Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  “Well, he’s none of the above. His real name is Oleg Pechkin. He’s SVR,” Seth said, referring to Russia’s foreign intelligence service.

  • • •

  JACK TOOK a few moments to digest this. The revelation made things both easier and more treacherous. They’d just consolidated four names into one, but that name had also put the Russians firmly on the playing field.

  Once again Jack found himself assembling puzzle pieces in his head: Pechkin ordered Yazdani’s van be used by a pair of kidnappers supplied by Wellesley, who was working hand-in-glove with Pechkin.

  “I’ve been playing cat-and-mouse with Pechkin for almost a year,” Seth said.

  “Who’s the cat and who’s the mouse?”

  Seth shrugged. “It’s only been in the last few weeks I discovered he was also Ervaz, and that he was connected to Hamrah.”

  “And to Raymond Wellesley,” Spellman added.

  “What’s so special about Hamrah, anyway?” asked Ysabel.

  “Easy access,” Seth replied. “Hamrah does all the Parsabad–Artezian railway project surveys, from Parsabad in the south, all the way north past Makhachkala. With my degree, getting hired was a snap. I can cross the borders like I’m crossing the street.”

  Jack said, “Get to the point, Seth. What’s it about?”

  “Self-determination.”

  From outside came the crunching of tires on the dirt road. Spellman trotted to the hut’s partially open door and peeked out. “It’s them,” he called over his shoulder. “Medzhid and two bodyguards.”

  Instinctively, Jack put his hand in his pocket and gripped the butt of the nine-millimeter, then changed his mind and pulled his hand back out. Seth saw this.

  “You’ve got to trust somebody sometime, Jack.”

  “I do,” Jack replied, and tilted his head toward Ysabel.

  “I’m not setting you up, Jack. Not on my life.”

  “You’ve already done that,” Ysabel shot back. “Three times.”

  “Necessities of war.”

  Before Jack could respond, the hut’s door swung open and three men strode inside. Spellman led them to the workbench. As the lead man stepped into the lantern’s light, Jack saw he was tall, broad-shouldered, with perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair and a square jaw. He was, Jack thought, movie-star handsome. Despite probably being in his late fifties, Medzhid looked ten years younger than that.

  The man’s two bodyguards split up and started searching the hut. Once done, one returned to the door while the second took up position just out of the pool of light.

  Seth said, “Jack, Ysabel, I’d like to introduce Rebaz Medzhid, head of Dagestan’s MOI—Ministry of the Interior. He runs the country’s politsiya.”

  UNSMILING, Medzhid stepped forward and shook Jack’s and Ysabel’s hands. “Very nice to meet you.” His English bore only the trace of an accent.

  “One correction to your statement, Mr. Gregory,” Medzhid said. “Republic of Dagestan and soon-to-be former federal republic of the Russian Federation. Or perhaps not. Much depends on this meeting.”

  Jack looked from Medzhid to Seth to Spellman. “You’re planning a coup. You’re going to try to break Dagestan away from Volodin.”

  Medzhid nodded. “And hopefully not get squashed in the process.”

  Absently, Jack wondered if his father had authorized the coup. Probably so. Toppling an entire country, let alone a republic of the Russian Federation, wasn’t something the CIA would initiate on its own—at least not under a Ryan administration.

  Jack smiled. Here he was, on the ground and in the middle of an operation his own father had sanctioned. And the hell of it was, neither of them would tell the other. One familial hand not knowing what the other was doing.

  “Wait,” Spellman said. “Rebaz, you said ‘perhaps not.’ What do you mean? Has something happened?”

  “Someone took my daughter, Mr. Spellman. Aminat was kidnapped from her university dormitory two days ago.”

  Medzhid said this so dispassionately that Jack wasn’t sure he’d him heard correctly.

  “Damn it,” Seth growled.

  “How did you find out?” asked Spellman.

  “I was approached this morning by a man outside my tennis club. His message was to the point: ‘Do not cooperate with the authorities and await further contact. Disobey and we will begin sending Aminat in small pieces to you and your wife. We will begin with her toes and move upward.’”

