by Tom Clancy
“We’ve got the son of a bitch,” said Spellman. “That’s the link we needed.”
“Not quite. We have to find Pechkin’s number on one of their cell phones, or in their call history. Without that, Medzhid won’t make a move.”
Ysabel said, “Gavin, you hijacked Dobromir’s and Osin’s numbers. Couldn’t you do the same with Pechkin’s? We get Anton and Vasim in the same room, dial their numbers, and see which one rings. Matt, you have them, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Dobromir’s and Osin’s were straight cell phones,” Gavin explained. “Pechkin’s is being routed through a landline cluster.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Ysabel.
“It’s just another way to anonymize yourself, hiding your IP—Internet protocol—address with a proxy server, using disposable e-mail addresses, setting up a VPN—virtual private network. There are lots of ways; landline routing is pretty old-school, but it works. The point is, without Pechkin’s cell phone in hand, I’d need to be in the room with whatever they’re using as forwarder. Or one of you would need to be.”
“Let’s make it happen,” said Spellman. “I doubt all they’re using the place for is to route calls, anyway.”
“Gavin, when did you set up the meeting with Pechkin?”
“Tomorrow morning at ten. Someplace called Anzhi Sady.”
“Sady is Russian for ‘gardens,’” said Spellman. “I know the place. It’s actually a children’s playground. Pechkin’s no dummy, I’ll give him that. School hasn’t started yet, so the place will be packed.”
“What’re you thinking, Jack?” Ysabel asked.
“Wellesley and Pechkin seem pretty fond of kidnapping. Let’s play it their way.”
• • •
SETH BURST THROUGH the apartment door and strode toward them.
“It’s starting! Medzhid’s on!”
Spellman grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. Medzhid was already making his statement: “. . . by unanimous vote the panel chaired by our President Nabiyev has determined the story that appeared in Dagestanskaia Pravda two days ago was in fact false. As I knew he would, Sergeant Pavel Koikov supported the official report I filed following the Almak incident. I will take questions now.”
Offscreen voices clamored until Medzhid pointed at one of the unseen reporters. “Mr. Minister, were representatives of Pravda present during the hearing?”
“No, they were not. But it is my understanding they were invited.”
“What actions will you take now?”
“Personally, none. I have, however, ordered my deputy, Mr. Alenin, to convene an independent panel to investigate this matter. Either someone at Pravda misquoted Sergeant Koikov, or he was never interviewed for the story, or he was coerced into giving a false account of what happened at Almak. Should this be the case, I fully expect criminal charges will be filed against those responsible.”
“Where is Sergeant Koikov now?”
“He is in protective custody but will be made available to Deputy Alenin’s panel—and to the press after all of this is over, should he so desire. Next question?”
“There have been reports that the man you mentioned yesterday, Private Shimko, is not alive. Would you care to comment?”
“Only to say this: From the moment this fallacious story appeared in Pravda, we have had reason to fear for Sergeant Koikov’s safety. Beyond that I can say no more. But rest assured all will be made clear when Deputy Alenin’s investigation is complete and made public.”
“Minister Medzhid, there are also reports that a member of the politsiya, Captain Salko, is missing—”
“Thank you, no more questions . . .”
Spellman muted the television. “They sure didn’t wait long to put Salko out there.”
“They’ll forget about it by the end of the day,” Seth replied. “Is Medzhid slick or what? Wellesley and Pechkin just got bitch-slapped on live TV.”
But not Nabiyev, Jack thought. Though it would’ve been easy for Medzhid to throw a barb or two at the president, he had instead made them partners in protecting the public good. Rebaz Medzhid was no dummy.
“Well, we’re back on schedule,” Seth said. “Another week and we’re good to go.”
Seven days, Jack thought.
Seven days to confirm the location of Wellesley and Pechkin’s war room, find out how many moves ahead on the chess-board they were, make sure the multitude of parts and pieces of Seth’s plan weren’t unraveling, uncover which of Medzhid’s personal bodyguards—and perhaps members of the Emergency Response Force—were playing for the other team, and figure out how far Valeri Volodin was willing to go to keep hold of Dagestan.
