Revolution (29 page)

He did nothing of the sort. He bowed, went to his dressing room, and later walked to the small apartment he kept a few blocks away. He was sleeping soundly at two in the morning when a troop of policemen broke in and arrested him. He was held in jail for six months, put on trial secretly, and sentenced to six years imprisonment for “treasonous behavior.”

It was there that Voda found his second career. Unlike music, politics was for him a difficult and unfriendly art. He came to it reluctantly, at first puzzled by the way other prisoners looked toward him as a leader. What they saw as an act of resolute defiance against overwhelming odds, he still viewed as a confused and confusing mistake. Only gradually did he come to understand the principles the dissidents were risking their lives for.

Democracy had never seemed magical to him. Surely a man should have control over his own life, but how far should that control extend? Used to long days of practice and grueling performance schedules, Voda didn't think it should go very far.

When he was let out of jail at the end of his sentence, Voda found that he was no longer allowed to perform. He began moonlighting in small venues as a poorly paid piano player performing covers of popular songs. As long as he did not use his real name and stayed away from classical music, he remained unmolested by the authorities. The gigs paid enough for a very modest apartment, and kept food on the table, though it had to be supplemented by dinners at the cafés where he played.

With his days largely free, Voda drifted toward the dissidents he'd known in jail, meeting them occasionally for coffee or a walk around town. Gradually, he began doing small things for the freedom movement—nothing brave, nothing outlandish, nothing even likely to earn him time in jail.

Until, in a fit of pique at a government decree against another musician who had dared play a piece by an American composer at a public concert, Voda gave an impromptu outdoor concert at Piata Revolutiei—Revolution Square, in the center of the city. For an hour, playing on a poorly miked upright piano, he serenaded the city with a selection of Mozart pieces he hadn't played in public for years. By the time the police moved in, the crowd had grown to over 10,000. Men, women, and children pushed and shoved away the first group of policemen who tried to drag him off. Water cannons were brought in; Voda continued to play. His last song was the overture of
Don Giovanni.
The music continued to soar in his head even as the clubs beat him over the back.

Two of his fingers were broken in the melee, though it wasn't clear whether it had been done purposely. This time he was put in jail without a trial.

That was in April 1989. Eight months later a far larger crowd gathered at Piata Revolutiei to denounce and chase out the country's dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu. Voda was released from jail a few days later. He stood for parliament and was elected. From there his rise to president seemed almost preordained. Voda felt as if it was his fate—an increasingly heavy fate as time went on.

The end of the dictator brought considerable problems to the country. The guerrillas were a sideshow in many ways, annoying, deadly, but more a distraction than a real threat, at least as far as he was concerned. The economy needed to be jump-started. The manufacturing sector was stuck in the 1940s or worse, and agriculture was so underinvested that horses were used to plow fields. Ethnic differences that seemed nonexistent under the dictator became extremely divisive, fanned by politicians trying to boost their own careers.

Foreign relations were a nightmare. Russia pushed hard to bring Romania into its sphere of influence. Voda saw the country's future residing with the West, but deep-seated
prejudices among many of the Europeans, especially those in Germany and France, had caused their politicians to drag their feet. On a personal level, Voda couldn't stand most foreign leaders, whom he thought were bigots and thieves. Even the Austrians tried to cheat Romania when the gas pipeline deal was brokered. At times, Romania's only true ally seemed to be the United States, which was pushing for it to join NATO. But even the U.S. could be fickle.

Voda got along personally with the American ambassador, who claimed to own the CD he had recorded when he was just twenty-one. He had met President Martindale twice, not nearly enough to form a real opinion of the man.

By the time he was elected president, Voda had been involved in politics long enough to have made many enemies. A whole section of the opposition viewed not only him but democracy itself as suspect; they would gladly bring back a dictator in a heartbeat—so long as he agreed with their positions, of course. But the worst were his old dissident friends. Most felt they, not he, should be the head of state.

The president's relationship with the military was, at best, difficult. He'd appointed Fane Cazacul as defense minister only in an attempt to placate some of the minor parties whose support was useful in parliament. Cazacul had his own power base, both in the military—with which Voda had problems—and in politics. But Cazacul was in many ways inept when it came to running a department; he had squandered much of the defense budget that Voda had worked so hard to get passed. Still, Cazacul commanded the loyalty of a number of generals, mostly in the western part of the country, and Voda had no choice but to keep him on.

Voda did not count General Locusta as an enemy, but he did not fully trust him either. Locusta was far more competent than Cazacul, and though nominally the equal of Romania's three other lieutenant generals, was clearly the leading light of the General Staff. He also clearly wanted more power—a natural ailment among military men, Voda believed, and
perhaps among all men in general. For that reason, as well as financial concerns and problems with Cazacul, Voda had hesitated to send Locusta the additional troops he wanted to fight the rebels. But the attacks on the pipeline trumped everything else; he knew he needed to protect the line or lose considerable revenue.

Voda also realized that the gas crisis was having a serious effect on Western Europe and NATO. If he did not preserve the pipeline, his chances of having Romania join the alliance would probably be crushed.

His hopes of joining NATO led Voda to resist Locusta and others when they suggested sending troops across the border in Moldova to battle the rebel strongholds. But the events of the past week—the attack on the pipeline and the vicious, cold-blooded killing of the family near Tutova—demonstrated that he must take decisive action. More important, the Americans were signaling that they not only approved, but would assist, albeit in a very limited way.

“You are far away,” said his wife, Mircea, sitting next to him in the back of the sedan as they drove from Bucharest. “Are you already in the mountains? Or listening to music in your head?”

Voda smiled at her. He hadn't told her about Locusta's call or the real reason for his spur of the moment vacation weekend, though he thought she might have some suspicions.

