Under Fire

by Tom Clancy

  “You’ve already sent the video?” Jack said.

  “Yes, to Ysabel,” said Gavin.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to be able to physically reunite Rebaz Medzhid and his daughter before the deadline expired, Jack had tacked onto Helen’s video confession a personal message from Aminat.

  “What about the second one?” he asked.

  Of her own volition Helen had made a second video, this one addressed to her “broker,” a man named Dobromir, who had for the last decade negotiated and coordinated her jobs. He would, if shown the video, help Jack track down Pechkin.

  “I’m not sure I buy it,” said Gerry.

  “Dying declaration,” Jack replied. He actually understood Helen’s motivation: The SVR man not only had hired her under false pretenses, but also had asked her to do something that went against her own sense of—warped though it was—professionalism.

  Clark said, “I’m with Jack. She offed one of her own men, for Christ’s sake. Besides, Pechkin could be so deep into Seth’s plan that it’s already scuttled. Better to know that now.”

  “All right,” Gerry said. “Gavin, dig into this Dobromir. You did good, Jack. You got the girl out safe. And yourself.”

  “I got shot in the ass, Gerry.”

  Clark said, “Better that than in the head.”

  “True. Anything on the news about the cottage?”

  “For twenty minutes after you left, the police bands were going nuts, then they went silent.”

  “A triple murder in a sleepy seaside resort tends to have that effect,” Clark observed. “Jack, did you get out clean?”

  “If anyone saw us running, it was our backs, not our faces. As long as we’re not around when the police expand their canvass up here, we’ll be okay.”

  “Get some sleep. Cavalry’s coming.”

  • • •

  THOUGH THE MAN wasn’t one for small talk, when he did speak, he seemed friendly enough. His accent was British, somewhere in the Midlands.

  He tossed a bag of spare clothes on the dresser and then, with Aminat watching from the chair in the corner, had Jack lie on the bed, belly-down. He examined the bullet wound, proclaimed it “a doddle,” then jabbed a needle full of lidocaine into the area around it.

  “We’ll give that a few minutes to set in,” the man said.

  “This is awkward,” Jack said.

  “Could be worse. Could’ve gone straight up your arse.”

  Aminat let out a blurt of laughter, then whispered, “Sorry.”

  Jack said to him, “Do I have you to thank for the Walther?”

  “You have Mr. Clark to thank. Worked okay for you, did it? Good weapon, the Walther.”

  It was an odd question. On one hand, he’d used it to kill two people who were trying to kill them; on the other, he’d killed two people with it. This was something he doubted he’d ever get used to.

  “Everything’s relative,” Jack replied.

  “A truer word never spoken. It’d probably be best if I take it with me, yeah? Unless you’ve got plans for it, that is.”

  “Take it.”

  “Your car, too. Saw it on the way in. The cops haven’t gotten to it, but they will. Right, then: You should be nice and numb now. Hey you, girl—”

  “Amy.”

  “There’s a bottle of Keflex in that bag. Make sure he takes them, yeah, or he could be oozing pus down his leg by morning.”

  “Eww . . . gross.”

  He returned his attention to Jack’s wound. “Okay, go ahead and cry like a bitch if this hurts.”

  “Get on with it.”

  The man put a flashlight between his teeth and aimed it at Jack’s hip. “First we clean it, then forceps and red-hot screwdriver. Kidding, mate, just kidding.”

  Baku

  EVEN TWO HUNDRED MILES from his own capital in a foreign country, Rebaz Medzhid had horsepower. Clearly, Jack thought, reports of Dagestan and Azerbaijan’s lukewarm relationship were mistaken. Gerry Hendley had handled the first leg of Jack and Aminat’s flight, from Glasgow to Heathrow and then to Istanbul, where Medzhid’s private plane, an aging Learjet, took them the rest of the way to Baku.

