Under Fire

34

FOR THE FIRST TIME in what felt like months, Jack slept soundly, for a full eight hours before Ysabel woke him. She held a steaming cup of coffee under his nose until he groaned and opened his eyes.

“What time is it?”

“Two o’clock,” she replied. “Tuesday. The coup is over.”

Jack sat up and took the mug. “Not funny. Have I missed anything?”

“Medzhid’s called a press conference on the steps of the Parliament Building. He and Sergeant Koikov are testifying before Nabiyev’s panel.”

“How’s the city?” he asked.

“Quiet. It’s like the protests never happened.”

“The calm before the storm.”

“Then let’s make the most of it,” Ysabel replied with a sly smile.

She took the coffee mug from his hands and put it on the nightstand.

After a shower and a second cup of coffee, Jack phoned Dom at his hotel to check that all was well, then he and Ysabel found Spellman sitting in the conference area. Medzhid’s cadre of assistants was nowhere to be seen, as were Medzhid’s bodyguards. The apartment was quiet, save the gurgle of the floor-to-ceiling fountain set into the wall.

“Where’s Seth?” Jack asked.

“He went to visit Salko.”

The stashing place Medzhid had sent them to had been an unremarkable two-story house in one of Makhachkala’s southern neighborhoods. A middle-aged man and woman in civilian clothes directed them to pull into the garage, where they helped Salko out of the Suburban’s cargo area, then escorted him into the house’s back door. The entire exchange took less than a minute and not a word was spoken.

“Will he get anything out of him?” asked Ysabel.

“Probably not. I think Seth just wanted to look him in the eye. Seth told me he should’ve personally vetted Salko.”

“It wasn’t his job,” Jack replied.

“By the way, I think Salko’s phone is probably a dead end,” Spellman said. “It went to a landline — some cooking supply shop in Leninsky district. I’ll check it out, but I suspect they paid some sap a few bucks to play operator. Salko’s phone shows a call there at about the time the Volvo sideswiped my tower. I liked that tower, too.”

“Let’s call Gavin and see if he’s got anything for us,” Jack said. He dialed the number, then put the phone on speaker.

It took four rings before Gavin picked up. Groggily, he said, “Yeah, sorry, I fell asleep. I have something on the Chirpoy Road apartment. It belongs to the Office of the Mayor.”

“So by default, President Nabiyev. According to Medzhid, they play racquetball twice a week.”

“They use the place for visiting foreign VIPs, both political and business types, and a few local officials as well,” said Gavin, “so I guess it makes sense that Wellesley’s holed up there.”

“Why?” asked Ysabel.

“Wellesley would want someplace secure, but President Nabiyev can’t put them up in a state or federal government building,” Jack replied. “He needs the same kind of deniability Volodin does, otherwise nobody will believe the coup failed because Dagestanis love good old Mother Russia and want to stay part of the Federation.”

Spellman said, “We need to get into that apartment, Jack.”

“Dom’s going to poke around there tonight.”

“Tell him not to bother,” Gavin said. “The two plates he gave me came back to generic government lease cars, but the one you got is registered to a private citizen — a woman named Zoya Vetochkina in the city’s Department of Culture. She looks on the up-and-up. If you’re lucky, maybe she leaves her car unlocked and her key card in the visor. Jack, you said you don’t know whether one key card works on both the gate and the doors, right?”

“Right. Is that a problem?”

Gavin laughed. “Hell, no. Chances are the locks are Quanix brand. All you gotta do is scan the thirty-two-bit key, feed it back to the lock, and you’re in. You’re going to have to do a little shopping, though. Matt, does Makhachkala have any Devpulse clubs?”

“I’ve got no idea what that is.”

“Google it. It’s an open-source hobby electronics thing.”

Spellman typed the term into his laptop, then scrolled and clicked a few times. “I’ll be damned. Yeah, there are four of them.”

“E-mail the webmaster, tell him you’re working on a school project for your son that’s due tomorrow and you need an ATmega32u4—”

“Whoa, slow down. Say that again.”

“Just tell him you need a twenty-IO controller and a standard barrel jack. He’ll know what you’re talking about. Once you’ve got the stuff, I’ll walk you through everything.”

“Super. What exactly are we building?”

Jack said, “Don’t encourage him, Matt. He’ll talk your ear off. Gavin, call Dom with Zoya Vetochkina’s details.”

“Will do. Okay, I saved the best news for last: I got a text back from the number we have for Pechkin. He didn’t identify himself, but he seemed to buy that I was Captain Osin. He asked for a meeting.”

Almost there, Jack thought. They now knew that after he and Ysabel had left for Khasavyurt, either Vasim or Anton called Pechkin, who had in turn called Osin.

“We’ve got the son of a bitch,” said Spellman. “That’s the link we needed.”

“Not quite. We have to find Pechkin’s number on one of their cell phones, or in their call history. Without that, Medzhid won’t make a move.”

Ysabel said, “Gavin, you hijacked Dobromir’s and Osin’s numbers. Couldn’t you do the same with Pechkin’s? We get Anton and Vasim in the same room, dial their numbers, and see which one rings. Matt, you have them, don’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Dobromir’s and Osin’s were straight cell phones,” Gavin explained. “Pechkin’s is being routed through a landline cluster.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Ysabel.

