by Chris Goff
“What’s going on?” she asked. It looked like Melnyk might be preparing to release the bodies, which surprised her. Unless he was simply preparing to take them away.
Chapter 2
Vasyl Kozachenko listened to the rustling of leaves in the dense overhead tree canopy and considered what he’d just heard.
“You’re joking,” he finally said, balling a fist. “How is it possible for this to happen?” The bodies should have been destroyed. It should have taken weeks to identify them.
“I found it hard to believe myself,” said Stas, the man on the other end of the phone. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Intervene!” Was it too much to ask? Kozachenko paced the length of the truck. “You must prevent a transfer of the bodies to the Americans, at any cost. We have no way of knowing how much he knows and if he wrote it down. We can’t afford to take chances.”
“It’s impossible, sir. They’ve sent someone here to investigate. A woman. She was caught rooting through the pockets of the dead agent, and now she insists on staying with the bodies until the transfer comes through.”
“Did she find anything?”
“Only identification papers. But she insists McClasky could be carrying classified information.”
“Use your authority, Stas. Pull this woman aside and question her. Find out what she knows.”
“My hands are tied, sir. There is nothing I can do. Captain Melnyk has taken charge.”
Kozachenko turned and continued pacing in the weak moonlight. He felt uneasy about this turn of events. In most cases, it would have taken weeks to locate and identify the crash victims. By then it wouldn’t have mattered. Now if they couldn’t prevent the Americans from repatriating the bodies, they would have no choice but to destroy the transport. “Who is this woman?”
“All I know is she’s some DSS agent they sent out looking for the agent on board.”
Kozachenko stopped walking and stared down at his boots. He expected the law enforcement arm of the U.S. government to send an agent, but this one had arrived too quickly. “Did you get her name?”
“Nyet.”
“What does she look like?”
“Tall, skinny, with dark eyes and dark-red hair. She looks like trouble to me.”
“Well, find out who she is and how much she knows.” Kozachenko lifted his head and found his men watching. He must have raised his voice.
Stas hesitated. “What should I do if they leave with the bodies?”
Kozachenko refused to consider failure a viable option. He hadn’t worked his way up in the ranks by being a nice guy. Instead, one by one, he had crushed his adversaries. It was as easy as killing bugs, he thought, swatting a mosquito that had landed on his sleeve. He flicked it away. “Do your job, Stas. Call me back when you have more information.”
“Da.”
Kozachenko clicked off and cursed their luck. The plan required their convoy to travel at night and be in strike position one week from today. The way things were going, they might still be bivouacked in the Dykanka Regional Landscape Park for the next seven days.
Last night had gone flawlessly. During the Soviet era, the city of Kharkiv, Ukraine, had been the USSR’s third-largest scientific and industrial city. More than half the people who lived there were pro-Russia, including the border guard. When they’d crossed into Ukraine at Belgorod, they’d only needed to pay him seven thousand hryvnias, less than three hundred fifty dollars. Double the guard’s average monthly salary, but half of what Kozachenko had expected to pay.
Once across the border, he and his men had made excellent time. Traveling the M roads, they had arrived outside of Dykanka before sunrise, found a secluded spot, and set up camp undetected. But that morning, everything went sour.
At 7:00 AM, the pakhan, his boss, had called to say the Chinese American had been arrested and was headed home on board People’s Republic Flight 91. The pakhan’s orders were clear. Kozachenko and his men were to shoot down the plane.
Firing the weapon had elevated his anxiety, but it’d also brought a sliver of satisfaction. At first, he feared detection. If they were caught, it would have derailed a plan that was years in the making. But given no other choice, he’d opted to look upon it as a test run—both the gun and his men had performed with precision. Afterward, with the weapon buttoned down under the tarp, he’d slept well. The likelihood of anyone ever realizing the plane had been blown out of the sky was slim. Even if they did, by the time they came looking, the gun would be well on its way to serving its true purpose.
“Is everything okay, Vasyl?”
Kozachenko looked up and watched as Anatoliy Barkov, his second-in-command, approached.
“Nyet,” he replied, resting his elbows on the front fender of the truck. He explained what was happening on the ground in Hoholeve. “If they begin to transport the bodies to the morgue, we may be forced to fire the weapon again.”
A look of concern crossed Barkov’s face. “We can’t do that.”
Kozachenko frowned. He did not like being told what he could or couldn’t do. He understood not wanting to fire the gun. The whole reason behind shooting down the aircraft was to keep the weapon secret. They’d taken a big risk firing it the first time. To shoot it a second time was tantamount to waving a red flag in front of a bull. It only increased their chances of being discovered. But allowing the transfer of the two bodies to the U.S. authorities posed a much more immediate threat.
“It’s better to act than do nothing,” Kozachenko said.
“Of course, you’re right, Vasyl. But physically, we cannot fire the gun.”
“What are you saying?” Kozachenko stared at Barkov, who to his credit did not look away.
“When we fired the weapon, we discharged the compulsator. It must be recharged.”
“Then do it, now!” Kozachenko knew the weapon required a specific level of electricity to operate, but he thought it had been handled.