  They were met by Seth, Spellman, and one of Medzhid’s bodyguards on the tarmac outside the fenced charter terminal. As one of the bodyguards ushered Aminat into the car, Jack asked, “Where’s Ysabel?”

  “Back at our motel. She wants to see you,” said Seth. “Hey, Jack, you dog, what’s going on with you two, anyway?”

  Jack ignored him.

  • • •

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER they reached Medzhid’s hotel, the Four Seasons at the base of Baku Bay. The minister was waiting when the elevator doors parted on the penthouse level.

  “My girl!” Medzhid cried, running toward her. He wrapped her in a bear hug and they remained like that, Aminat crying in his arms, for a full minute.

  When they parted Jack could see Medzhid’s eyes were wet. This was a wholly different man from the one who’d slapped Seth back at the forestry camp.

  “Where is he?” Medzhid said, looking around.

  “He means you, Jack,” said Spellman, stepping aside.

  Jack limped forward. With the bullet out, the pain in his hip had lessened enough that the codeine cut the pain to almost nothing. Clark’s Hereford friend had recommended a cane for a week or so. Jack said no.

  Medzhid extended his hand and Jack took it.

  “Thank you, Jack, thank you for bringing my girl home. You are a man I can trust, I see that now.” He turned and nodded in turn at Seth and Spellman. “And you as well.”

  Aminat came forward and hugged Jack, her head pressed hard against his chest. “Thank you for coming for me, Jack.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied. “I’m sorry about Steven.”

  “When I get back to Edinburgh, I will call his family. Don’t forget to take your antibiotics and to change your dressing.”

  “Aminat,” said Medzhid, “go call your mother and tell her you are safe.”

  Aminat pulled away and went through the penthouse’s door.

  “Come in, gentlemen. We have a lot to discuss.”

  • • •

  WHILE THEIR BOSS settled Aminat into one of the back bedrooms, the bodyguards served Jack and others tea from a silver samovar. Once done, they stepped left, to take up their posts, Jack assumed. Medzhid’s suite was expansive and bright white, from the carpet to the draperies.

  “Wow, I should’ve brought my sunglasses,” Seth remarked.

  Jack said nothing.

  “Come on, Jack, that’s funny. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Before Jack could respond, Medzhid emerged from the hallway and joined them in the seating area. He poured himself a cup of tea, then leaned back in the couch.

  “I saw the video. That woman is dead, yes? I should have had you bring her to me alive.” He drew his thumb across his throat. “Her head . . . off.”

  Jack said nothing. Though he’d probably feel the same hatred if his own daughter was kidnapped, beheading was a vengeance too far for Jack. Then again, it was going to take a strong and brutal man to wrest his country free of Valeri Volodin, and Medzhid seemed to fit the bill.

  Still, Jack wasn’t sure whether he trusted Medzhid. For starters, he doubted the man’s Learjet was government-issue. How does someone who makes the equivalent of $30,000 afford that?

  Jack wasn’t about to further implicate himself or Ysabel in what had happened at the cottage. It was the kind of leverage Medzhid might use to his advantage.

  “Did she give you any information on who hired her?” Medzhid asked.

  “No,” Jack lied. For now he’d keep to himself their lead on Dobromir the broker.

  “And what happened to the other ones?” the minister asked. “They are also dead?”

&
nbsp; “Don’t worry about them. Worry about Steven Bagley’s family.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s a friend of your daughter’s. He tried to stop them from taking her. He’s dead.”

  “That is very sad. But Aminat will get over it. To business: I had planned to be back in Makhachkala by this evening, but that’s now impossible.”

  “Why?” asked Spellman.

  “Four of my district commanders are being . . . fussy. They control the Rutulsky, Akhtynsky, Tlyaratinsky, and Suleyman–Stalsky areas along our border with Azerbaijan.”

  “What do you mean, ‘fussy’?”

  “They want more prestigious positions in the new government. Believe it or not, they are actually good, loyal men.”

  “Clearly, we have different definitions of those terms,” Jack observed.

