Under Fire

25

Which way?” Ysabel asked, gasping for breath.

Jack turned in a circle, trying to orient himself. To his left he saw the concrete wall of the canal. That was east. He turned and ran for the other edge of the roof with Ysabel close behind.

He skidded to a stop and peeked over the eaves and down into the alleyway that separated Dobromir’s house from his neighbors’. Clotheslines crisscrossed the gap so thickly that they looked like a fishing net. The bottom of the alley was lost in shadow.

Jack backed up a few steps, then leapt to the next roof. Ysabel did the same and they kept running, dodging chimney vents, low-hanging wires, and satellite-dish risers until they reached the last roof on the block.

To the west, Jack heard sirens approaching, growing louder as they converged on Dobromir’s house.

Ysabel said, “Here, Jack.”

She was kneeling beside the curved railing of the fire-escape ladder. He walked over. Directly below them was a blue Volga — Dobromir’s, Jack assumed. They’d soon know.

A police car, its lights and siren off, rounded the corner at the other end of the block and headed toward the canal. Jack and Ysabel pulled away from the edge until they heard the engine fade into the distance.

“There’s no point in waiting,” Ysabel said, then started down the ladder.

At the bottom they stood in the alley a few feet behind the entrance.

Jack walked over to the Volga and tried the key in the lock. It worked. “We’re good, come on.”

They got in. Jack started the car and they pulled away.

They had left their map in their own car, so Jack had only his vague recollection of Khasavyurt’s layout to go on. He headed directly west, driving just under the speed limit, slowly but steadily putting distance between them and Dobromir’s house. Ysabel sat crouched on the passenger-side floorboard.

“They’re looking for a man and a woman,” she explained. “Do you think they know about this car?”

“Judging by Dobromir’s security precautions at the house, I’d say no. We’ll find out.”

“That poor man,” Ysabel whispered.

With each mile they covered, Jack breathed a little easier, until finally they cleared the city limits and headed into farm country. Both sides of the road were lined with miles of apple groves. Here and there Jack saw farmworkers spraying the trees, many of which were already showing tiny white blooms.

“You can sit up now,” Jack said.

Ysabel did so and buckled her seat belt.

They passed a white-on-blue sign with Cyrillic lettering. Beside the label was an arrow pointing straight ahead. Beside the arrow was a green, white, and red flag.

“That’s the Chechen flag, Jack,” said Ysabel. “We really don’t want to go there.”

Jack chuckled. “Understatement of the year.”

Another mile brought them to an intersection. He turned left and they drove for another ten miles before reaching the next town. The Volga’s gas gauge needle was on E. Jack found a gas station. Ysabel went inside, then emerged with a map. Jack finished filling up, then climbed behind the wheel.

“Look, English captions,” Ysabel said, the map open against the dashboard. “According to this, we’re in Leninaul.”

“How far to Makhachkala?”

“About two hundred kilometers. So, a hundred twenty miles. I can’t tell how good these roads are, though.”

“Ysabel, there’s something we need to talk—”

Out his window, Jack saw a police car drive past the gas station.

“Company,” Jack said.

The car stopped in the middle of the road, swung right onto the shoulder, did a U-turn, then headed back in their direction.

“Should we run?” asked Ysabel.

“We wouldn’t get far. Stay here and do what they tell you. Your name is Julie Smith. Give me your wallet.”

She handed it over and Jack got out of the car.

“You’re not leaving me, are—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Jack walked into the station. He asked the female clerk behind the counter, “Gde naxoditsa tualet?”

She pointed down a short hall. At the end of it on the right was the bathroom; next to this was the station’s back door. Jack opened it, stepped outside, then looked around. There was nothing: no garbage, no debris. He pulled out his passport and wallet, tossed them onto the roof, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He turned on the water and waited.

He heard a voice shouting in Russian, then the clerk’s agitated reply.

Jack opened the bathroom door and stepped out. A cop was stalking toward him, gun drawn and shouting, “Ruki vverh!.. Ruki vverh!” Hands up!.. Hands up!

Jack raised them.

Outside, the lone police car had been joined by two more, all of them arrayed in a crescent facing the station’s front door. One of the officers had Ysabel shoved against the side of the Volga, her hands cuffed behind her. A second one was leaning close to her, whispering.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked her.

“Yes.”

The second cop walked up to Jack and in Russian demanded his name. Jack shrugged, feigning ignorance.

“Name,” the man barked.

“John Smith.”

“Your wife, there, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Come with us.”

Thirty minutes later they were back in Khasavyurt. Jack and Ysabel were led into a two-story gray cinder-block building fronted by glass windows covered in what looked like anticrime posters. Once through the doors, they were herded past the front counter, an area containing four wooden desks, then left down a hallway whose right side was lined with windowless jail cells with mint-green walls. They were ushered inside and the door banged shut.

“This can’t be good for us,” said Ysabel, sitting down on the bench. “Where did you put our wallets?”

“The first place they’ll probably look after the toilet. We should probably talk about something.”

“You mean aside from us being in jail?”

“Back at his house, Dobromir said the police showing up couldn’t be a coincidence. He’s right.”

“Well, we know we weren’t followed.”

Jack said, “Only five people knew where we were going and who we were seeing. And they were all in the back of the GAZ.”