Under Fire

by Tom Clancy

  “My guess is money. Osin’s car and apartment are too nice for a captain’s salary.”

  “Was he working with any of your other politsiya?”

  “No—and that much I am confident of.”

  “So,” Jack said, “where does this leave us?”

  “It leaves me facing dozens of hours of paperwork and an internal investigation that I’ll have to submit to Minister Medzhid. As for you two, you are free to go.”

  Buynaksk

  UNSURPRISINGLY, Umarov had refused to release Dobromir’s Volga to them, but he was kind enough to give them a ride to Khasavyurt’s only rental-car agency, where they rented a 1992 Opel, which got them back to Buynaksk shortly after midnight. Jack drove around until he found a motel with wireless Internet, then got them a room. He wasn’t yet ready to go into Makhachkala, not until they could sort friend from foe—or at least had a plan to do that.

  While Ysabel went to shower, he called Hendley and got Gerry and John Clark on the line. He recounted their visit with Dobromir, the police raid, and their brief imprisonment.

  “Well, the tip-off sure as hell didn’t come from our end,” said John Clark. “So unless this Dobromir guy burned you—”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Or he did and it backfired and then Osin killed him by accident.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then, yeah, it’s gotta be Medzhid, Seth, or Spellman.”

  “Or one of Medzhid’s bodyguards,” said Gerry. “Do you have their names?”

  “Just Vasim and Anton, no surnames. Actually, I think we can cross Medzhid off our list. He could have ordered Umarov to hold us, or worse. He didn’t.”

  “You might be right, but that’s not proof positive,” said Clark. “Medzhid may want you in Makhachkala.”

  “John, he’s got more to lose than anyone else.”

  “You gotta stop thinking logically about this,” said Gerry. “A man like Medzhid doesn’t get to where he is by being transparent. His kind always have agendas within agendas.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Jack: Medzhid had left Aminat in the Four Seasons Baku under the protection of two bodyguards.

  “I’ll call you right back,” he said.

  He disconnected, looked up the hotel’s number, then dialed it. When the operator answered, he asked for the penthouse suite. After the tenth ring the operator came back on the line. “My apologies, sir. I actually show those guests as checked out.”

  “When?”

  “Late last night.”

  Jack hung up and called Hendley back. “Aminat’s gone.”

  “Don’t hit the panic button, Jack,” Clark said. “Medzhid might have moved her.”

  “Man, I hate this shit,” Jack said. “I can see why Seth’s dad lost it.”

  Gavin said, “I heard by the time he died Kim Philby was eating his own hair and dressing up as Napoleon.”

  “Urban legend,” Gerry said. “Jack, you don’t have to like it, you just have to do it.”

  Clark replied, “Hijacking a Navy SEAL aphorism, boss? I’m surprised at you.”

  Jack said, “Focus, guys. Gavin, I’ve got a couple telephone numbers I want you to run down: the contact number Dobromir had for Pechkin and the one Captain Osin was supposed to call after the raid.”

  “Will do.”

  Clark said, “Jack, first things first: For the time being, you have to forget about Aminat.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “Even if they took her again, she’s just a symptom. You need to find the disease.”

  Find out who’s not what they claim to be, Jack thought.

  • • •

  THEY LEFT BUYNAKSK the next morning for the hour-long drive into Makhachkala.

  Ten miles outside the capital, Jack saw through the windshield a thin column of smoke rising from the city center.

  “Oh, no,” Ysabel said. “Has it started already?”

  Jack pulled onto the shoulder and texted Gavin: FIRES IN MAKHACHKALA. NEWS?

  His phone rang a minute later. It was Clark. “We were just going to call you. BBC is reporting mobs in the street. Hundreds of them, maybe more.”

  “Seth’s pulled the trigger early.”

  “No, Jack. These are anti-Medzhid protesters. They’ve set up camp outside the MOI headquarters.”