  “It’s the way of things in my country: If I accede to their demands, I appear weak and they may not follow me when the time comes. If I try to cross in either of their districts, there will be a confrontation. I will win, of course, but they will have lost face and, again, they may not follow me when the time comes. Better to avoid the whole business. Everyone involved will pretend like it never happened. Once I am back in Makhachkala I will assure them their loyalty will be rewarded. That will suffice.”

  “What’s to say they won’t up the ante when things get rolling?”

  “Because I will have my own people in place down there,” Medzhid said with a grim smile.

  “This is just fucking great,” Seth growled.

  “Have faith, Mr. Gregory.”

  “Forget them. We don’t need ’em.”

  “We do. When the coup begins there will be chaos and our Azerbaijani friends will get nervous about spillover. Having the border districts firmly under our control will reassure them. They will stand with us against Volodin, at least politically.”

  “Why don’t we just use the Parsabad–Artezian? They might not have railroads covered, especially that one.”

  “They will, trust me.”

  “Then get aboard your damned jet and just fly to Makhachkala.”

  Medzhid snorted. “A plane. The man wants me to get a plane.”

  “So what?”

  Spellman answered. “Seth, think it through: You said yourself Wellesley and Pechkin are ahead of us. Who knows how far, or what resources they’ve got. For all we know they’ve got operators on the ground. We can’t put the linchpin of our plan on a plane and send him into Dagestani airspace.”

  “Shit, you’re right.”

  Medzhid said, “Forget it, my friend. You just need some sleep.” He needs more than that, Jack thought.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ve only got one option if we’re going to get back into the country: go through Georgia.”

  • • •

  LEAVING SETH AND SPELLMAN with Medzhid, Jack took a taxi to the Mirabat Hotel, which he found overlooking a tire factory and what looked like an abandoned water-slide park.

  He’d rapped only once on Ysabel’s door when it jerked open. She stood on the threshold for a moment, then smiled and rushed him. They hugged for a bit, then she pulled away, took his hand, and led him into the room.

  “I’m so glad you’re back,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Matt told me you were shot. In the butt.”

  “Hip, actually,” Jack replied.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not as much anymore.”

  “You’d better let me take a look at it,” she said.

  “It’s fine, Ysabel. It’s all stitched up and—”

  “Jack, you’re not very good at hints, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Hints.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  • • •

  AFTERWARD, they lay together, Jack dozing in and out, Ysabel’s head resting on his chest.

  “I feel a bit shameless,” she whispered.

  Jack chuckled. “You are direct, no doubt about it.”

  “You don’t like that?”

  “I like it. As long as this isn’t a case of combat bonding.”

  “I don’t know what that is,” she replied.

  “When soldiers share hardships for a while, they form strong ties. Nothing like having bad guys trying to kill you to solidify friendship.”

  Ysabel sat up on her elbow and looked him in the eye. “Do you really think that’s all this is?”

  “No, I don’t. I shouldn’t have said it.”

  “You’re right, you shouldn’t have. Jack, what are we going to do about Seth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s unstable. I don’t particularly like what he’s become, but I still care about him, and I know you do, too. He’s almost . . .”

  “Self-destructive. The thought has crossed my mind. There’s not much we can do except watch him, try to keep him from slipping any deeper.”

  She switched gears back to her buoyant self. “I’m hungry. Do you think they have room service?”

  • • •

  THEY DIDN’T, and given Ysabel’s report of cockroaches, Jack was glad for it. They were heading out the door to find a restaurant when Seth texted: WE’RE BACK. ROOM 204.

  They walked down the hallway and knocked on Seth’s door. Spellman opened it and ushered them inside. Seth was sitting at a table beneath the window, writing on a legal pad.

  “You’ve really put us in it, Jack. You have any idea what a mess Georgia is?”

  “Some. You have a better plan?”

