Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  “Compartmentalization,” Jack replied.

  The doors opened and he and Ysabel stepped inside. After the doors closed she asked Jack, “Do we trust them? Any of them?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  “You’re smiling. What for?”

  “Nothing. Sleep deprivation. I just had the irrational impulse to tie them all to chairs until one of them starts talking.”

  • • •

  THEY TOOK the Opel north away from the parking garage, listening through their open windows as the protesters’ shouts slowly faded behind them.

  Out Jack’s window a tree-covered escarpment topped by a serrated ridge loomed over the city. This was, Seth had told them with a straight face, the eastern face of the Tarki-Tau range.

  Since hearing the name, Ysabel had been occasionally repeating it to herself, sotto voce, as though simply enjoying the sound of it.

  Jack couldn’t help smiling. Such an interesting woman.

  “If I ever get a dog, that’s what I’ll name him—Tarki-Tau.”

  “Not if I beat you to it.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  The slopes from which the escarpment rose formed a five-mile-long tadpole-shaped knoll, with the head facing north and the long tapered tail curving south and then west, where it merged with the next chain of hills.

  Jack found a café and pulled to the curb. On both sides of the streets pedestrians strolled the sidewalks, laughing and chatting. The traffic was heavy but orderly, with no honking of horns. It was as though the city was going about its normal business, save the few blocks surrounding the Ministry of the Interior.

  “Not exactly groundswell, is it?” Ysabel observed.

  “I agree. If this is the best Wellesley and Pechkin can do, the coup should go off without a hitch.”

  He pulled his phone from the Faraday bag and dialed Gavin, who looped Gerry and John Clark into the call. Jack brought them up to speed.

  “With any luck, we have some time before Wellesley and Pechkin know the ambush in Khasavyurt went wrong. Gavin, what’d you find out about those phone numbers?”

  “Both are landlines, but the addresses are unlisted—I mean really unlisted, as in buried. You can’t pull off something like that without horsepower.”

  Presidential horsepower.

  “Jack, we’ve decided it’s time you got some backup,” said Clark. “We’re sending Dom.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “He’s already on the plane. Tomorrow morning, Uytash Airport, Aeroflot flight 278.”

  Even as he’d said the words “don’t need,” Jack knew it wasn’t true. Having Dominic Caruso here would be a relief; partially because he was family—cousins—and partially because Dom was a solid operator.

  Gerry asked, “What’s your next move, Jack?”

  “I’m going to ask Raymond Wellesley to lunch.”

  • • •

  THEY DROVE PAST the address Dobromir had given them and found the apartment building, two stories, surrounded by trees and a six-foot red-brick wall. The only entrance, a private drive on Chirpoy Road, was blocked by a rolling gate. Beside this was a pole-mounted key-card box.

  “That doesn’t look like something built for the average Makhachkalan renter,” Ysabel said. “Where did Dobromir say he and Wellesley had lunch?”

  “On Nabetsky Street.”

  “Well, that’s about four blocks from here. We’ve definitely got the right place.”

  “Yes, but is this where Wellesley and Pechkin had set up shop?”

  • • •

  THEY RETURNED to the Tortoreto apartment to find it bustling with activity. At the conference table the number of assistants had doubled to four, all of them busy working the phones. Medzhid stood by the windows, talking to a uniformed man with black hair and long sideburns.

  Seth and Spellman walked up. “We’ve got trouble,” Seth said simply. “Medzhid’s—”

  “Who’s that guy?” Jack asked, nodding at Medzhid’s guest.

  “Captain Salko. He heads Medzhid’s ERF, the Emergency Response Force—essentially, the cream of the politsiya crop.”

  “Has something happened?” asked Ysabel.

  “Just playing the what-if game in case Nabiyev makes a bold move.”

  “What were you saying about Medzhid?” Jack said.

  “He’s been summoned by President Nabiyev. He wants to hear Medzhid’s side of the Almak story. We’re talking about possible responses.”

  “Well, he can’t refuse,” Ysabel said. “Unless you and Matt have everything ready to go, that is.”