  • • •

  THEY DETOURED SLIGHTLY SOUTH, then west to Turali, a suburb about three miles down the coast from Makhachkala proper. Jack found a public parking lot above the beach, parked, then texted Seth: IN TURALI. WHERE YOU?

  The response came immediately. DOWNTOWN, TWO BLOCKS FROM MINISTRY.

  BAD?

  VERY BAD, Seth replied. FIND ANYTHING IN KHASAVYURT?

  Jack hesitated and glanced at Ysabel, who shook her head. DRY WELL, he replied.

  THERE’S A RESERVOIR A MILE NORTH OF YOU. ONE BLOCK EAST THERE’S A TRAIN DEPOT. MEET YOU THERE.

  • • •

  WHEN THEY REACHED the depot, Seth waved to them from the open driver’s window of a black Chevy Suburban. Jack assumed it was up-armored.

  “Nice car,” Ysabel whispered to Jack. “Do they import Suburbans here?”

  “No. At least not to the general public.”

  “A private jet, a Suburban . . . Must be nice to be Minister Medzhid.”

  She rolled down her window. The stench of burning rubber filled the Opel’s interior.

  Seth said, “You’d better leave that here.”

  “We’ll keep it for now,” replied Jack. “We’ll follow you.”

  “Suit yourself. When we get downtown, whatever you do, don’t get out of your car. And drive slowly. If you hit someone, the mob will turtle that thing.”

  • • •

  SETH LED THEM up the coast road for fifteen minutes before turning west toward Makhachkala’s center. The plume of smoke Jack had spotted earlier grew larger through the windshield. Through their half-open windows they began to hear chanting in Russian. Seth turned left, then braked hard, as did Jack. The block was filled with protesters milling about, some holding signs written in Cyrillic, others pumping their fists in time with the chanting.

  “Windows up,” Jack said. “Lock your door.”

  Seth’s Suburban crept into the crowd and was immediately swallowed by the throng. Moments later, so was the Opel. Fists began pounding on the roof and hood, palms slapping at the windows. A man’s face pressed against Ysabel’s window, shouting, spittle flying from his lips.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Ysabel murmured.

  Jack couldn’t help but smile. “Look straight ahead.”

  The Opel started rocking from side to side, the engine revving as the drive wheels came off the ground. Jack honked the horn and the Opel’s tires thumped back onto the pavement.

  Jack’s phone trilled. “Yeah, Seth.”

  “If you get stopped, stay in your car. We’ll come get you.”

  With his foot barely touching the gas pedal, Jack kept the Opel moving forward.

  • • •

  AFTER WHAT FELT like an hour but was only ten minutes, they emerged from the mass of protesters and found themselves on a street bordered by imposing gray buildings fronted by tall columns. To the right the sidewalk was lined with people sitting quietly, holding hand-painted signs aloft. Heads turned, sullen eyes tracking the Opel, but no one shouted or even gestured.

  Seth texted, MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR ON THE RIGHT.

  Ysabel asked Jack, “Why the difference? One block is chaos, the next peaceful. And no police anywhere.”

  “I have no idea.”

  After another two blocks and three more turns Seth pulled the Suburban up to a gated parking garage entrance. He rolled down his window, said something to the man in the tollbooth, then gestured to the Opel. The gate lifted a
nd they pulled through.

  On the sixth level, they went through another gate, then parked in a pair of spots. A sign above each one bore the yellow double eagle-head emblem of the Ministry of the Interior.

  They got out and followed Seth to a bank of elevators, where he swiped a key card through a slot on the wall.

  “What is this place?” asked Ysabel.

  “Tortoreto Towers. Medzhid’s private apartment,” Seth said, as the elevator doors parted.

  • • •

  WHEN THE DOORS OPENED, Jack found himself in a foyer with mirrored walls and a brown tiled floor. Vasim and Anton, Medzhid’s primary bodyguards, nodded at Seth but paid Jack and Ysabel no attention. Anton opened the apartment door.

