Under Fire

31

They had only one advantage, Jack knew, and it was Wellesley’s own meticulous nature.

While the SIS man would want Koikov’s place of execution to be traceable to Medzhid, if pressed for time or alerted they were onto him, Wellesley might bypass this element and simply kill Koikov and let the presence of dead pro-Medzhid officers serve as proof enough.

The surreality of the situation suddenly hit Jack: The possible success or failure of Dagestan’s attempt to break free of Valeri Volodin and the Russian Federation now rested on the fate of a sickly, retired politsiya sergeant who was until a few days ago thought to be dead. Koikov probably had no idea that he’d become the most important man in the whole country.

Assuming Koikov’s kidnappers had continued north after Dom had lost them in Bakhtemir, Seth and Spellman began hunting for a location in Dagestan’s northern lowlands that could be connected directly to Medzhid or at least to the MOI.

There were four possibilities, Spellman told Jack a few hours later: a currently unmanned training base for politsiya armored vehicle units outside Bakhtemir; the decommissioned Rybozavad Naval Base for Caspian flotilla patrol boats now under the guardianship of the Ministry; a two-hundred-acre stretch of tidal marshes outside Suyutkino that Medzhid’s predecessor had appropriated as a private duck-hunting preserve; and an abandoned prison called Bamlag West, nicknamed after an infamous Siberian gulag. This, too, Medzhid said, was a throwback to Dagestan’s Soviet era, when hundreds of enemies of the state had either served for decades or died from forced labor.

At first light Medzhid had a spotter plane in the air and headed north from Makhachkala.

Jack and the others sat down at the conference table and waited.

“Jack, how long do you think Koikov’s got?” Ysabel whispered.

“I’ve been thinking about that. Unless I’m missing something, Wellesley’s got no reason to wait. It might already be done.”

One of Medzhid’s assistants appeared. She leaned down and whispered in Seth’s ear. He picked up the remote control on the table and aimed it at the bank of televisions.

Medzhid, standing on the front steps of the Parliament Building, was speaking. “… It has come to my attention that another member of my team that was present at the Battle of Almak is still living. Upon hearing that Sergeant Koikov’s demise had been misreported, I ordered my staff to begin scouring Ministry of the Interior personnel records, both electronic and hard copy, for similar errors.

“We did indeed find the name of another brave officer, a private named Shimko, who has been living in the town of Kula for the past ten years. Right now, this man is being escorted here and is prepared to give sworn testimony regarding the 1999 events in Almak.”

Seth muted the television. “I’ll be damned.”

“Did you know about this, Seth?” asked Spellman. “Is it true?”

“No and no. Medzhid did have his people review the records, but Koikov is the only surviving member from Almak.”

Clever, Jack thought. With another possible witness coming forward at Medzhid’s behest, having Pavel Koikov turn up dead would do Wellesley and Pechkin no good.

Medzhid had just bought them some time.

“But what happens when this Private Shimko doesn’t show up or someone finds proof Medzhid is lying about him?” asked Ysabel.

“Then Koikov’s dead,” Spellman replied.

At one-fifteen came the first report from Medzhid’s spotter plane: No activity at the Bakhtemir training base.

The next report came two hours later.

“Nothing at the hunting preserve,” Seth said. “Two more to go: Rybozavad Naval Base and Bamlag West.”

“How far away?” asked Jack.

“Rybozavad, a hundred kilometers or so from the plane’s current position. It should be overhead within the hour. Bamlag’s inland from there.”

The hour came and went with no report.

Medzhid returned. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the couch, then loosened his tie and strode to the conference area.

“That was brilliant, Rebaz,” Spellman said.

“No, I am a fool. I shouldn’t have used Shimko’s name. One of my assistants got a call from the editor at Pravda asking for details — Shimko’s dates of service, commendations, location and names of family members… By morning, all of Makhachkala will know I was lying about Shimko.”

The phone rang again. Seth said, “Negative on Rybozavad Naval Base.”

Have I got this wrong? Jack wondered. Had Wellesley simply killed Koikov and dumped him in a ditch somewhere?

At six-twenty the conference table phone rang again. Medzhid grabbed the receiver, listened for a few moments, then said, “No. No pictures. Tell them to get out of there and return to base.” Medzhid hung up and said, “They spotted lights in one of the buildings at Bamlag. There should be no one there.”

“That has to be it,” Jack replied.

Wellesley’s choice of location was both intentional and symbolic: the lone witness who could bring down Medzhid executed and buried in what Nabiyev would dub an “MOI Gulag.”