  “We don’t,” Spellman replied.

  Jack thought for a moment. “The only move Medzhid has is to demand a hearing so he can confront Pravda’s witness. That might buy some time. Does he have enough cabinet-level allies to make it work?”

  “Maybe,” Seth replied. “Wellesley and Pechkin are behind this.”

  “Probably, but it’s also what the public would expect Nabiyev to do.”

  Too many moving parts, Jack thought. “There are three possibilities: Nabiyev ignores the objections of the cabinet and denies Medzhid’s petition; he either suspends Medzhid or leaves him in place until the panel reaches a decision; or he simply fires Medzhid and throws him in jail.”

  “If he does that, we’re screwed,” said Spellman. “It’ll take us at least a week to finish coordinating our own protests. And even then, with Medzhid off the field, we can’t be sure the politsiya district commanders will back a losing horse.”

  Seth said, “We need to hunt down Pravda’s witness before he can testify.”

  Ysabel’s eyes narrowed. “And do what to him?”

  “Jesus, Ysabel. Not what you’re thinking. The Almak massacre story is bullshit. Medzhid’s innocent. Either the witness is bogus and he wasn’t there or he was there and he’s been coerced into lying. Either way, we’ve got to get to him first.”

  Makhachkala

  JACK PULLED the Opel to the curb outside Uytash Airport’s arrivals and sat waiting for five minutes, nodding and smiling at the civilian security guard trying to wave them on, until Dominic Caruso came out the sliding doors, carrying a black duffel bag. Jack and Ysabel climbed out and met him at the rear hatch. Jack made the introductions.

  “So you’re Ysabel,” Dom said. “Heard a lot about you.”

  Ysabel glanced at Jack. “What have you—”

  “He’s kidding. Come on, let’s get moving before this guy calls the airport SWAT team on us.”

  • • •

  AS THEY EXITED the airport’s terminal road, Jack checked his watch. “He’s probably coming on,” he said. Ysabel turned on the radio and Rebaz Medzhid’s voice came over the car’s speakers.

  “. . . allegations are false, and I am outraged that the bravery and patriotism of the men under my command is being tarnished by such accusations. My director of personnel has discovered the name of Pravda’s alleged witness, a sergeant named Pavel Koikov, one of the finest I’ve had the pleasure to serve with and one of the most decorated members of the politsiya in the history of Dagestan. I fear that Sergeant Koikov is being coerced and may be in danger. If I find that either of these is true, the full weight of the Ministry of the Interior will fall upon those responsible.”

  Ysabel turned down the radio. “Well, he followed the script to the letter.”

  From the backseat, Dom asked, “This Koikov is the one from the Almak massacre?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smart move on Medzhid’s part. He’s upped the ante.”

  And put the opposition on notice, Jack thought. Now Wellesley and Pechkin could neither kill Koikov nor allow him to appear before the panel, lest the Pravda story fall apart. They’d painted themselves into a corner.

  “Now we just need to find him,” Jack replied.


  • • •

  JACK DROVE DOM to his motel, a three-star about three blocks from Medzhid’s private apartment. By mutual agreement, they’d decided to keep Dom’s presence in the capital from Seth and the others for the time being. This was probably overkill, but Jack had decided to be careful with what information he shared with whom, and when.

  The three of them got out and walked to Dom’s room.

  “I’m showering,” he announced. “I’ve got Aeroflot grime all over me. Hey, Jack, we’re gonna need hardware.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “And you’re going to need to bring me up to speed.”

  Jack pulled his phone from the Faraday bag and sat down on the bed.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jack?” asked Ysabel.

  “Not entirely, but Medzhid’s just increased the pressure. It’s time to turn it up another notch and see if we get a reaction.”

  Jack dialed Raymond Wellesley’s cell phone. The SIS man picked up on the second ring. “Jack Ryan, how good to hear from you. Are you well?”

  “Very. And yourself?”

  “Well, frankly, I’m a bit worried about you.”