  The interior wasn’t much different from Medzhid’s suite at the Four Seasons Baku, though larger and with windows that spanned the length of the space, through which Jack could see the blue waters of the Caspian Sea. At the far end, two women in light blue pantsuits sat at a long conference table, phones pressed to their ears. Mounted on the wall above them were three forty-two-inch LCD televisions.

  “Jack . . . Ysabel,” Medzhid called from a sectional couch in the center of the room. He was seated on a stool with a nylon cape draped around his torso. A woman holding a pair of scissors stood behind him.

  Medzhid stood up, shrugged off the cape, and walked over to them, hand extended. “So glad you are back safe. Did Major Umarov mistreat you?”

  “Not at all,” Jack replied.

  “What was this business about the shooting?”

  “Someone laid a trap for us. They didn’t want us talking to Dobromir.”

  Jack studied the minister’s face for a reaction, but he merely nodded and said, “That’s unfortunate. Have you found out who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Keep me informed. Seth will show you to your rooms.”

  “Just one more thing—in private. I need to talk to you in private.”

  “Of course. Seth, do you mind . . .”

  “Uh, sure.” Seth walked away.

  Jack whispered to Medzhid, “Where’s Aminat?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “She checked out of the Four Seasons Baku the night after we left for Tbilisi.”

  “I know. I moved her to another location. She is safe, Jack.”

  “Who’s she with? Do you trust them?”

  “With my life.”

  “Vasim and Anton?”

  “All of them. They’ve been with me for many years.”

  Meaningless, Jack thought.

  He’d known Seth for decades and Spellman was a fellow American, one of the good guys, and yet they were two of the five people who might have set up him and Ysabel.

  Medzhid smiled and clapped him on the arm. “It is kind of you to worry after her, Jack, but all is well.”

  “Glad to hear it. I need a favor: Can you get Major Umarov to sit on the shooting story for a few days?”

  “I doubt I’ll have to ask. Until he completes his internal investigation, he’ll say nothing. Besides, Khasavyurt has no newspapers or television stations. Now, have something to eat and drink. We will talk later.” Medzhid turned toward the conference area and called, “Albina, have you reached Captain Salko yet?”

  “No, Mr. Minister.”

  “Tell his deputy I want the man on the phone in five minutes or I’m coming down there personally.”

  Jack and Ysabel followed Seth down a hallway to a mini-suite with a kitchenette, a sofa, and a chair. A blond-haired woman in a red miniskirt and a white blouse sat on the sofa, flipping through a magazine. She had impossibly large breasts.

  Seth said, “Give us a minute, will you?”

  The woman glared at him, then stood up, tossed the magazine aside, and sashayed away.

  “Another assistant?” asked Ysabel.

  “Not exactly,” Seth replied.

  “Mrs. Medzhid, then.”

  “Don’t get cute, Ysabel. We didn’t pick the man because he’s a saint. Rebaz and his wife have an understanding: she has her life and he has his. It works for them.”

  Spellman walked down the hall into the suite. “Hey, guys, how was Khasavyurt? Get anything useful?”

  Seth answered for Jack: “A dry well. Right, Jack?”

  “Yep. What’s going on outside the ministry? Why is it so peaceful?”

  “They’re obeying the law, believe it or not,” Spellman replied. “As long as they don’t damage property or assault anyone, they can actively protest anywhere but on blocks that house government buildings. There they have to mind their manners.”

  “A half-unruly mob. Strange place, Dagestan.”

  Seth gestured to a pair of doors on the other side of the suite. “Your bedrooms. Get settled and then I’ll bring you up to speed. Feel free to . . . consolidate, if you want. I’m cool with it.”

  Jack saw Ysabel’s expression change, and he could guess what it meant: Ysabel didn’t give a damn whether Seth was okay with “it.” To her credit, she simply replied, “Thanks.”

  Once Seth and Spellman were gone, Jack said, “Everyone seems way too chipper.”

  “And why wouldn’t they be, Jack? Part playboy mansion, part salon. What’s not to love?”

  And all while mobs are at the gates, he thought.

