitors drifted through the large space, admiring the bizarre atmosphere created by the ultramodern art installation.

To anyone who didn’t know her well, Reynolds appeared to be a successful, middle-aged Western corporate executive on a business trip to Prague. Her perfectly coifed dark hair matched her understated, but obviously expensive, blazer, slacks, and shoes. A simple gold necklace and the barest hint of lipstick completed her carefully curated look. Certainly no one outside the arcane confines of the world’s intelligence agencies would have guessed that she was the current head of the CIA’s highly secret Directorate of Operations.