  “Let’s get together and talk about it,” Jack replied. He was about to find out—maybe—if Wellesley knew where he was.

  “Good,” Wellesley said. “How about your hotel, that same coffee shop we met—”

  “How about Zolotoy on Petra Pervogo Street?”

  “I don’t know the place.”

  “I think you do, Raymond. I’ll see you at two o’clock.”

  Jack disconnected.

  Ysabel said, “There goes the gauntlet.”

  • • •

  HE AND YSABEL RETURNED to the Tortoreto. Seth, Spellman, and Medzhid were standing in the conference area, staring at the bank of televisions.

  Seth spotted them and walked over. “It’s working. The media’s banging the drum, asking where Pavel Koikov is and whether he is safe. Medzhid’s used it to delay his meeting with Nabiyev until the day after tomorrow.”

  “How did you find Koikov?”

  “He was reported as MIA, presumed dead. When he turned up alive a few days later outside Karamakhi, someone forgot to amend the report. According to his personnel file he’s in his mid-fifties and has liver trouble. Medzhid’s got a couple men sitting on his house. He hasn’t had any visitors.”

  “On the way here we passed the Ministry,” said Ysabel. “The crowds look smaller.”

  “Yeah, it’ll be all broken up by the end of the day, I’m sure. Whether it was all organic or something arranged by Wellesley and Pechkin, I don’t know.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Jack. “What if it was a trial balloon to gauge Medzhid’s reaction? To see what it will take to derail him?”

  Seth was nodding. “Or the coup itself. Very smart, Jack. Either way, we’ve got our timeline back. We finish getting the rest of the pieces in place and it’s a go.”

  “And while you’re doing that, so are Wellesley and Pechkin. Have you thought about that?” said Ysabel.

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your dad’s manual say?” The sarcasm was plain in Ysabel’s voice.

  “I’ve made some tweaks to it. It’s not your worry, anyway.”

  “I’m involved. It’s my worry.”

  Jack knew pushing the issue would get them nowhere. He intervened, saying, “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  The three of them walked down the hall to Jack and Ysabel’s mini-suite and sat down. Jack said, “We need some weapons. And a second car.”

  “Why?”

  “The city’s going to boil over when things get rolling. I don’t want us out there naked.”

  “You don’t need to be on the streets. We’ll sit it out here.”

  “You said yourself we need to find Koikov,” said Jack. “Wellesley might not kill him, but he’ll probably hide him away. Once Koikov’s safe, he can testify that he was coerced—and by whom. Besides, you don’t have the bodies to spare. Get us some weapons and we’ll find him.”

  Seth thought for a moment, then said, “Listen, I trust you guys, but something tells me it’s not mutual. Talk to me, Jack.”

  Jack decided they had nothing to lose by telling him the truth, or at least part of it. “We were ambushed in Khasavyurt. The man we met was killed by a politsiya captain who admitted he was tipped off by someone here.”

  “And the only people who knew you were going up there were me, Matt, and Medzhid. And his bodyguards. Okay, I get it. But it wasn’t me. Please believe me. What I did to you guys, using you as bait in Tehran, was wrong and I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do it again. Tell me you believe me.”

  The expression on Seth’s face was one Jack hadn’t seen since their lunch at Chaibar. This was the old Seth. “I believe you.”

  “Ysabel?”

  She sighed. “I believe you, too.”

  Jack said, “Somebody in your camp is playing for the other side, Seth, and until we figure out who, we need room to maneuver.”

  “Yeah, okay, I’ll get you weapons. Just don’t get yourself killed. Il Duce and Mrs. Il Duce would string me up.”

  • • •

  AFTER PICKING UP DOM they drove to Zolotoy restaurant, arriving forty minutes early for Jack’s lunch date with Wellesley. Jack and Ysabel parked the Opel in a lot a few blocks away, while Dom, behind the wheel of the Lada compact car Seth had arranged for them, started his scout of the area.

