"Take Route 89 toward Cape Sounion," Devang Sen instructed the self-driving rental vehicle to take the long way. "Be sure to go straight south from the airport and then east on Route 89."

"Excellent choice, sir," the vehicle's operating system responded in English.

Devang enjoyed this ride to Black Dog Security's headquarters. The winding road took him through rugged hills with frequent vistas of the Aegean Sea's sapphire waters. Picturesque fishing villages punctuated the scenery south of Athens, unchanged through the centuries. Headquarters lay directly south of the City, nestled in the hills along the coast.

Devang especially liked the arid inland mountains. They reminded him of the southern Thar Desert in India.

"Not much sea there, though," he muttered absently as he gazed at the clear blue water in the small harbor as the car passed through. Not a pleasant thought, the Thar Desert.

"Show me our route," he ordered as the vehicle sped south down the coastal road.

"As you wish, sir," the vehicle responded and projected a holographic depiction of the peninsula showing Route 89 as a red line snaking its way south, roughly bisecting the small peninsula. At the tip of the peninsula, the ancient Greek ruins of the Temple of Poseidon were depicted in the hologram as a crumbling classic building. From the Temple, Route 89 turned sharply west and north, winding its way along the coast back towards Athens and his destination, the coastal town of Saronida.

Within twenty minutes, the car rounded the point of land, passing the entry to the Temple of Poseidon, and began heading north. Devang sat up to see several ships heading for the busy port of Piraeus. The ships reminded him of his childhood home in Mumbai, India's busiest port. He, his younger brother, and his elder sister would watch the ships heading out to sea from a window of the family's "Cube," a modular architecture India perfected to house its massive population and manage sanitation. Housing did not mean food.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Devang?" his brother would ask. It was a game they played often.

"I don't know. Just not here. Whatever it is, I want to get away from here. Maybe I'll go to America. Or become a soldier of fortune. Better yet, I'll be a rich businessman," he recalled his flippant answers. He had not intended to become a soldier of fortune.

Living in Turkey and running errands for Black Dog was no plan of his. But anything was better than living in the Cubes.

A nightmare, however well intended. There is a special place in hell for the people responsible for it.

A pleasing tone from the vehicle interrupted his thoughts.

"Shall I answer, sir," the vehicle queried.

"Put it through," he commanded when he saw the caller's holograph on his lap.

"Devang here. How are you, Vlad?"

"How close are you?" the voice said in a heavy Russian accent with a slight look of impatience.

"I should be there in about thirty minutes," Devang replied.

"Good. Make it twenty." The connection ended.

"Same old Vlad," Devang sighed.

Vladimir Damsky was the Managing Director of Black Dog Security. There was a time when Devang wouldn't have dreamed of working for a private security company, especially one like Black Dog. He was a man of principles. At least he was when he joined India's Special Forces from the rank and file of the Army.

Special Forces change a man.

"Call Rachna Sen," he instructed his PCD to connect to his mother.

Once he saved enough of his soldier's salary, he moved his family out of the Cubes into a modest home in the Mumbai suburbs. That had been twelve years ago. Israel had nuked the militant Arab world that year.

Several lifetimes.

"Hi, Mom," Devang tried to sound cheerful when she answered his call. "How are you?"

"Devang? Is that you?" it started like it always did. "I haven't heard from you in nine weeks. How can you treat your mother this way? I never know where you are or if you're alright. Have you met a girl?"

"No Mom," Devang smiled. "No one special yet. But I'm doing my best."

It was a familiar, comfortable exchange.

"So, how are you?" she asked.

"I'm fine, Mother," he assured her. "I'm in Greece on business. I called to check in with you. How is your arthritis?"

"I don't want to talk about me. I'm worried about you. You must marry Devang," she pleaded. "How else am I to be a grandmother?"

"Come on, Mom," Devang complained. "I can't promise you anything right now. One day, maybe I'll meet the right person. That's the best I can do."

"OK, Son. I understand. I don't like it, but I understand," she conceded. "Just don't make me wait too long. And I miss her."

Devang's smile faded as the conversation changed tone.

