Tom Clancy Under Fire (21 page)

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

W
HATEVER
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 tarmac 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.”

Spellman whispered to Jack, “Georgian Military Road.”

“I’ve had thirty dead and two helicopters shot down in the last month,” said Zumadze. “I am spread thin and I fear military vehicles will only attract the OFB’s attention. It is risky, but I think your best chance for getting through is to do so incognito. Once you reach the Yuzhno border checkpoint, you will be safe.”

Jack said from his place against the wall, “Omalo to the border is how far, sixteen kilometers?”

Zumadze suddenly seemed to notice he and Medzhid weren’t alone. He narrowed his eyes at Jack and said, “You are American. Who are you?”

“Just a guy asking a question. How far is the border?”

“Nineteen kilometers. But the terrain is mountainous.”

Zumadze’s answer told Jack something. The Georgian military had completely lost control of a twelve-mile stretch of a major transportation artery, one of its only into Dagestan. Worse still, Zumadze’s refusal to provide escort was likely born of survival instinct: If Dagestan’s Minister of the Interior were to die while under his protection, he’d likely lose his job. It appeared Medzhid’s partnership with Georgia wasn’t as solid as Seth had suggested.

“It is a very hard area to patrol,” Zumadze said.

“Sounds like it,” Jack replied.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. General, can you give us weapons?”

Zumadze slapped his hand on the desk, then jabbed a stubby finger at Jack. “Who are you to demand—”

“Forget him, my friend,” Medzhid said, flicking his fingers in Jack’s direction. “Can you provide us with weapons?”

Zumadze tore his gaze from Jack, then nodded. “Guns I can give you.”

•   •   •

TWO HOURS LATER
they were on their way, moving in convoy formation with one of the pickup trucks on point, another taking the rear, and Jack’s group inside a canvas-covered GAZ 4x4 truck. Medzhid’s two bodyguards, Anton and Vasim, sat at the tailgate, occasionally peeking through the canvas flaps.

With each passing mile the air grew colder. Jack could feel his ears popping as they moved higher into the Pirikiti Mountains. The GAZ’s diesel engine groaned with the strain.

For the tenth time in half as many minutes the truck’s tires plunged into a pothole and bounced them off the wooden bench seats. Jack put most of his weight on his good butt cheek, but it didn’t help much.

“I’m going to have bruises,” Ysabel whispered to Jack. “They’ll need seeing to later.”

“I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

From the opposite bench Medzhid called over the engine noise, “I am sorry about that, Jack. Zumadze is not fond of the West, especially America.”

“Clearly.”

“Having it appear you are under my thumb makes everything easier.”

“Mr. Minister—”

“Rebaz, please.”

“Rebaz. How well do you know General Zumadze?”

“Very well. He and I have worked together closely on a number of antiterrorism operations—along with our counterpart in Grozny.”

“Does Zumadze know about the coup?”

“No.”

“Why are you asking, Jack?” said Spellman.

“Back in Tbilisi, Rebaz told him he’s being blocked from entering his own country and he didn’t bat an eye.”

“Baksheesh,” Seth replied. “Institutional extortion. Zumadze has to deal with it himself, I’m sure.”

“Indeed,” replied Medzhid. “It is a different world here, Jack.”

No shit,
he thought.

•   •   •

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON
they pulled into Omalo. The GAZ’s engine shut down. General Zumadze swung back the canvas flaps. “You will stay here tonight. It is too dangerous to drive at night.”

Jack and the others jumped out and began stretching their legs. Bundled in a Georgian Army parka two sizes too big for her, Ysabel wrapped her arms around her torso. “It’s beautiful here,” she said through a shiver. “Nice place to visit.”

“But not live.”

The village, which sat in a shallow valley surrounded by rolling foothills, was little more than a scattering of ramshackle saltbox-style homes with tin roofs. Across the dirt road was a fenced pasture full of horses grazing at the spring grass. To the west stood a line of snowcapped peaks behind which the sun was dropping. Jack saw long shadows creeping down the hills toward Omalo. During the winter Omalo probably had little or no contact with the outside world.

At a gesture from Zumadze, two of the Special Forces soldiers jumped down from the nearest truck and trotted toward the house adjacent to the pasture. They banged on the door; when it swung open, they disappeared inside.

Jack led Ysabel out of earshot from the group. “When we get across the border we’re parting company with Seth and the others.”

“Why?”

“The woman who was holding Aminat—”

“Helen.”

“She gave me the name of her broker, a guy called Dobromir. He took the contract for Aminat’s kidnapping. Pechkin set it up. Dobromir lives in Khasavyurt.”

“What makes you think he’ll cooperate with us?”

“Before she died, Helen made him a video, sort of a last will and testament. If he has anything on Pechkin, he’ll give it to us.”

“Jack, why am I just hearing about this?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “You were going to leave me behind, weren’t you?”

“I changed my mind. You don’t break up the team in mid-game.”

“Very wise of you.”

Zumadze called, “May I have everyone’s attention!”

Jack and Ysabel returned to where the rest of the group was standing. “A few hours ago the OFB attacked an outpost—in Shenako, two miles to the east.”

“How many dead?” asked Medzhid.

“None, thankfully. Two wounded. They will be evacuated in the morning. I must return to the capital tonight, but I will leave Major Asatiani with you. In the morning, he’ll see you on your way.”

“What about our weapons?” Jack asked.

Zumadze offered him a mocking smile. “Are you frightened? Do not worry yourself. You will be fine.”

“Not with that truck. It’s got target written all over it.”

“That’s being taken care of.”

From the ranch house, one of Zumadze’s soldiers called to him. A man, a woman, and two children slipped past the soldier and headed down the road toward the village center.

Ysabel asked, “Where are they going? We can’t put them out of their own home.”

“It is just for the night,” Zumadze replied. “Follow me. We will get you settled in.”

•   •   •

SHORTLY AFTER NIGHTFALL,
Zumadze left in one of the pickup trucks.

Major Asatiani spent a few minutes patrolling the area surrounding the house, then assigned two men to the front door and two to inside the horse barn, leaving himself and one more, a private no older than twenty, inside the home with Jack and the others.

As the private started cooking the evening meal, Asatiani sat down at a small table beside the door and began stripping and cleaning his sidearm.

Medzhid turned in early, leaving his bodyguards playing cards outside his door. Jack and the others gathered around the trestle-style dining table on the far side of the room.

“Friendly guy, the major,” Ysabel said.

“Most of his kind are,” replied Spellman. “Good in a fight, though.”

Jack said, “Seth, yesterday you talked about Volodin rolling tanks up to Dagestan’s border and sitting there waiting for the coup to start. What if he does just that?”

“He won’t. But to answer your question, if he comes it won’t be through Chechnya unless he wants to get bogged down, which leaves him Stavropol to the west and Kalmykia to the north. Between them there are only two major highways into Dagestan—the P215 and the P285.” Seth grinned. “They’re both two-lane, and they both go over several river crossings.”

Seth and Spellman had a plan in place to sabotage the crossings, Jack realized. This coup wouldn’t be driven solely by an Arab Spring–like popular groundswell, but also by on-the-ground insurgency warfare. The problem was, if Volodin committed himself to invasion, such tactics would only delay the inevitable.