“Music,” he replied.

“Mozart?”

“A combination of different things.”

He had met Mircea after being released from prison the first time. She'd been a dissident and had an excellent ear for politics, but not for music.

Mircea gave him a playful tap.

“When you see Julian, then your attention will be with us,” she said, referring to their eight-year-old son, who was to meet them at their mountain home near Stulpicani with his nanny. “Until then, you are a man of the state. Or of music.”

“Both.” Voda smiled, then looked out the car window, admiring the countryside.

Dochia, Romania
0905

“Y
OU CAN PUT THE GUN AWAY
,” D
ANNY TOLD THE SHADOW
in the hallway behind the open door. “I'm Danny Freah.”

“Let me see your hands,” a woman replied.

Danny held his hands out. “How many black guys you think there are in Romania? Black Americans? Up here? Looking for you?”

“Keep the hands where I can see them.”

“Usually we say please.” Danny raised his arms higher. “We have only a half hour to make the rendezvous. A little less.”

The shadow took a step forward, and the woman's features became more distinct. She was about five-six, not much more than 110 pounds. Dark hair, green eyes, hard expression.

“Like I said, we have less than a half hour. And we have some driving to do.”

Sorina Viorica took another step forward. The pistol in her hand was aimed squarely at his face.

“Where's your gun?” she asked.

“I don't have any.”

“I don't believe you. Unzip your coat.”

Danny slowly complied. He'd left his service pistol in the car, unsure what the local laws were about civilians carrying them.

“Turn around,” she told him.

Danny sighed but complied again. He held his coat up. She took two steps toward him—he knew he could swing around and grab her, knock the weapon out of her hand. But there was no sense in that.

She patted him down quickly. A light touch—she had done it before.

“Why aren't you armed?” she asked, stepping back.

“Because I thought it would be unnecessary,” he said, turning back around.

“All right. Let's go.”

“Don't you have a bag?”

“I have everything I need.”

Danny led her out to the street, crossing quickly. Sorina hung back, checking her surroundings, making sure she wasn't being set up. Inside the car, she pulled her jacket tight around her neck, though the heat was blasting.

“Do you have a cig?” she asked.

“Cigarette?”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I don't.”

She frowned, looked out the window.

“I haven't smoked in years,” she said. “But today I feel like it.”

“You want to know the itinerary?”

“Mark explained it.”

“I'll be with you until I hear from them. Myself and another one of my men.”

She shrugged. Danny watched her stare out of the side of the car, her eyes focused far away.

She turned suddenly, caught him looking at her.

“Have you ever left your home?” she asked. She sounded as if she were accusing him of a crime.

“All the time,” said Danny.

“And known you were not coming back?”

“No.”

“It's different.”

“I'd guess it would be.”

She frowned, as if that wasn't the answer she wanted, then turned back toward the window.

It started to snow a few minutes before they got to the field Danny had picked for the rendezvous. The flakes were big disks, circles of white that flipped over like falling bingo
chips scattering across the road. Though sparse, they were thick and heavy, slow to melt; as they landed on the windshield of the car they made large ovals, giving way slowly to the heat of the glass.

“An aircraft called an Osprey is coming for us,” Danny told her as he pulled to the side of the road. “It can land like a helicopter but flies like a plane. It has some heavy cannon under the nose.”

Sorina said nothing.

“I'm just telling you because it can look pretty fierce when you first see it. It's black.”

“I've seen things much fiercer than helicopters, Captain.”

“You can call me Danny.”

She didn't answer.

Danny got out of the car and walked around to the trunk, where he'd left a rucksack with some gear. None of the lights in the houses across the street were on, but there was a glow farther down, near the church and the center of the city. Behind them to the east the thick layer of clouds were preventing the sun from opening the day with a grand display, tinting its rays dark gray and obscuring the horizon.

“The weather is my future,” said Sorina. And then she continued speaking to herself in Romanian.

Danny felt no pity—the memory of her friends' massacre remained vivid—but he was curious about her. He wondered why she had decided to help; Stoner hadn't said.

Most likely, he thought, it had to do with money. Yet her austere air and simple clothes seemed to indicate a person not moved by material possessions.

Revenge? Perhaps. Or maybe she'd traded her life. But she moved like a person already dead, a wary ghost waiting for her ride to oblivion.

He heard the heavy
whomp
of the aircraft's rotors in the distance.

“They're coming,” he said.

Sorina stared toward the glow of the church, opposite the direction of the Osprey as the plane came in. Just as he turned to start for the rear ramp, Danny saw her reach her finger toward her eye. But he couldn't tell in the dim light if she was brushing away grit or a tear.

Presidential villa,
near Stulpicani, Romania
1300

G
ENERAL
L
OCUSTA STUDIED THE LAWN AND SURROUNDING
property of President Voda's mountain retreat. It had been quite some time since it was farmed, and Locusta guessed it had never been very profitable. The property rose sharply behind the house and fell off across the road in front of it; there were large rock formations, and tilling the fields had to be difficult. With the exception of the front lawn, trees had long ago taken over whatever had been cultivated.

The driver stopped in front of the house. Locusta got out, taking his briefcase with him. A man in a heavy overcoat watched him from the front steps. He was a bodyguard, though his weapon was concealed under his coat. In accordance with Voda's wishes, only the president's personal security team was stationed at the house. Locusta had a company of men a half mile down the road, ready to respond in an emergency.

Or not, as the case might be.

“The president is waiting in the den,” said Paul Sergi, meeting the general outside the door of the house.

“Very good,” said Locusta, ignoring the aide's arrogant tone. Sergi, Voda's chief assistant and secretary, had never gotten along with anyone in the military.