  “Oh, God,” Ysabel murmured.

  “Did you have him followed?” asked Spellman.

  “His parting words warned against that. He showed me a picture of Aminat unconscious and tied to a bed. This is very real, and they are obviously professionals. They knew I go to the tennis club every Thursday morning. They had been following me. The man was calm, self-assured. He has done this before.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Ysabel.

  “A better question is, Who took her? My enemies or my friends?”

  “Hold on,” Spellman said. “You’re not suggesting this is our doing.”

  “Until the kidnappers contact me again I have no idea of their goal—to halt my participation in the coup, or to ensure it. If it is the latter, then you two are behind it.”

  “It’s not us,” Spellman replied. “You have to believe that.”

  “I do not have to believe anything. Whatever the truth, I blame you. Either you two are behind this or somehow your actions tipped off the opposition to my involvement. Let me be clear: If Aminat is not returned to me safe and unharmed, our partnership is finished. And if I find you were behind this, I will hunt the two of you down.”

  Seth said, “Rebaz, you can’t do this—”

  “I can and I will.”

  “We’ve worked too long for this. Three fucking years!”

  “All the more reason for you to take Aminat.”

  Seth turned away, paced in a small circle, then slammed his hand on the table. “You’re going to sacrifice the future of your country? You can’t be serious!”

  Medzhid’s hand lashed out, the palm landing squarely on Seth’s cheekbone. Seth stumbled sideways, then regained his balance. The bodyguard behind Medzhid stepped forward, hand reaching into his coat. Medzhid held up his hand and the man stopped.

  “Do I look serious to you, Mr. Gregory?”

  Rubbing his reddening cheek, Seth replied, “Yeah, you do. Okay, we’ll get her back. Just don’t start rolling back what we’ve got in place. Please, Rebaz.”

  “I’ll give you one week. And, you’ll return with proof you weren’t involved in it.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Jack answered for him: “You take her, then rescue her, and he’s in your debt.”

  “We wouldn’t do that,” said Spellman.

  “One week,” Medzhid repeated. “If you find her, give her this so she will know I sent you. It was her favorite childhood toy.” He tossed a red-and-yellow polka-dotted thimble on the table. “I will be in Baku. You know the place.”

  Medzhid turned and strode away with his bodyguards in tow. They disappeared through the door, and moments later Jack heard the car pulling away.

  Ysabel murmured, “Seth, what is wrong with you? How could you say that to him? That’s his daughter.”

  “No, it’s an entire fucking country,” Seth shot back. “This is the real world, Daddy’s Girl!”

  “You bastard!”

  Ysabel started toward him. Jack caught her elbow and pulled her back. “Leave it,” he whispered in her ear. “Let’s get some air.” Jack gently pushed her ahead of him, and they headed out the door. Jack said over his shoulder, “Seth, get yourself together. When I come back, you’re going to tell me everything or we’re gone.”

  • • •

  HE AND YSABEL walked around the clearing f
or a few minutes, Jack saying nothing as she cooled off. Abruptly, Ysabel said, “Follow me,” then strode over to the fire tower and started scaling the ladder.

  “Ysabel . . .”

  “Come on.”

  Jack started after her. At the top of the ladder he climbed through the open hatch and found Ysabel sitting at the edge of the platform, her legs dangling over the edge, her forehead resting against the waist-high handrail. Jack sat beside her.

  “That’s not the Seth I know,” she said.

  “Me neither.”

  “What’s happened to him? Do you think he took the girl? Could he have done that?”

  Jack wanted to reply, “No way,” but now he wasn’t sure. “On the upside,” he said, “we’ve got a clearer picture of the field now.”

  Ysabel nodded. “Thanks for what you said in there—that you trusted me. It means a lot to me.”

  “You’re not a daddy’s girl. You’ve proven that.”

  Ysabel curled her arm through his and laid her head against this shoulder. “It’s cold.”

  Jack almost said, “Then let’s go inside,” but he stopped himself. “We’ll sit here for a bit.”