“It’s just another way to anonymize yourself, hiding your IP — Internet protocol — address with a proxy server, using disposable e-mail addresses, setting up a VPN — virtual private network. There are lots of ways; landline routing is pretty old-school, but it works. The point is, without Pechkin’s cell phone in hand, I’d need to be in the room with whatever they’re using as forwarder. Or one of you would need to be.”

“Let’s make it happen,” said Spellman. “I doubt all they’re using the place for is to route calls, anyway.”

“Gavin, when did you set up the meeting with Pechkin?”

“Tomorrow morning at ten. Someplace called Anzhi Sady.”

“Sady is Russian for ‘gardens,’” said Spellman. “I know the place. It’s actually a children’s playground. Pechkin’s no dummy, I’ll give him that. School hasn’t started yet, so the place will be packed.”

“What’re you thinking, Jack?” Ysabel asked.

“Wellesley and Pechkin seem pretty fond of kidnapping. Let’s play it their way.”

Seth burst through the apartment door and strode toward them.

“It’s starting! Medzhid’s on!”

Spellman grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. Medzhid was already making his statement: “… by unanimous vote the panel chaired by our President Nabiyev has determined the story that appeared in Dagestanskaia Pravda two days ago was in fact false. As I knew he would, Sergeant Pavel Koikov supported the official report I filed following the Almak incident. I will take questions now.”

Offscreen voices clamored until Medzhid pointed at one of the unseen reporters. “Mr. Minister, were representatives of Pravda present during the hearing?”

“No, they were not. But it is my understanding they were invited.”

“What actions will you take now?”

“Personally, none. I have, however, ordered my deputy, Mr. Alenin, to convene an independent panel to investigate this matter. Either someone at Pravda misquoted Sergeant Koikov, or he was never interviewed for the story, or he was coerced into giving a false account of what happened at Almak. Should this be the case, I fully expect criminal charges will be filed against those responsible.”

“Where is Sergeant Koikov now?”

“He is in protective custody but will be made available to Deputy Alenin’s panel — and to the press after all of this is over, should he so desire. Next question?”

“There have been reports that the man you mentioned yesterday, Private Shimko, is not alive. Would you care to comment?”

“Only to say this: From the moment this fallacious story appeared in Pravda, we have had reason to fear for Sergeant Koikov’s safety. Beyond that I can say no more. But rest assured all will be made clear when Deputy Alenin’s investigation is complete and made public.”

“Minister Medzhid, there are also reports that a member of the politsiya, Captain Salko, is missing—”

“Thank you, no more questions…”

Spellman muted the television. “They sure didn’t wait long to put Salko out there.”

“They’ll forget about it by the end of the day,” Seth replied. “Is Medzhid slick or what? Wellesley and Pechkin just got bitch-slapped on live TV.”

But not Nabiyev, Jack thought. Though it would’ve been easy for Medzhid to throw a barb or two at the president, he had instead made them partners in protecting the public good. Rebaz Medzhid was no dummy.

“Well, we’re back on schedule,” Seth said. “Another week and we’re good to go.”

Seven days, Jack thought.

Seven days to confirm the location of Wellesley and Pechkin’s war room, find out how many moves ahead on the chess-board they were, make sure the multitude of parts and pieces of Seth’s plan weren’t unraveling, uncover which of Medzhid’s personal bodyguards — and perhaps members of the Emergency Response Force — were playing for the other team, and figure out how far Valeri Volodin was willing to go to keep hold of Dagestan.

Not nearly enough time.

At eight p.m. he left the Tortoreto to relieve Dom at the Chirpoy apartment.

As he walked to the Lada, Dom rolled down the window. Jack handed him a white paper bag. “It’s not Jimmy John’s, but the place I got it from looked a lot like a Blimpie.”

“Good enough, thanks. No sign of Pechkin or Wellesley. You know, the security inside that compound might be decent, but they’ve gone ostrich — heads all the way in the sand. I’ve been here three hours and nobody’s even looked my way.”

This was often the case with “secure compounds,” Jack knew, especially ones that aren’t tested frequently. Under those conditions it was easy to fall into a complacent mind-set: We’re safe and secure behind these walls and cameras and no one bothers us, so what’s to worry about?

This could work to their advantage when the time came.

Jack asked, “Did Gavin get ahold of you?”

“About the Vetochkina woman? Yeah, I followed her from her office to a house on Elista; it’s covered by a fumigation tent. She talked to one of the workers, then went back to the office. She locked the car. I’m going to swing by there again on the way back to the motel.”

“How goes Gavin’s game of phone tag with Pechkin and Wellesley?”

“Pechkin’s meeting fake Captain Osin tomorrow at a playground a few miles from here. Matt will call you with the details. As for Wellesley, Gavin—”

“Continuing his acclaimed role of Dobromir the Broker.”

“Right. He’s been stringing Wellesley along, demanding to know what’s happened to Helen. As far as Gavin can tell, Wellesley hasn’t figured out she’s not in an Edinburgh jail. We’re going to keep poking at him. Hell, maybe he’ll fly off to Scotland and we can have Clark’s Hereford friend pay him a visit.”

“A man can dream. Jack, my boy, you’re a devious son of a gun. I’m outta here. I’ll call you if I catch up to Zoya. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”