"I miss her too. I'll stop by next month, Mom," Devang promised, trying to lighten the mood. "I have a trip to Singapore scheduled, so I plan to swing by Mumbai the weekend after. Just don't tell anyone. I don't want a fuss. And don't you dare tell your friends who have daughters."

"I must do my part," she scolded, allowing the mood to lighten. "I just want to see you."

"And I want to see you," he said seriously. "I have to go."

"I love you, my son," she said simply.

"I love you too," he replied and disconnected.

Why did I call her?

The dreams were always the same. The assassinations played out over and over. The Muslim in Cashmere. The Bangladeshi, the Englishman. The last, a young Chinese politician. The quiet puff of his sniper's rifle was followed by the violent explosion of the Chinese man's head.

And for what?

A nagging sense of guilt encroached on the pleasant scenery passing by. He knew why. He was a dispensable pawn in the geopolitical games the rich and powerful played. The realization caused real pain, the cut deep. He could no longer stand his superior officers.

"One day, Mom, I'll find a way," he said out loud, returning his gaze to the shoreline shining in the mid-day sun.

He'd felt hollow inside ever since that last mission.

Ten minutes later, the car reached Saronida. It turned inland, making its way through the small town.

"Approach destination at thirty kilometers per hour," Devang commanded.

The vehicle made a left turn up a steep hill, slowly approaching a gated compound at the top.

"Stop fifty meters before the gate," he ordered.

The guards on duty were alert and surveying the streets and nearby buildings. Using binoculars, they scanned the sky for drones or other aircraft moving too slowly for their liking. Devang's practiced eye took it all in.

He knew his car had been spotted and was being diagnosed as a possible threat.

"Move to destination," Devang concluded.

The vehicle came to a stop at the front gate of what looked more like a medieval castle rather than the headquarters of any modern company.

The Fortress. Well named.

A steel plaque next to the heavy gate named the residents "Chernaya Sobaka Okhrannaya Kompaniya" in Russian. Below, "Black Dog Security Company" in English.

Devang climbed out of the vehicle, his 6'2" frame unfolding quickly to his full height. He approved the charge on his PCD and turned toward the big man standing before the gate. His uniform was a crisp navy blue. Two other guards flanked him two steps back.

"Hello, Igor Ivanovic," Devang greeted the man clearly in charge as he walked up to the gate. Devang knew of Damsky's preference for Russians. He considered them predictable and reliable. "Nice to see you again. New friends?"

"Da, Sen," Ivanovic responded. "As good as seeing my piss on the sand." Devang chuckled, hearing his heavy Russian accent. Damksy's Russians really did not like the Mediterranean heat, especially while on "gate duty."

"Pleasant as always, Igor. And doing well with your English, I see," Devang smiled as he passed by the sweating Russian. He approached the cameras embedded in the gate structure of reinforced concrete and heavy steel. He leaned in for a retinal scan. After a click, a metallic voice greeted him, "Privet, Devang Sen. You are expected. Please come in." The gate silently swung open.

Devang passed through a medieval-like castle structure comprising a guard house and a massive outer wall.

The first line of defense.

Next was a short tunnel with strategic murder holes.

An ancient but effective way to wreak havoc on an adversary but a little late in the game if they've gotten this far.

Emerging from the tunnel, Devang came back into the sunlight inside the compound with its defenses on full display. Devang stopped to admire the arsenal. Tear gas launchers, large gauge automatic weaponry, and stun-level lasers invisible from the outside appeared regularly along the wall fronting the street as well as the walls reaching toward the back of the compound. The compound was entirely enclosed by blast-proof concrete walls standing twenty feet high and five feet thick. Although blocked by the large building in front of him, he pictured the walls stretched back over the top of the hill and down the gentle slope, coming together in a pointed corner topped by an onion dome. The compound was shaped like a pentagon draped across the hill. At that far point, the tower overlooked a canyon from the top of a cliff that stretched half a mile in both directions.

But to what end? Is Damsky expecting a full-on military assault? From whom?

He'd never cared enough to ask.

"How are you, Nikolay?" Devang asked the security guard stationed inside the walls near the exit from the tunnel.