  Spellman answered, “No. We’ve got bigger problems anyway. Wellesley’s in the wind. His cell phone’s disconnected and the Zafaraniyeh apartment has been cleaned out. We have to assume he and Pechkin are on the move together.”

  “To Makhachkala,” Jack said, thinking.

  Seth waved his hand dismissively. “Doesn’t matter. Dagestanskaia Pravda broke a story this morning—it claims Medzhid was involved in the Dagestan massacre.”

  Jack knew of this, and had seen the videos, something he regretted.

  In 1999 a Chechen force of fifty rebels crossed into Dagestan and attacked a small village, which was guarded by twenty-two Russian conscripts; of these, all but nine ran away. All of those who stayed were beheaded by the rebels.

  “Involved how?” asked Jack.

  “Medzhid was the area’s district deputy commander then. He chased down some of the rebels—about fifteen—before they got back across the border. Medzhid’s team cornered them in an old mosque in Almak. There was a gunfight, and a fire broke out. All of the rebels were killed.”

  “The problem is,” Spellman went on, “a man from Medzhid’s team just came forward claiming it wasn’t rebels inside the mosque, but civilians taking shelter from the battle. He says Medzhid firebombed the mosque and that when he discovered the civilians inside, he covered it up.”

  Jack asked the obvious question: “Is it true?”

  “Of course not. In fact, according to Medzhid, no one from his team is still alive; most of them died in the fighting around Karamakhi.”

  Convenient, Jack thought. Whether for Medzhid or the opposition he didn’t know.

  “This is Pechkin and Wellesley,” said Seth. “Yes, there was a gunfight, and a fire, but it was only rebels inside.”

  “We need to get Medzhid back to the capital so he can get in front of the story,” said Spellman. “If it’s not already too late.”

  Tbilisi

  WHATEVER THE TRUTH about Medzhid’s involvement in the Almak incident, the man had clearly parlayed his current position into a friendship with Dagestan’s neighbor to the southwest, Georgia—or at least with the government in Tbilisi. On that count Seth had been right.

  Led by Medzhid, Jack and the others stepped down the Learjet steps to the tarma
c below, where a trio of olive-drab pickup trucks with black push bumpers and black roll cages over the beds were waiting. Each truck’s bed held six armed soldiers in camouflage and gray berets. None of them gave Jack’s group a second glance, instead facing away and scanning the airport’s perimeter. Special Forces, Jack guessed.

  A man in a navy blue suit walked up to Medzhid. “Minister Medzhid, welcome to Tbilisi. General Zumadze is waiting for you. If you’ll follow me . . .”

  The man led them to a Soviet-era ZiL limousine and soon they were heading toward a hangar on the other side of the tarmac. The ZiL pulled through the hangar’s doors and braked to a stop beside a glassed-in office.

  Through the ZiL’s rear window Jack saw the Special Forces Brigade trucks take up station outside. Beside him, Ysabel whispered, “Are we guests or prisoners?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Jack replied.

  They got out and followed Medzhid into the office, where a stocky man in a charcoal military uniform was waiting. “General Zumadze,” Medzhid said, “thank you for your hospitality.”

  The two men embraced and exchanged double cheek kisses.

  Medzhid didn’t introduce Jack and the others, and General Zumadze paid them no notice.

  “Our pleasure,” said Zumadze. “My deputy has shared with me your problem. Terrible when you cannot trust your own comrades.”

  Medzhid chuckled. “I trust them. Just not right now; we’ll come to an arrangement. Can you get us across the border?”

  “Quickly or safely?”

  “The former. And it has to be away from my border districts.”

  “I can get you close to the border, but we are having problems with a new Ossetian separatist group—the Ossetian Freedom Brigade—in that particular area. Here, let me show you.”

  Medzhid and Zumadze walked to a gray steel desk and leaned over a map; Zumadze tapped a spot on it. “Omalo. It’s a village in the Tusheti National Park. The OFB has been attacking convoys and stations on GMR East between there and the border.”