“It’s not that simple, Vasyl. Recharging the unit requires us to run the truck’s engine. Our plan was to recharge it tonight while we drove.”
Kozachenko looked around the small clearing. Allowing the truck to sit here and idle would make too much noise and use too much fuel. He felt a sharp pain in his belly and reached in his pocket for an antacid. “Then let’s hope Stas can handle things on the ground.”
“And if he can’t?”
Kozachenko broke a chalky pill between his teeth and swallowed, following it up with a swig of water from his canteen. “Then we’ll have to find another way to take care of the situation. Make no mistake, the Americans must not be allowed to claim those bodies.”
Chapter 3
Jordan’s legs ached from standing. According to Captain Melnyk, they were still waiting for word from the IIC on where to transport the bodies. It had now been over an hour, with nowhere to sit.
To stay warm and ease the tension in her muscles, she walked the crash site near McClasky and Zhen. In the light cast by the waning moon and the glow from the fires, she took a closer look at the fuselage. There was one section near the wing where it appeared something had punched inward, tearing the metal.
A missile?
Moving in for a closer look, she discovered pitting along the fuselage. In a number of places, she could see small metal fragments embedded in the body of the plane.
Shrapnel?
It seemed an unlikely placement for a hole caused by an engine explosion. Maybe the plane had struck something upon hitting the ground?
She called Melnyk over and pointed out what she’d found. He scoffed at her discovery.
“We might be a country at war, but we are four hundred kilometers away from the fighting. The crash was most likely caused by a mechanical failure, an engine exploding.”
“Except this spot on the body of the aircraft would have been protected. Do you see how the metal breaks right here above the wing? I think it’s possible this plane was shot down.”
Melnyk dismissed her t
heory with a shake of his head. “Don’t let your imagination run wild, Agent Jordan. We don’t need you spreading rumors. This was a terrible accident, some sort of catastrophic failure, nothing more.”
Jordan hoped he was right. It was up to the IIC and the aviation experts to determine the cause of the crash. A task that would likely take weeks—if not months—of investigation. Still, as she watched him walk away, she found it hard to shake the feeling that something was off.
Turning back to the hull, she snapped several pictures of the damage with her cell phone. Then, after making sure no one was watching, she pried a quarter-sized metal fragment from the fuselage and stuck it into her pocket. One fragment wasn’t going to change the course of the investigation. She would run it past the lab rats at the embassy and see what they had to say.
A flash from the road caused her to snap her head up. Scanning the crowd, her gaze stopped on a tall, dark-haired man pressed up against the press barricade and snapping photos in her direction. Had he seen her take the fragment or was he just photographing the scene?
For the most part, she viewed journalists like hyenas—offensive and sneaky predators feasting on the sensationalism of a moment. Distanced by pen and lens, they inhabited a world of sound bites and photographs, capturing impressions that highlighted the most dramatic elements, which they manipulated for effect. Too many times the real story was lost or ignored, usurped by moments taken out of context and distorted by the reporter’s own bias.
Squinting, she tried getting a better look at the man—an impossible task at this distance and in this light. Then, leaving Jordan with a sense of unease, he stepped back into the crush of reporters and vanished.
Jordan decided to look on the bright side. If it was hard for her to make out features in this light, even with a telephoto lens, the reverse should be true. The likelihood he captured a clear image of her from that distance was practically nil.
Walking back toward the bodies of McClasky and Zhen, Jordan stamped her feet against the night chill. In spite of the fires, a dampness permeated her bones. An aerosol can burst in the wreckage and she flinched, the explosion tweaking her already fried nerves. Her head pounded from breathing the fumes of the burning jet. All she wanted was for Sergeant Hycha to return so she could get out of here.
A few minutes more and she spotted the sergeant picking his way back through the crash site. Now maybe someone would tell her the plan.
The captain, who stood off to one side conferring with his team of soldiers, sauntered over when the sergeant drew near. “Ya dumav, vy nikoly ne buly povertatysya.”
“In Russian, please,” Jordan reminded him.
“I said I thought he would never return.” Melnyk snatched an 8½ x 11 manila sleeve out of the sergeant’s hand. Opening the flap, he stuffed the transit paper and passports inside.
“The IIC had questions,” Sergeant Hycha said in halting Russian. “He requests that someone accompany the woman to the morgue.”
“The agent,” Jordan corrected him. Her gaze ping-ponged between the two men. “I take it this means you’re not releasing the bodies.” They’d been waiting over forty minutes, and this wasn’t what she wanted to hear, though admittedly it was what she expected.
Melnyk ignored her. “What else did the IIC say?”
“He thinks your solution for securing the documents is good.”
Melnyk nodded and then handed the manila sleeve to Jordan. “Seal it and sign your name across the flap.”
“Why is this necessary?” Jordan asked. “Why not just let me take the papers?”
This was exactly why she’d remained quiet about the envelope secured in her waistband. The sooner the director knew the contents of the communications, the faster the U.S. State Department could counter any potential security threats. Following protocol, it could take weeks.
Melnyk handed her a pen.
She chafed at the lack of verbal response but licked the manila sleeve, pressed it shut, and scrawled her name across the closure. “Now what?”
