Under Fire

28

As he had been doing for the past ten minutes, Jack watched Seth and Spellman talk to and over each other across the conference table, getting nowhere in the process. At the end of the table, Medzhid watched patiently, saying nothing.

“No, no, no,” Seth said. “He needs to do more than give one damned speech.”

“From the Ministry, Seth. Directly to the people.”

“That’s a start, but we need him in every newspaper and on every radio and television station.”

“But what’s the message?” asked Spellman. “How do you spin something like Almak when you’re being peppered by questions on live TV?”

“First he flatly denies the allegations, then he reminds them of what started it. Show the pictures of the beheaded soldiers and their crying families. Hammer that until it’s the only thing people see in their heads.”

Again Jack was stunned listening to this version of Seth Gregory. His PR suggestion was to use gore and despair to take attention away from the allegation. Sure, it would be effective, but it was ice-cold opportunism Jack had never seen in their twenty-plus-year friendship. Was this nature, nurture, or obsession? Or, Jack thought, am I just being naive? As Seth had said, the stakes here were massive.

Seth went on: “Then he turns the focus to his brave team, now all dead, having sacrificed themselves to protect the homeland, and he will not stand by while their memories are sullied by a lie.”

Medzhid said, “Which is the truth.”

“All the better. That’s the message. We stay on it and never let up.”

“Fine, but we’ve still got the Pravda story,” replied Spellman. “Right now people believe someone was at Almak and he saw the whole thing — civilians burning to death in a mosque. That’s a tough image to erase.”

“Not if our imagery is stronger and our message is consistent.”

Jack spoke up: “Who’s their source?”

“That doesn’t matter—”

Medzhid held up his hand for silence and then said, “What was that, Jack?”

“Pravda got the story from someone. Who?”

“I told you: They don’t have one,” replied Seth. “Or they got it from one of Medzhid’s team before he died.”

“And they’ve been sitting on it all this time? Almak happened sixteen years ago. Rebaz, were you even on anyone’s political radar back then?”

“No. I had no interest in politics. I wasn’t known outside my district.”

“So someone at Pravda gets the story, decides the massacre of civilians in a place of worship isn’t newsworthy, and sets it aside.”

“Yeah, Jack, we understand the timing of it,” said Seth. “It’s Wellesley and Pechkin’s opening salvo. But this is an opportunity for us. They’ve moved too quickly. Once we discredit this story, we push ahead.”

Ysabel said, “Seth, you’re missing Jack’s point. Next to President Nabiyev, Medzhid is Dagestan’s most powerful politician — probably more so if you’re talking about popularity. Does Pravda really think Medzhid’s not going to come back hard at them? That he’s not going to demand they reveal their source?”

“By law, they don’t have to do that,” said Spellman.

“Actually, there is such a law,” Medzhid replied. “If the allegation involves a government official the media must name the source, in private, to a cabinet-level panel and the official has the right to question the witness. Jack’s right. Unless they want to be tarnished, Pravda must produce its witness. If the person is false, we can prove it; if they are genuine, I can prove they are lying.”

“Could there be a witness?” asked Jack.

“I was told all my team died in the war. I had no reason to doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible.”

“Or there is no one,” Spellman said, “and Wellesley found a stand-in.”

While Medzhid recalled his team of assistants to the conference area and gave them their marching orders, Jack and Ysabel left the apartment. Seth caught up to them at the elevators.

“Where’re you going?”

“Errands,” Ysabel replied.

“Are you crazy? It’s nuts out there.”

“We’ll avoid downtown,” said Jack.

He turned to press the call button. Seth grabbed his arm. “Jack, what’re you holding back? Did you find something in Khasavyurt?”

“Good question,” said Spellman, from the apartment’s doorway.

“We may have something, but I’d rather run it down first.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t trust us,” asked Seth. “Why the secrecy?”

“Compartmentalization,” Jack replied.

The doors opened and he and Ysabel stepped inside. After the doors closed she asked Jack, “Do we trust them? Any of them?”

“Hell if I know.”

“You’re smiling. What for?”

“Nothing. Sleep deprivation. I just had the irrational impulse to tie them all to chairs until one of them starts talking.”

They took the Opel north away from the parking garage, listening through their open windows as the protesters’ shouts slowly faded behind them.

Out Jack’s window a tree-covered escarpment topped by a serrated ridge loomed over the city. This was, Seth had told them with a straight face, the eastern face of the Tarki-Tau range.