Not nearly enough time.
• • •
AT EIGHT P.M. he left the Tortoreto to relieve Dom at the Chirpoy apartment.
As he walked to the Lada, Dom rolled down the window. Jack handed him a white paper bag. “It’s not Jimmy John’s, but the place I got it from looked a lot like a Blimpie.”
“Good enough, thanks. No sign of Pechkin or Wellesley. You know, the security inside that compound might be decent, but they’ve gone ostrich—heads all the way in the sand. I’ve been here three hours and nobody’s even looked my way.”
This was often the case with “secure compounds,” Jack knew, especially ones that aren’t tested frequently. Under those conditions it was easy to fall into a complacent mind-set: We’re safe and secure behind these walls and cameras and no one bothers us, so what’s to worry about?
This could work to their advantage when the time came.
Jack asked, “Did Gavin get ahold of you?”
“About the Vetochkina woman? Yeah, I followed her from her office to a house on Elista; it’s covered by a fumigation tent. She talked to one of the workers, then went back to the office. She locked the car. I’m going to swing by there again on the way back to the motel.”
“How goes Gavin’s game of phone tag with Pechkin and Wellesley?”
“Pechkin’s meeting fake Captain Osin tomorrow at a playground a few miles from here. Matt will call you with the details. As for Wellesley, Gavin—”
“Continuing his acclaimed role of Dobromir the Broker.”
“Right. He’s been stringing Wellesley along, demanding to know what’s happened to Helen. As far as Gavin can tell, Wellesley hasn’t figured out she’s not in an Edinburgh jail. We’re going to keep poking at him. Hell, maybe he’ll fly off to Scotland and we can have Clark’s Hereford friend pay him a visit.”
“A man can dream. Jack, my boy, you’re a devious son of a gun. I’m outta here. I’ll call you if I catch up to Zoya. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Makhachkala
THERE MUST BE hundreds of them, Jack,” Dom said over the speakerphone.
“At least,” Ysabel replied, then handed the binoculars to Jack, who watched the throngs of children as they scampered over jungle gyms and down slides, chased one another across sandpits, and bounced on vast stretches of raised trampolines.
Either it had slipped Spellman’s mind or he himself didn’t know, but Anzhi Gardens was massive, at least a hundred acres of green grass, flower beds, and wooden benches that formed a ring around the central play area.
Jack and Ysabel were parked on the street along the eastern edge of the park, Dom the northern. Spellman was in a third car at the park’s main entrance, to the south. Since arriving ninety minutes early they had been swapping positions, lest Pechkin had arrived before them and was watching for the very trap they were trying to lay for him.
As they had no stand-in for Captain Osin that Pechkin would fall for, Jack had decided to play it by ear. If the SVR man gave them an opening, they would take it and hope for the best.
“You see the size of that ball pit?” Dom asked. “Where the hell wa
s that when I was a kid?”
“Apparently, in Dagestan this whole time,” Spellman replied.
Jack checked his watch: 10:09. “He’s late.”
“Did you expect anything else?” asked Dom.
• • •
“HEY, I think I’ve got something,” Spellman called. “A guy in a yellow cardigan just got out of a taxi.”
“And?” said Jack.
“He didn’t pay the driver. Yeah, I think it’s Pechkin. He’s got a hat and sunglasses on, but I’m ninety percent certain. Dom, the taxi is turning north on Murom Street. It’s red, with a bum front headlight.”
“I see it. I’m on him.”
Jack and Ysabel waited.
“He’s just passed me,” Dom reported. “Still headed north. I’m following. We’re turning west onto a private drive. Heading uphill. I see some kind of statue ahead, a guy on a horse—”
“Imam Shamil monument,” Spellman replied. “Jack, there’s a clear sight line from there down to the park. Do you have eyes on Pechkin?”
Through the Opel’s side window Jack aimed the binoculars at Pechkin and zoomed in. “I’ve got him. He’s on the main path, headed to the playground. He’s taking his time.”
“Probably giving his backup time to get set. Dom?”