The guard glared at him, saying nothing. Devang enjoyed ribbing the Russians, who he knew hated small talk.

"Sorry, I asked."

Devang said as he set off across the courtyard toward the front entrance to the three-story glass building that filled the entire front half of the compound. While still crossing the courtyard in front of the building, the sliding glass doors opened as a fit Asian man stepped through and headed in the opposite direction.

"Nice to see you, Tang," Devang said, stopping next to the massive sculpture of a snarling black dog that dominated the courtyard.

"You too, Sen," Tang responded.

"Where you headed?"

"Shanghai," Tang replied.

"Right," Devang respected Tang. He was a capable operative. "Enjoy."

"Yeah, right," Tang responded. "I hope things get more interesting than they've been. You?"

"That's why I'm here," Devang replied. "How is Damsky?"

"He's actually in a decent mood," Tang answered. "But that can change."

"Don't I know it," Devang responded. "Safe travels."

Devang bounded up the long, shallow, crescent-shaped steps that fanned out from the bottom of the building like ripples in a still puddle. The front doors slid apart as he entered a large atrium two stories high, stretching forty feet in either direction before making a sharp turn at both ends. He sauntered across the hall to a large reception desk manned by a pretty, dark-haired woman.

Devang smiled as he said, "Hello, Doris. You look lovely as usual. How have you been?".

She returned his smile sweetly. "Fuck you, Sen," she said in an undertone, discretely making sure that her voice didn't carry. "I really haf no eentireest in speaking wis you."

Devang loved her French accent. "Oh, come on, Doris," he feigned surprise. "You know it was just for fun."

"Fuck you, Sen," she repeated.

"Gladly, Doris," Devang ignored her hostility. "So..." he continued, "where is he?"

"Where he always is, Devang. Go on." She stuck her tongue out at him and, with a slight smile, returned to answering her calls.

Devang saw her smile as he turned to go. He liked Doris.

Flowers, I think.

The bank of elevators took up the last few yards of an internal wall.

"Roses," he muttered softly to himself. Louder, to the elevator, "Third floor."

The elevator doors opened. He stepped in and caught himself reaching to press a button that was not there. The number "2" blinked in the upper right corner of the elevator. He idly wondered at the curious absurdity of a world that couldn't agree on whether the ground floor should be designated as "0" or "1".

The elevator stopped with a nearly imperceptible bounce. The doors opened onto a large corridor, which tracked the ground-floor reception area below. He left the elevator and headed towards an ornate double door across and down the hall to the right. The left door was covered by twenty-four-karat gold Cyrillic lettering:

Владимир Дамский

Президент и

Директор компании

Below that, the translations of his name and title, first in English:

VLADIMIR DAMSKY

MANAGING DIRECTOR

BLACK DOG SECURITY COMPANY

then beneath that in Mandarin. The non-Cyrillic characters were still in gold but only half the size.

The other door presented a two-dimensional obsidian plaque matching the statue from the courtyard. The snarling dog's eyes seemed strangely alive, glittering with malice. Devang shook his head at Damsky's vanity and entered.

Another attractive woman sitting behind a large desk looked up as he entered. Without any greeting or pause in her work, she said brusquely in English, "He's vaiting for you. Go in now."

"Nice to see you too, Lyudmila," Devang joked, annoyed at the lack of welcome. Returning the look he didn't get, he dropped his bag in an empty chair and went into Vladimir Damsky's inner office.

The large, well-appointed office was impressive, designed to draw one's attention to the floor-to-ceiling window framing a spectacular view. In the foreground, the town and shoreline, in the distance, large ships with several small islands behind them.

Damsky stood inside one of two large glass enclosures. Devang could have sworn he was barking at his PCD. He was a large man, bald, standing well over six feet tall, middle-aged with a thick body and mottled face earned through years of drinking copious amounts of vodka.

Hard to argue with the setup.

Devang stopped about halfway across the large room in front of a giant video screen in eight large segments mounted on the inner wall. He mock-saluted the Russian General, but not with disrespect. Damsky saw Devang's salute, smiled, and ended the call with a press of a button on his PCD. The smile grew wider as he exited his private office, striding toward Devang with arms outstretched.