  • • •

  JACK PUT HER in the car with the heater running, then returned to the hut, where Spellman and Seth were huddled together at the workbench, whispering.

  “Matt, give us a few minutes, will you?” said Jack.

  “Sure.”

  Once Spellman was gone, Jack said, “That was a shitty thing to say, Seth.”

  “She doesn’t get it, Jack. We’ve got a chance to pry Dagestan out of Volodin’s grip and Medzhid’s going to throw it away for one person.”

  “His daughter.”

  “I thought he was tougher than that.”

  “You’re going to apologize to Ysabel.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You have no idea what she’s gone through to stand by you, Seth. Make it right with her.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “I meant what I said, about leaving, so you’d better start talking.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “How about, why didn’t you just tell me what was going on when we met at Chaibar? Why the mysterious key crap?”

  “I didn’t have the time and it would have been a long damned conversation. I knew you’d go to the apartment. I knew you’d figure out the steak thing. I just didn’t think Wellesley would move on you—or at least that fast. Was it bad?”

  “I woke up on a tarp. You figure it out.”

  Seth said nothing. No apology, no remorse. Then he asked, “How did you meet Wellesley?”

  “He came to my hotel, then later he and Spellman laid it out for me: You’ve turned and you’ve gone to ground with the operational funds.”

  “The first one isn’t true. The last two are, but I had good reason. See, I started to get suspicious about Wellesley. Moves I was making in Makhachkala were getting countered. Assets were disappearing, getting run over by cars . . . Matt and I decided to feed Wellesley something that looked juicy, but was actually trivial. Two days later we got a reaction.”

  “What kind of reaction?”

  “One of my people there, a hacker, went missing.”

  “You burned some kid just to flush Wellesley?”

  “Ah, Christ, Jack, not you, too. When are you going to get it through your skull? Shit happens. The point is, after that happened we were pretty sure Wellesley’s gone over.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Well, we’re sure now.”

  “Why haven’t you gone to Langley about all this?”

  “Because they’d pull the plug,” Seth replied. “I can’t let that happen. I can work around Wellesley. I can still pull it off.”

  Jack suddenly realized the truth of what he and Ysabel had been going through. “You’ve been using us as stalking horses,” he murmured. “You sons of bitches.”

  “We figured if you poked the hornets’ nest enough Wellesley would make a mistake. He’s just that cocky. Now we’ve got his number, and that he and Pechkin are in it together. We can turn that to our advantage.”

  “Wellesley knows that we know, Seth. If he hasn’t already heard about the farmhouse, he will soon.”

  Seth scratched his head. “You’re right. Oh, well, doesn’t matter.”

  Of course it matters, Jack thought. Seth had tunnel vision. Not only was this not the friend he knew, but it was a Seth he never imagined could exist: cold-blooded, driven, reckless. This couldn’t be just about making sure a coup succeeded, could it?

  Rather than push this question, Jack asked instead, “Why did Wellesley turn?”

  From the doorway, Spellman said, “Differing political agendas.” He walked over and leaned his elbows on the workbench. “First thing you have to know, Jack, is that we think Wellesley’s just following orders.”

  “Explain that.”

  “We—the U.S.—think Volodin is spread too thin, literally and figuratively. After Ukraine and Crimea and the never-ending Chechnya mess, his political base in Moscow has weakened. If we ever had a chance to pull one of the republics free, it’s now. And believe me, Dagestan wants independence. You won’t see that on the news, but it’s the truth.”

  Seth added, “Dagestan breaking away may spark a Caucasian Spring. Other republics will follow, and the more democracies bordering Russia, the better.”

  “And the Brits disagree?” replied Jack. “They think Volodin will invade and the region will plunge into chaos.”

  “Maybe,” Spellman said. “Officially, we’re all on the same page when it comes to Russia. But if not, they can’t openly oppose us; we’re bosom buddies, their closest ally. So they joined the op and put Wellesley in place so he could work it from the inside.”