  From a duffel bag in the backseat Jack pulled out their weapons, a pair of Ruger nine-millimeter pistols in hip holsters. Dom had his own Ruger; the trio of Beretta ARX noise-suppressed assault rifles Seth had supplied were tucked under a blanket in the Lada’s trunk, along with three hundred rounds of ammunition. Seth hadn’t skimped.

  “I like my revolver better,” Ysabel said, turning the Ruger in her hand.

  “We’re beggars,” Jack replied.

  He checked his watch, then texted Gavin: SET?

  SET. FIRST CALL AT TWO-TEN, SECOND AT TWO-TWELVE.

  • • •

  AT ONE FORTY-FIVE they got out of the car. Ysabel kissed Jack and they parted company, her walking down the block, Jack toward the restaurant.

  Zolotoy was part Italian bistro, part Russian steak house. Jack stepped through the doors beneath a green awning and was met by a hostess.

  “Vy gavarite pa angliyski?” Jack asked.

  “Some, English, yes,” said the hostess.

  Jack asked for a table for two, and she led him to a small booth beside the windows. Dom was already in place, seated at a corner table reading Dagestanskaia Pravda. Absently Jack wondered if his friend even read Cyrillic. If not, he was putting on a decent show of it.

  The waiter appeared with glasses of ice water and a stainless-steel pitcher beaded with condensation. Jack placed his phone on the table. As he’d hoped, the restaurant’s lunch hour had passed and there were only six other patrons, only two of them close by.

  Jack’s phone vibrated. IN PLACE, Ysabel texted. I CAN SEE YOU. WAVE, HANDSOME.

  He suppressed a smile and touched his ear.

  At two exactly, Raymond Wellesley walked in and spoke briefly to the hostess, who showed him to the table. “Hello, Jack.”

  “Raymond.”

  A pair of men in black leather coats stepped through the restaurant door. Ignoring the hostess, they took a table ten feet behind Wellesley’s chair.

  Subtle, Jack thought.

  “Have you ordered?” Wellesley asked.

  “I thought I’d wait for you.”

  They stared at each other across the table, the SIS with a half-smile on his face, until the waiter had returned and taken their orders.

  “Cards on the table,” Jack said.

  “Agreed. Jack, what are you doi
ng here? You have no idea what you’ve got yourself involved in.”

  “I have some idea.”

  “I assume Seth and Matt are here as well?”

  “Not here, but around. Raymond, why are you trying to derail all this? The outcome will be good for everyone.”

  “Not if our Moscow friend does what we expect he’ll do.”

  “He won’t.” I hope, Jack thought but didn’t say.

  Wellesley shook his head sadly and chuckled. “American hubris. You never consider the potential blowback. I thought your father was smarter than this.”

  “I can’t speak for him, but you’re wrong. We’ve calculated the odds just as you guys have. It’s a gamble worth taking. And this is something the people here want.”

  “Want?” Wellesley repeated. “Desire can be manufactured. These people don’t know what they want until they’re told.”

  “You take a dim view of ‘these people.’ We don’t.”

  “That’s irrelevant. It will fail, what you have planned.”

  “I guess we’re going to find out.”

  Their food arrived. Once the waiter finished arranging the dishes and was gone Jack said, “That was some cold business back in Tehran. Luckily for him, Scott Hilby never knew what hit him. What was it, you were afraid he might talk to me?”

  Wellesley said, “Jack, are you trying to play James Bond again? You’re hoping to get a recorded confession for something I wasn’t involved in?”

  Jack pushed his phone across the table to Wellesley. The phone’s screen read 2:09. “Check for yourself.”

  Wellesley waved his hand dismissively. “You’re smarter than that. By the way, does your father know you’re not a . . . Remind me of your title again. Arbitrage specialist?”

  Jack glanced at his watch: 2:10. No call. Come on, Gavin, give me something.

  Jack didn’t respond to Wellesley’s question, but instead asked his own: “You haven’t heard from David Weaver, have you?”

  He saw a flicker of doubt in Wellesley’s eyes. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “He knows who you are. Apparently, he and Hilby were close. You ordering him to blow off the top of Hilby’s head is eating him up inside.”