They embraced in a traditional Russian bear hug. "It is good to see you, my friend," Damsky began. "Did you enjoy your holiday in Turkey? I hear the European tourists are particularly frisky along the Turkish coast. Especially the Nordic women. I hear they like dark men."

"Some holiday," Devang retorted sarcastically. "Sitting in an out-of-the-way Turkish town with a small research center because one of their scientists just happens to stumble upon a more efficient way to pump water is not my idea of fun."

Damsky chuckled, "It's good to have less exciting assignments occasionally. I need to keep my best players rested for the biggest games."

Damsky was an avid sports fan. Devang's background as a rugby great in his youth was one of the things Damsky liked most about him.

"Sit down," he motioned Devang to the captain's chair before the large muted screen with a sports news show playing. "One of those big games just came up."

Devang waited for Damsky to sit before taking the offered seat, showing the proper deference.

Looking vaguely toward the spectacular view outside the window, Damsky commanded in Russian, "Darken windows."

The glass faded to black as soft lights came on, turning the room into a theater.

"Merge," Damsky said in Russian.

All eight screens merged into one.

"Play Aboah," Damsky commanded.

A recording of a diminutive African man on the screen labeled "Professor Ekow Aboah" appeared. He was standing at a podium in front of a panel of other men dressed in suits and ties. It seemed a typical conference setting to Devang.

"Volume level five," Damsky instructed in Russian.

The young-looking man presented what he called his Waterfall Reagent to a surprised and excited crowd, judging by the gasps and murmurs from the invisible audience. The professor claimed this Waterfall Reagent could convert waste or seawater into drinking water. Devang was fascinated by the video. He sat up and leaned forward in his chair.

"Where is this from?" Devang asked Damsky, still listening intently as Ekow went over the commercialization status of the Waterfall Reagent.

"Sophia Antipolis. Some sort of water symposium held each year by the International Chemical Society. This was recorded last week," Damsky explained in English. "This man should never have made it to that conference. Our client tried to keep him from going on the panel by impersonating the man's mother! Great big fuck up. Now, we must clean up the mess."

"That's where I should have been instead of Turkey," Devang said.

"Da," Damsky replied. "Like I said. Great big fuck up."

Devang shook his head in disbelief. The video continued showing Ekow completing his remarks and getting peppered with questions from the audience at the apparent displeasure of the moderator, who ultimately gave up trying to move the discussion to the next panelist.

"I have an idea of what my next mission's going to be," he looked at Damksy's mottled face, his red-veined nose prominently bisecting two ice-cold blue eyes. "Track down this Professor Aboah and make sure he hands over the secrets of this Waterfall Reagent."

"Da," Damsky said again.

Here we go again.

Devang was troubled but hid it carefully.

"Understood, sir," Devang fell into his military mode. It came easily to the former Indian Special Forces officer. "Lyudmila has the information I need?"

"Da," Damsky said yet again.

"Any new instructions for this one?" Devang inquired.

"Nyet, although our clients wish for a quick and thorough resolution. It should be no different than your previous missions," Damsky got up, poured himself an ice-cold shot of vodka, and offered Devang one, which Devang declined. Still standing, Damsky continued.

"This one should be simple, but the importance to our clients requires my direct involvement. I want reports each day until complete."

"Yes, sir," Devang responded almost automatically. Old habits die hard.

"Last thing, Sen. Like the others, the instructions require termination," Damsky finished simply. "Have a nice trip."

Turning to the middle of the room, Damsky again commanded the room's operating system in Russian, "Open windows, end video."

The view returned to the now clear windows, and the screens turned off. Devang rose, shook Damsky's hand, and returned to the secretarial area in the anteroom. He retrieved his bag from the empty chair, gave Lyudmila a big smile, and asked, "I expect you'll send the information in the usual way?"

"It has already been sent, Devang," she answered. "Dasvidaniya." She returned to her work.

Devang shrugged off the curt dismissal and walked out the door. He glanced out of the large windows on the other side of the corridor, which offered a view of the interior courtyard of the building as well as the onion-shaped tower at the far point of the pentagon. His own quarters were in the north residential wing of the building. He had things to do.