Seth said, “Rebaz, how soon can your ERF people get up there?”

“What are you talking about? I can’t send them.”

“Why?”

Jack answered. “Having the ERF descend on Bamlag could produce the result Nabiyev wants: Sergeant Koikov dead and Medzhid’s people on the scene.”

“We have to do it,” Spellman said.

With Seth at the wheel of the Suburban, Jack, Spellman, and Ysabel headed up the coast road, then turned onto a gravel track leading to a wharf. Ahead was a wheeled fence gate emblazoned KEEP OUT in Cyrillic.

“We’ve picked up a tail,” Seth announced.

“Describe it,” Jack said from the backseat.

“Compact four-door, white.”

“He’s with me. Have the guard wave him through.”

“Whatever you say,” Seth muttered. “You and your damned secrets, Jack…”

Seth gave the guard his name and the gate rolled open. They pulled through and followed the curving road to a paved area between two warehouses lit by a caged bulb affixed to each of their walls.

As they climbed out, Dom walked up carrying his black duffel.

Jack said, “Seth, this is Dom; Dom, Seth.”

“Another arbitrage buddy?”

“Something like that,” said Dom.

Spellman asked Dom, “That your gear?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got a spare rucksack. Come on, I’ll help you sort it out.”

Together they sorted and divided their loadout — three ARX assault rifles and Ruger pistols, comms headsets and portable radios, and binoculars.

“God bless,” Dom said. “Somebody’s modified these ARXs. Single shot, three-round burst, and full auto.”

“You’re welcome,” Spellman said. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

They secured the rucks and followed Seth toward the wharf.

“Let me guess,” Ysabel said. “You want me to stay behind.”

“Yes, but not why you think. I need you to—”

“Keep an eye on things at the Tortoreto. I’m fine with it. The truth is, this stuff isn’t exactly my specialty. I’m betting that whoever’s holding Koikov is above my skill set.”

“You’ve done okay, Ysabel. Hell, you saved me at least once.”

“At least twice.”

“When’s your birthday?” asked Jack.

“What? Um… June twenty-first.”

“I’ll buy you an assault rifle.”

“That’s so sweet, Jack. You know just what a girl wants.”

She hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Come back safe.”

As the terrain around Bamlag was either too swampy or too rugged for a fixed-wing plane to land, and he couldn’t spare what few helicopters he had, Medzhid had arranged for their transport an Aviatik-Alliance seaplane, which would land near Bamlag on an unnamed lake.

The dual-engine parasol-winged craft was painted a mottled gray and brown; its tail and fuselage bore the Ministry’s eagle emblem in matte black paint.

Jack climbed down the ladder and waited his turn to pile into the Aviatik’s belly. Once they were seated, Seth leaned in the door and said, “Good hunting. Bring Koikov home and we’ll stuff him down Nabiyev’s throat.”

He slammed the door shut.

The pilot climbed into the cockpit and began going through his preflight checklist. Out the windows the water of the harbor was flat and black; beyond the seawall, Jack could see the pulsing beacons of offshore oil platforms.

The engines coughed once, then turned over and started spooling up. Jack could feel the vibration in his feet.

Seated in the row behind the cockpit, Spellman leaned forward, asked the pilot a question, then shouted the answer over his shoulder to Jack and Dom: “Ninety minutes’ flight time.”

Dom leaned over to Jack and said, “Is this guy Spellman any good?”

“He saved my ass in Tehran. That’s good enough for me.”

Seventy minutes after they lifted off, the pilot turned west over Bakhtemir and headed inland for another twenty kilometers before putting the Aviatik into a gentle descent and bleeding off altitude until they were only a few hundred feet off the ground.

The pilot turned in his seat, got Spellman’s attention, and pointed to the set of white headphones hanging from the bulkhead. Spellman donned them, listened, then said over his shoulder to Jack and Dom, “Nine miles out.”

At four miles the pilot throttled back and kept descending until through the window Jack could see the plane’s barely perceptible shadow skimming over the rugged, boulder-strewn landscape.

The pilot held up two fingers: two miles.

Another minute passed. The pilot cut the engines. The sound faded until Jack could hear only the wind hissing through the door’s gasket seal.

“Touching down,” Spellman called.

The Aviatik’s belly kissed the surface of the lake. The craft bounced one, twice, then settled, hissing over the water. The pilot brought the nose around until it was aimed at a curve of white beach, then let the plane’s momentum carry it to within a hundred yards of the shoals, where he goosed the throttle until the keel scraped over the sand.

Spellman took off his headphones and returned them to the hook. “We’re on foot from here.”