  Makhachkala

  AS HE HAD BEEN DOING for the past ten minutes, Jack watched Seth and Spellman talk to and over each other across the conference table, getting nowhere in the process. At the end of the table, Medzhid watched patiently, saying nothing.

  “No, no, no,” Seth said. “He needs to do more than give one damned speech.”

  “From the Ministry, Seth. Directly to the people.”

  “That’s a start, but we need him in every newspaper and on every radio and television station.”

  “But what’s the message?” asked Spellman. “How do you spin something like Almak when you’re being peppered by questions on live TV?”

  “First he flatly denies the allegations, then he reminds them of what started it. Show the pictures of the beheaded soldiers and their crying families. Hammer that until it’s the only thing people see in their heads.”

  Again Jack was stunned listening to this version of Seth Gregory. His PR suggestion was to use gore and despair to take attention away from the allegation. Sure, it would be effective, but it was ice-cold opportunism Jack had never seen in their twenty-plus-year friendship. Was this nature, nurture, or obsession? Or, Jack thought, am I just being naive? As Seth had said, the stakes here were massive.

  Seth went on: “Then he turns the focus to his brave team, now all dead, having sacrificed themselves to protect the homeland, and he will not stand by while their memories are sullied by a lie.”

  Medzhid said, “Which is the truth.”

  “All the better. That’s the message. We stay on it and never let up.”

  “Fine, but we’ve still got the Pravda story,” replied Spellman. “Right now people believe someone was at Almak and he saw the whole thing—civilians burning to death in a mosque. That’s a tough image to erase.”

  “Not if our imagery is stronger and our message is consistent.”

  Jack spoke up: “Who’s their source?”

  “That doesn’t matter—”

  Medzhid held up his hand for silence and then said, “What was that, Jack?”

  “Pravda got the story from someone. Who?”

  “I told you: They don’t have one,” replied Seth. “Or they got it from one of Medzhid’s team before he died.”

  “And they’ve been sitting on it all this time? Almak happened sixteen years ago. Rebaz, were you even on anyone’s political radar back then?”

  “No. I had no interest in politics. I wasn’t known outside my district.”

  “So so
meone at Pravda gets the story, decides the massacre of civilians in a place of worship isn’t newsworthy, and sets it aside.”

  “Yeah, Jack, we understand the timing of it,” said Seth. “It’s Wellesley and Pechkin’s opening salvo. But this is an opportunity for us. They’ve moved too quickly. Once we discredit this story, we push ahead.”

  Ysabel said, “Seth, you’re missing Jack’s point. Next to President Nabiyev, Medzhid is Dagestan’s most powerful politician—probably more so if you’re talking about popularity. Does Pravda really think Medzhid’s not going to come back hard at them? That he’s not going to demand they reveal their source?”

  “By law, they don’t have to do that,” said Spellman.

  “Actually, there is such a law,” Medzhid replied. “If the allegation involves a government official the media must name the source, in private, to a cabinet-level panel and the official has the right to question the witness. Jack’s right. Unless they want to be tarnished, Pravda must produce its witness. If the person is false, we can prove it; if they are genuine, I can prove they are lying.”

  “Could there be a witness?” asked Jack.

  “I was told all my team died in the war. I had no reason to doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Or there is no one,” Spellman said, “and Wellesley found a stand-in.”

  • • •

  WHILE MEDZHID recalled his team of assistants to the conference area and gave them their marching orders, Jack and Ysabel left the apartment. Seth caught up to them at the elevators.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Errands,” Ysabel replied.

  “Are you crazy? It’s nuts out there.”

  “We’ll avoid downtown,” said Jack.

  He turned to press the call button. Seth grabbed his arm. “Jack, what’re you holding back? Did you find something in Khasavyurt?”

  “Good question,” said Spellman, from the apartment’s doorway.

  “We may have something, but I’d rather run it down first.”

  “I’m starting to think you don’t trust us,” asked Seth. “Why the secrecy?”