Since hearing the name, Ysabel had been occasionally repeating it to herself, sotto voce, as though simply enjoying the sound of it.

Jack couldn’t help smiling. Such an interesting woman.

“If I ever get a dog, that’s what I’ll name him — Tarki-Tau.”

“Not if I beat you to it.”

“Don’t you dare.”

The slopes from which the escarpment rose formed a five-mile-long tadpole-shaped knoll, with the head facing north and the long tapered tail curving south and then west, where it merged with the next chain of hills.

Jack found a café and pulled to the curb. On both sides of the streets pedestrians strolled the sidewalks, laughing and chatting. The traffic was heavy but orderly, with no honking of horns. It was as though the city was going about its normal business, save the few blocks surrounding the Ministry of the Interior.

“Not exactly groundswell, is it?” Ysabel observed.

“I agree. If this is the best Wellesley and Pechkin can do, the coup should go off without a hitch.”

He pulled his phone from the Faraday bag and dialed Gavin, who looped Gerry and John Clark into the call. Jack brought them up to speed.

“With any luck, we have some time before Wellesley and Pechkin know the ambush in Khasavyurt went wrong. Gavin, what’d you find out about those phone numbers?”

“Both are landlines, but the addresses are unlisted — I mean really unlisted, as in buried. You can’t pull off something like that without horsepower.”

Presidential horsepower.

“Jack, we’ve decided it’s time you got some backup,” said Clark. “We’re sending Dom.”

“I don’t need—”

“He’s already on the plane. Tomorrow morning, Uytash Airport, Aeroflot flight 278.”

Even as he’d said the words “don’t need,” Jack knew it wasn’t true. Having Dominic Caruso here would be a relief; partially because he was family — cousins — and partially because Dom was a solid operator.

Gerry asked, “What’s your next move, Jack?”

“I’m going to ask Raymond Wellesley to lunch.”

They drove past the address Dobromir had given them and found the apartment building, two stories, surrounded by trees and a six-foot red-brick wall. The only entrance, a private drive on Chirpoy Road, was blocked by a rolling gate. Beside this was a pole-mounted key-card box.

“That doesn’t look like something built for the average Makhachkalan renter,” Ysabel said. “Where did Dobromir say he and Wellesley had lunch?”

“On Nabetsky Street.”

“Well, that’s about four blocks from here. We’ve definitely got the right place.”

“Yes, but is this where Wellesley and Pechkin had set up shop?”

They returned to the Tortoreto apartment to find it bustling with activity. At the conference table the number of assistants had doubled to four, all of them busy working the phones. Medzhid stood by the windows, talking to a uniformed man with black hair and long sideburns.

Seth and Spellman walked up. “We’ve got trouble,” Seth said simply. “Medzhid’s—”

“Who’s that guy?” Jack asked, nodding at Medzhid’s guest.

“Captain Salko. He heads Medzhid’s ERF, the Emergency Response Force — essentially, the cream of the politsiya crop.”

“Has something happened?” asked Ysabel.

“Just playing the what-if game in case Nabiyev makes a bold move.”

“What were you saying about Medzhid?” Jack said.

“He’s been summoned by President Nabiyev. He wants to hear Medzhid’s side of the Almak story. We’re talking about possible responses.”

“Well, he can’t refuse,” Ysabel said. “Unless you and Matt have everything ready to go, that is.”

“We don’t,” Spellman replied.

Jack thought for a moment. “The only move Medzhid has is to demand a hearing so he can confront Pravda’s witness. That might buy some time. Does he have enough cabinet-level allies to make it work?”

“Maybe,” Seth replied. “Wellesley and Pechkin are behind this.”

“Probably, but it’s also what the public would expect Nabiyev to do.”

Too many moving parts, Jack thought. “There are three possibilities: Nabiyev ignores the objections of the cabinet and denies Medzhid’s petition; he either suspends Medzhid or leaves him in place until the panel reaches a decision; or he simply fires Medzhid and throws him in jail.”

“If he does that, we’re screwed,” said Spellman. “It’ll take us at least a week to finish coordinating our own protests. And even then, with Medzhid off the field, we can’t be sure the politsiya district commanders will back a losing horse.”

Seth said, “We need to hunt down Pravda’s witness before he can testify.”

Ysabel’s eyes narrowed. “And do what to him?”

“Jesus, Ysabel. Not what you’re thinking. The Almak massacre story is bullshit. Medzhid’s innocent. Either the witness is bogus and he wasn’t there or he was there and he’s been coerced into lying. Either way, we’ve got to get to him first.”