  The scenario sounded plausible, but Jack had a hard time believing the United States’ closest ally would go as far as partnering with the Russian SVR.

  “Wellesley could have gone rogue.”

  “Also possible,” Spellman replied. “Wouldn’t be the first time a field operator made his or her own national policy.”

  “You’ve got proof that he’s turned. Lay it out for your bosses.”

  “The man’s a legend. He’s got more intelligence decorations than my shoes have eyelets. Hell, rumor is he’s in line for the OBE when he retires,” Spellman said, referring to Officer of the Order of the British Empire. “His credibility is impeccable. Even if I can convince Langley to approach the SIS, by the time the smoke clears Wellesley’s reputation will win the day and Seth and I will be pulled out.”

  Which prediction of the coup’s outcome is correct, Jack wondered, the Brits’ or the United States’? Jack didn’t know the answer, but he agreed with the theory behind boxing in Valeri Volodin. The man might lose his grip on the government and get pushed out in favor of a moderate. But, as Medzhid had said, would Dagestan get squashed in the process? Volodin wouldn’t take kindly to the idea of losing his only two republics along the oil-rich Caspian Sea, and he didn’t give a damn what Dagestan’s citizens wanted.

  Plus, since Napoleon had invaded Russia, Moscow had always preferred having a buffer of satellite countries. In that respect, Volodin was cut from the same cloth as Joseph Stalin.

  Seth went on: “And Wellesley’s ahead of us, the bastard. He has been for a while. I know we can still make it work, though.”

  Jack asked, “Did you two kidnap Medzhid’s daughter?”

  Seth’s head snapped up and he locked eyes with Jack. “No. On our friendship, we didn’t take her.”

  Jack believed him. “Then it’s the SVR.”

  “Or a Federation-friendly group in Dagestan,” replied Spellman. “There are a few of them, though none of them naturally occurring, if you get my meaning.”

  “Seth, this isn’t just a
bout the coup, is it?” said Jack. “You fed some poor guy to the opposition as an experiment; you served up Ysabel and me to Wellesley. Hell, you even missed seeing that one of your agents was SVR. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Seth frowned and shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Spellman said, “Bullshit, Seth. Clearly you and Jack go back a long way. Is he right?”

  Seth said nothing.

  “God damn it, answer me!” said Spellman.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “One of Wellesley’s favorite words,” Jack observed.

  “You’re not going to like this, either of you.”

  Spellman said, “Out with it, or I’m sending you home.”

  “Fine. Jack, you know about my dad . . . the stroke. It wasn’t a stroke. He killed himself, shot himself in his study. His brains were all over the fucking wall. Mom found him.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “Shame . . . anger. He wasn’t with the Department of Agriculture, Jack. He was CIA. They drummed him out—after twenty-two years of service.”

  Spellman replied, “Wellesley said something about the apple tree. Is that what he meant?”

  “I guess. Langley thought my dad had turned traitor, gone over to the Soviets. This was before the collapse. A document went missing from my dad’s group and ended up in Moscow.”

  “Document,” Jack repeated. “Was that the one I found in your safe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What is it?”

  “For lack of a better term, it’s my dad’s coup manual for Armenia. He ran this group for Intelligence Directorate dedicated to drawing up plans and contingencies. They were behind Guatemala, Congo, Brazil, Chile—all of those.”

  “Wait a sec,” said Spellman. “I heard about them. I thought it was urban legend. They were called ‘the golden boys,’ as I recall.”

  “They were real. Langley disbanded them in 1974.”

  “Why?” asked Jack.

  “Dad had been pushing for a coup in Armenia for nine or ten years. His bosses kept shooting him down, saying South and Central America were the safe bets. Armenia was too risky, too close to the Soviet Union. When they went after Argentina in ’seventy-three, they said my dad went off the deep end and tried to sabotage the coup out of frustration or a misguided attempt to get them to listen about Armenia. It’s all bullshit. Then they found what they claimed was evidence, that he leaked plans for Turkey and Nicaragua—and Armenia—to the KGB.”