“He’s pulling into a parking spot. He’s got binoculars. I’m going to circle around, see if I can get a better look. Jack, you and Ysabel stay put.”
“We’re not going anywhere.”
Two minutes passed, then Dom said simply, “Abort.”
• • •
AS PLANNED, they cleared the area on separate rounds, then rendezvoused back at Dom’s hotel. “The guy went to his trunk and pulled out a long box with a picture of a telescope on it. Trust me, that guy ain’t no astronomer.”
“Ruthless motherfucker, Pechkin,” Spellman said. “He was going to gun down Osin right in front of the kiddies.”
“Or whoever approached him,” Jack added. “Time for plan B.”
Jack opened his laptop, connected it to his phone’s built-in hotspot, then called Gavin and explained what he wanted him to do.
“Loop me into the exchange,” Jack said.
“Okay, you should be up.”
Jack opened his chat window. In the upper right-hand corner the words Remote Connection were slowly pulsing.
“I’m texting him now,” said Gavin.
A moment later, the first message appeared:
OSIN
I WAS THERE. YOU WEREN’T ALONE. I AM NOT STUPID.
It took almost a minute for Pechkin to respond.
PECHKIN
IT WAS JUST A PRECAUTION.
OSIN
YOU WERE GOING TO KILL ME!
PECHKIN
THAT IS NOT TRUE. WHERE ARE YOU? I WILL COME THERE. ALONE.
OSIN
HOW DO I KNOW THAT?
PECHKIN
YOU CAN PICK THE LOCATION.
OSIN
I WANT MORE MONEY OR I TALK TO MY COMMANDER AND TAKE MY CHANCES.
PECHKIN
THAT CAN BE ARRANGED. YOU MUST RELAX. TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE.
Over the phone, Gavin said, “Jack, what do you want me to say?”
“Tell him you’ll get back to him.”
Jack disconnected and turned to Dom, Ysabel, and Spellman. “We can either let him go or try again. Votes?”
“Try again,” Dom said.
“Definitely,” said Ysabel.
Spellman nodded his agreement. “Our odds of winning improve if we can take even half the Pechkin-Wellesley duo out of the picture.”
“Jack, I can see the gears turning in your brain,” Dom said. “What’s up?”
“How do you guys feel about a road trip?”
• • •
THOUGH JACK had asked the question with the vague kernel of a plan in his head, he also realized his last response to Pechkin had put them in a time crunch.
As Gavin had portrayed him, their version of Captain Osin was a panicked and money-hungry man on the edge of confessing everything to his boss. Someone in that frame of mind wouldn’t wait days to reestablish contact with Pechkin, which meant they had to leave immediately and finalize the plan en route and pray they scared Pechkin enough that he would follow.
• • •
AFTER BRIEFING Seth on the plan, they left Makhachkala, Jack and Ysabel in the Opel, Spellman and Dom in the Lada. Knowing only that their plan had to happen within twenty-three miles of Khasavyurt, the range of Major Umarov’s jurisdiction, Jack drove northwest up Highway M29, while Ysabel studied the map, looking for an area that fit their criteria.
Passing through Skalsoye, Jack had her dial Spellman in the Lada. “Guys, I think we’ve got our spot,” he said. “Go ahead, Ysabel.”
“There’s a little town called Endirey about five miles outside Khasavyurt. Unless we give Pechkin enough time to take another route, it’s got the only bridge across the Yaryksu tributary.”
“Sharp girl,” Dom said on speakerphone. “No offense, Ysabel.”
“None taken.”
“Jack, what makes you think Pechkin will even come? This has to smell fishy to him.”
“Maybe so, but what choice does he have? As far as Pechkin knew, he was talking to Captain Osin. The last thing he needs is one of Medzhid’s district commanders hunting for him for the murder of a Khasavyurt citizen.”
“True,” replied Spellman, “but who says he just won’t send his telescope-loving friend?”
“We don’t. We can only hope Pechkin wants to make damn sure it gets done right. Let’s find a place to set up for the night.”
