Under Fire

30

Leaving Ysabel to keep an eye on things at the Tortoreto, Jack took off at six-thirty, swung past the now empty street outside the Ministry building, then drove the three miles to where Dom was staking out the Chirpoy Road apartment.

As Jack pulled to the curb, the sun was beginning to drop behind the Tarki-Tau hills west of the city. Already he could feel the air cooling.

“Go get some food and sleep,” Jack said, walking up to Dom’s window. Over the top of his car and through some trees Jack could see the apartment’s gated entrance.

“Sleep I can use,” Dom replied. “As for food, unless they’ve got a Jimmy John’s stashed away around here, I’ll pass for now. By the way, Ysabel’s very pretty. Are you guys—”

“Shut up, Dom,” Jack replied with a smile. “How’s it look?”

“Eighteen rooms, each with a rear barred window and key-card locks on the doors. Whether they’re opened by the gate key card, I don’t know. Second-floor access is through a partially covered stairwell on the north end.

“Around the wall I’ve counted ten surveillance cameras hidden in the trees, one about every twelve feet, but we can assume the whole thing is ringed. One of the ground-floor apartments, number 102 at the far end, is occupied by some serious-looking dudes wearing jackets that hang like they’re carrying bazookas in their armpits.”

“Any of them look familiar from my lunch with Wellesley?”

“No.”

“I asked Medzhid about this place. He doesn’t know anything about it, so the guards aren’t MOI politsiya. Maybe they’re from the city’s public safety office.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it,” replied Dom. “I had a cop car drive by about an hour ago. I ducked down and he kept going. Proactivity isn’t on the police academy curriculum here.

“I’ve only seen two cars go in or out of the gate, but neither of them were Wellesley or Pechkin. The gate must trip some kind of alarm, because every time a car enters, the goon apartment door opens and one of them pokes his head out. The drivers flash some kind of permit and the guard waves, then goes back inside. Whatever that place is, Jack, it’s sure as hell not making money as a commercial property.”

“I’ve got Gavin looking into it.”

“Okay, see you in four hours,” Dom said, and pulled away from the curb.

Jack got back in his car and started his shift.

When night fell, rows of amber spotlights at the base of the apartment’s wall came on, casting cones of light up the brick face.

At eight-fifteen a car pulled into the driveway. An arm emerged from the driver’s window and swiped a key card, and the gate rose. The car pulled through, then into one of the parking spots. A woman got out, entered one of the ground-level apartments, then emerged a few minutes later. As she exited the gate, Jack zoomed in on the license plate and memorized it.

Shortly before nine, his phone rang.

“Jack, where are you?” Spellman asked.

“Sitting on an apartment. Why?”

“The men Medzhid has sitting on Koikov’s house aren’t answering. Can you get there?”

“Where?”

Spellman gave him the address, then said, “I’ll steer you, just give me your cross streets.”

“Wait one.” Jack put Spellman on mute, switched apps, then texted Dom: GOTTA RUN. TAKE OVER HERE.

Dom answered immediately: EN ROUTE.

Jack started the Opel’s engine and pulled away from the curb, then drove two blocks until he came to a cross street. He switched back to Spellman. “I’m coming up on Vaygach and Tuva. Headed east.”

“Okay, hold on. You’re three miles away. Head right on Vaygach.”

For the next ten minutes, with Jack calling out streets or landmarks and Spellman responding with turns, he headed northward to Makhachkala’s city limits.

“Okay, you’re coming up on Kirovskiy district. Turn right at the next intersection.”

Jack did so and found himself on a run-down residential street. At the end of it he took a left onto a dirt road bordered on one side by a barbed wire — enclosed pasture.

“I don’t see any signs,” Jack said. “There’s a mile marker, though, with a twelve on it.”

“Take the next right. It should be a driveway.”

“Okay, I’m on it. I see a house directly ahead of me.”

“Koikov’s cabin is just west of it, maybe a quarter-mile. You should be coming up on another road, a small one, barely on the map.”

“I see it.”

Jack slowed, doused the Opel’s headlights, then made the turn. To his left across the pasture he saw yellow lights filtering through a thicket of scrub trees.

Another hundred yards brought him to a T intersection. He turned left toward Koikov’s cabin and slowly the trees thinned out until he could see a U-shaped clearing ahead. He let up on the accelerator and slowed the Opel to a walking pace. He rolled down the passenger window and listened. Save the buzzing of insects, all was quiet.

“Jack, you there?” asked Spellman.

“Call one of Medzhid’s men.”

Jack braked to a stop and shut off the engine.

Moments later he heard the ringing of a cell phone. After five rings, it went silent. Jack said, “Matt, hang on.” He dialed Dom, looped him into the call, and then made quick introductions. “I need backup,” he told Dom. “Matt’s got my location.”

Eyes fixed on the lighted windows of the cabin, he crept down the road until the fence to his right formed a corner, which he followed, using the thicket to screen his approach to the cabin, now to his left front. He stopped, listened, then kept going until he was within ten paces of the front door, where he crouched. To his left in the driveway was a dark-colored SUV, thankfully not a Suburban, he saw. He had enough complications to deal with.

He heard a muffled male voice say something in Russian from inside the cabin, followed by a response. The tone sounded casual, but the exchange was too clipped, Jack thought, to be a friendly one. A silhouette moved past the curtained window, then out of view. The door opened and a man emerged. He walked a few steps to his right, then lit a cigarette.

Jack drew the Ruger from its holster and affixed the noise suppressor.

Jack’s phone vibrated. He cupped his hand around the screen and read the text from Dom. TEN MINUTES OUT.

A voice in the darkness called out in Russian. Jack caught on two words: “car” and “there.” They’d spotted his car.

The man who’d spoken walked up and joined his smoking partner, and they started talking quietly.