“Put it in the body bag,” he said. “When it’s zipped shut, I will secure the bag with a tie and sticker, which you will also initial, and then we’ll transport the bodies to the police station morgue in Reshetylivka, where they’ll be kept under guard until you submit the proper repatriation documentation.”
“Why not save us all some work?” Jordan asked, again challenging the need for the extra steps. “Let me call in the Marines and have them transport the bodies back to the U.S. embassy in Kyiv. I promise, we’ll fax you the paperwork in the morning.”
“Zarozumilyy amerykans’ka divchyna, vy povynni dumaty, shcho my idioty,” Hycha said, posturing and stepping toward her.
Melnyk raised his hand and silenced his NCO. “The sergeant says the IIC requires proper documentation be on file in order to release the American bodies.”
With the sentence construction similar to Russian and many of the words the same, Jordan was fairly certain the translation was more along the lines of “Arrogant American girl, you must think we are idiots.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, squatting down and placing the envelope on McClasky’s chest. “I need to make a phone call and inform my boss of the plan.”
The captain nodded. “Make it quick.”
Jordan had held off calling Lory until she had a clear picture of how things would go. Now she stepped aside and dialed from her cell. Lory answered on the second ring, and she gave him the recap.
“Just go with it. They have their procedures, and this ensures any information McClasky has on him remains with the body.”
“But sir—”
“Let’s not make any waves. Accompany the bodies to the morgue, and then find a place to sleep. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.” He paused. “By the way, good job on finding our boy.”
“Thank you, sir.” She refrained from mentioning the envelope she had secured at her back. There were too many ears, too many people who might understand enough English to put two and two together.
By the time she hung up, the bodies were tagged and bagged, and the captain was ready for her to initial the seals. She’d barely finished scribbling the letters when the soldiers started hauling the bags toward a waiting military ambulance.
“Captain, I am to stay with McClasky. I’ll need to leave my car here tonight and ride along.”
“That’s out of the question,” he said. “Only authorized personnel are allowed in the ambulance.”
“I have my orders.”
He studied her a moment, then jerked his head toward the road. “You’ll come with me.”
Not exactly the outcome she’d been looking for.
“In that case, Captain, how about I just follow you in my own car?” It made more sense than coming back out here in the morning. She’d already found McClasky and Zhen. With any luck, the morgue would be closer to Kyiv.
“Nyet. I have my orders, too. The IIC wants you accompanied. You’ll ride with me, and Sergeant Hycha will follow us with your car.” Melnyk extended his hand. “Your keys.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
He flashed a thin smile. “The IIC wants to ensure your satisfaction in the treatment of your diplomatic immunity.”
Captain Melnyk clearly had his orders, just as she had hers. Jordan looked toward the ambulance and watched the soldiers securing the back doors. It was time to concede the point.
“Fine,” she said, digging the keys to the rental car out of her pants pocket and handing them to the captain. He tossed them to Sergeant Hycha and then gestured for her to go ahead of him toward the road. She started to move past him when Melnyk placed his hand on the small of her back.
Jordan tensed.
“What is this?” he demanded, moving his hand up. The envelope crackled against the flat of her spine.
“What’s what?” she said, moving away.
Melnyk caught her arm. “Don’t play with me.”
Knowing she’d been c
aught, Jordan reached back and pulled out the envelope. “It’s a letter.”
“I told you she stole something off of the body.” Hycha jabbed a finger into her face. “We should be arresting you.”
“On what charges? This envelope is addressed to the director of the Diplomatic Security Service.”
“You took it off your dead agent’s body.”
“Prove it. I just pulled it free of my belt.” She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about lying. Her job was to secure any papers McClasky carried, not to appease the Ukrainians. If she’d learned one thing from her experience in Israel, it was that sometimes, in order to achieve your goals, you had to be willing to scuff the lines.
Hycha’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter what you say. The letter is now in our custody and a matter for the IIC. Give it to me, Captain, and I will take it up to the command center.”
“No!” Melnyk said, taking the envelope out of Jordan’s hand. “We’ll handle it like the other papers.”
Jordan weighed the pros and cons of arguing. Sometimes it came down to knowing which battles to choose.
“But, sir.” By the whine in his voice, Jordan could tell Melnyk’s response wasn’t to the sergeant’s liking. “At least let me search her to see what else she has taken.”
The fragment weighed heavily in Jordan’s pocket. No doubt a search would unearth it, and then they’d be accusing her of tampering with the crime scene. Now seemed a good time to mount a defense.
“I have diplomatic immunity,” she asserted. “Taking the letter and searching me are both in direct violation of the Vienna Convention.”
“Move back, Sergeant Hycha.” Melnyk stepped between the two of them, facing Jordan. “I admire your spunk, Agent, but I believe the sergeant is right. You’re lying about this.” He held the letter near her face. “I think this envelope holds the secrets of a dead man.”
If only she could open it and find out. Jordan planted her hands on her hips. “It seems we’ve hit an impasse.”
“Not really,” he said, pointing her toward the makeshift parking area. “I’m going to allow you to add this to your courier’s packet. After that, we’ll follow the ambulance to the police station as planned.”