• • •
IN ENDIREY, a village of a few hundred, surrounded by black dirt farm fields and copses of willow trees, they found a youth hostel on the banks of the river that was empty, save the proprietor and a middle-aged hippie couple who spoke German. The woman who gave them their keys barely looked up from what looked to Jack like a Russian version of People magazine.
Once they were settled in their room, a twelve-by-twelve-foot square with two double bunk beds, Jack briefed Spellman and Dom on the plan.
“We need to be smart about how we set this up, but not so smart Pechkin won’t believe it’s coming from Osin.”
“It’s your call,” Spellman said. “You’re the only guy that’s met Osin. How sharp is he?”
“I wouldn’t call it a meeting, but he is one of Umarov’s, who is pretty sharp himself, so Pechkin might buy having to jump through some hoops.”
Ysabel said, “Either way, this is an invitation Pechkin can’t ignore. Having Osin as a loose cannon could be a disaster for him and Wellesley.”
“She’s right,” said Jack. “You guys take the afternoon and drive the area. Put yourselves in Pechkin’s head.”
• • •
THEY WERE BACK two hours later. They walked into the room, and Ysabel went to the mini-fridge, a clattering avocado-colored box with no handle, and pulled out a couple of sandwiches Jack had scrounged at a nearby café.
“South of the highway is a no-go,” Dom said. With the sandwich in one hand, he laid their map on the floor. “Too many hills and too few decent roads. It’d take him hours to reach the next river crossing and circle up to Khasavyurt.”
“North of here is a little different,” said Spellman. “Between us and Bavtugay to the east there are a few ways he could take into Khasavyurt that’d only add forty or so minutes to his trip.”
“Then we’ve got to pick a spot between here and Bavtugay,” replied Jack.
“And at a time that forces his hand,” added Ysabel.
Doing both would, they hoped, keep Pechkin on the main highway and straight into their crosshairs.
“Jack, what’s this twenty-three-miles-from-Khasavyurt stuff?�
� asked Dom. “It’s a pretty odd number.”
“I’m assuming Major Umarov is a stickler for jurisdictional range. We’re going to hand Pechkin over to him.”
“Shit, he’ll be out before supper,” said Spellman.
“I doubt it. As far as Umarov is concerned, Pechkin’s a co-conspirator in Dobromir Stavin’s death. Umarov’s a law-and-order kinda guy, and it happened in his city. Unless Moscow is willing to spring Pechkin by force, the guy will be locked up at least until the coup is over.”
Jack checked his watch. “Time to wake up Gavin.”
Endirey
RIGHT ON SCHEDULE, a few minutes past six the next morning, Gavin called. “He says he’s coming.”
“How’d he sound?” asked Jack. As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how silly they were.
“It was a text, Jack, so he sounded like he sounded. I put the pressure to him, told him I was very scared and I needed money to leave Dagestan.”
“How much did you ask for?”
“The average MOI cop makes about four thousand U.S. a year. I demanded half of that. Pechkin didn’t bat an eye.”
Of course he didn’t, Jack thought. It was money he never planned to pay.
“I told him eleven a.m. in Khasavyurt’s main market square. I’ll keep you posted.”
Jack disconnected. “He’s on his way,” he told the others.
• • •
ASSUMING PECHKIN would have left right after Gavin’s message to him and knowing Makhachkala to Khasavyurt was at least a three-hour drive, Jack and the others waited until eight-thirty and then moved to their positions. If Pechkin was true to form he would want to reach the market in Khasavyurt as much before eleven as possible.
Outside, they found the air was cool, hovering around forty degrees, but the sky was cloudless, so the sun was already burning off the fog hovering over the fields. The tall grass along the roads shimmered with dew.
At Highway M29 they parted company, Jack and Ysabel heading east to Bavtugay, Spellman and Dom west through Endirey proper toward the Yaryksu Bridge.
When Jack reached Bavtugay’s main intersection, he turned left and started driving, killing time and passing mile after mile of farm fields before they hit the branch road Dom had shown them on his map. Beside the stop sign, a sign read KHASAVYURT in Cyrillic, followed by a left-pointing arrow and 24 KM.