Suddenly from inside the cabin came a bang, then a shout and the slap of flesh against flesh. A shadowed figure crashed into the curtains, then was jerked away.

The smoking man said something and his partner laughed.

Gotta do something, Jack. Can’t just sit here.

He rose from his crouch and started forward, placing each foot flat on the ground and getting it settled before taking the next step. The men to his right kept chatting. After ten paces and two minutes Jack drew even with the cabin’s front door. He slipped left through the thicket, then followed the side wall around to the back, then down the opposite side until he reached the cabin’s front corner. He poked his head out.

The two men were six feet away.

With the Ruger raised before him, he stepped out.

“Ruki vverh,” he whispered.

Neither did as ordered. The smoking man spun left, his hand already reaching inside his coat, while his partner sprinted for the cabin door. Jack shot the first man twice in the chest, then shifted the Ruger and fired at the fleeing man. He missed. Before he could get off another shot the man was through the cabin door, shouting as he went.

Jack retreated to the corner, then adjusted aim and put a round into each of the SUV’s passenger-side tires. There was no pop, no explosive rush of air. Self-sealing tires. That said something.

The barrel of an assault rifle poked through the cabin door and swung toward Jack. He pulled back. The rifle began chattering, bullets tearing chunks from the wood and punching through the wall. He backpedaled, trying to get ahead of the piercing rounds as they kept pace with him. He turned left, shoved himself through some waist-high scrub, and then kept going, trying to put some distance between himself and the cabin.

After twenty feet he reached a woodpile. He ducked around it, peeked over the top. The SUV’s front and rear doors were swinging shut.

The engine roared to life and the SUV accelerated out of the driveway and sped down the road.

Jack got out his phone and called Dom. “Where are you?”

“Passing mile marker twelve.”

“Stop there and find a place to hide. In about sixty seconds a black SUV’s going to be rounding the corner. Follow it.”

“Sorry, guys, I lost ’em.” Dom sat down on his motel room’s bed and tossed the keys onto the nightstand. He rubbed his hands through his hair. “Shit.”

“We’ll find them,” said Spellman.

Jack made the introductions. They shook hands.

“Oh, yeah, the guy on the phone,” Dom said. “You’re CIA?”

“For however long that’ll last,” Spellman said, smiling. “By the time this is over I’ll probably be working the tool counter at Home Depot. Did you get a license plate number?”

“There were none.”

Ysabel went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, then came back and handed it to Dom, who downed it. “Thanks.”

“So,” Jack said. “Tell us.”

“I followed them for almost two hours, north up the coast, then lost them in this little village… Bakh-something?”

“Bakhtemir?” said Spellman.

“That’s it. Just a speck of a place, but the streets were a mess and they seemed to know where they were going. Anyway, I backtracked south and sat on the road for a bit. They didn’t come back my way.”

“They didn’t see you?” asked Spellman.

“No chance.”

“Matt, what’s up that way?” asked Jack.

“A whole lot of nothing. Mostly lowlands and a lot of open space. It’s been drought conditions up there for a couple years, so it’s probably desertlike by now. Bakhtemir’s probably the largest settlement up there and it’s only got a few hundred people in it.”

“Why take Koikov up there?” asked Ysabel. “If they wanted to kill him, why not in his cabin? And they can’t keep him hidden forever. He’s going to have to appear before the panel.”

“They had to have a reason,” said Spellman. “If this is Wellesley—”

“It is,” Jack replied.

“Then he’s got a plan. He doesn’t do anything spur-of-the-moment.”

No one spoke for a while. Jack murmured, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Spellman.

“We need to talk to Medzhid.”

When they got to the Tortoreto apartment, Spellman woke up Seth, who in turn woke up Medzhid, who walked into the dimly lit conference area a few minutes later. His eyes were red-rimmed. “What’s this about? You’ve found Sergeant Koikov?”

“No,” Jack replied. He recounted the shoot-out at the cabin.

“Puncture-proof tires,” Medzhid repeated. “That has to be some kind of official government vehicle. I’ll look into it.”

“I think I have a hunch about what they have planned for Koikov.”

“Does it even matter?” Seth said. “I mean, I feel for the guy, but he’s lying about Almak and if he comes before the panel it’ll come out. And if he doesn’t show up, that’s also proof he’s lying. Win-win.”

“Unless they kill him,” said Ysabel. “That’s a lose-lose for him.”

“They won’t.”

“I think that’s exactly what they’re going to do,” Jack replied. “Think about it: You’ve boxed yourself into a corner just like Wellesley did to himself. If they don’t produce Koikov they lose, and if they do produce him they lose. The same applies to you: Medzhid’s demanded proof that Koikov is safe and isn’t being coerced, and you’ve got the media and the public screaming the same thing. If you suddenly let that go, everyone’s going to wonder why. What have you got to hide?”

“Nothing,” said Medzhid.

“The question will still be asked. Wellesley needs a way to keep Koikov away from the panel and make it look like you’re guilty of Almak.”

“How?”

“Wellesley takes him to a remote place, somewhere connected to you, puts a bullet in his skull, then Nabiyev swoops in with Army troops. After a firefight Koikov is found dead, silenced by some of your loyal politsiya officers, who are themselves killed by Nabiyev’s men.” Jack paused. “Rebaz, in the space of an hour you’ll be branded a murderer, not only of civilians in Almak, but of your own sergeant.”

“Damn,” Seth murmured. “He’s right. Hell, they’ll probably find Koikov in a shallow grave. Wellesley doesn’t do anything half-assed.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Medzhid said. He rapped his fist on the table. “I would eventually be vindicated.”

“Maybe, but you sure as hell won’t be keeping your job.”

“And the coup is over before it starts,” Spellman finished.