Tom Clancy Under Fire (30 page)

“Why take Koikov up there?” asked Ysabel. “If they wanted to kill him, why not in his cabin? And they can’t keep him hidden forever. He’s going to have to appear before the panel.”

“They had to have a reason,” said Spellman. “If this is Wellesley—”

“It is,” Jack replied.

“Then he’s got a plan. He doesn’t do anything spur-of-the-moment.”

No one spoke for a while. Jack murmured, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Spellman.

“We need to talk to Medzhid.”

•   •   •

WHEN THEY GOT
to the Tortoreto apartment, Spellman woke up Seth, who in turn woke up Medzhid, who walked into the dimly lit conference area a few minutes later. His eyes were red-rimmed. “What’s this about? You’ve found Sergeant Koikov?”

“No,” Jack replied. He recounted the shoot-out at the cabin.

“Puncture-proof tires,” Medzhid repeated. “That has to be some kind of official government vehicle. I’ll look into it.”

“I think I have a hunch about what they have planned for Koikov.”

“Does it even matter?” Seth said. “I mean, I feel for the guy, but he’s lying about Almak and if he comes before the panel it’ll come out. And if he doesn’t show up, that’s also proof he’s lying. Win-win.”

“Unless they kill him,” said Ysabel. “That’s a lose-lose for him.”

“They won’t.”

“I think that’s exactly what they’re going to do,” Jack replied. “Think about it: You’ve boxed yourself into a corner just like Wellesley did to himself. If they don’t produce Koikov they lose, and if they do produce him they lose. The same applies to you: Medzhid’s demanded proof that Koikov is safe and isn’t being coerced, and you’ve got the media and the public screaming the same thing. If you suddenly let that go, everyone’s going to wonder why. What have you got to hide?”

“Nothing,” said Medzhid.

“The question will still be asked. Wellesley needs a way to keep Koikov away from the panel and make it look like you’re guilty of Almak.”

“How?”

“Wellesley takes him to a remote place, somewhere connected to you, puts a bullet in his skull, then Nabiyev swoops in with Army troops. After a firefight Koikov is found dead, silenced by some of your loyal
politsiya
officers, who are themselves killed by Nabiyev’s men.” Jack paused. “Rebaz, in the space of an hour you’ll be branded a murderer, not only of civilians in Almak, but of your own sergeant.”

“Damn,” Seth murmured. “He’s right. Hell, they’ll probably find Koikov in a shallow grave. Wellesley doesn’t do anything half-assed.”

“It wouldn’t work,” Medzhid said. He rapped his fist on the table. “I would eventually be vindicated.”

“Maybe, but you sure as hell won’t be keeping your job.”

“And the coup is over before it starts,” Spellman finished.

T
HEY HAD
only one advantage, Jack knew, and it was Wellesley’s own meticulous nature.

While the SIS man would want Koikov’s place of execution to be traceable to Medzhid, if pressed for time or alerted they were onto him, Wellesley might bypass this element and simply kill Koikov and let the presence of dead pro-Medzhid officers serve as proof enough.

The surreality of the situation suddenly hit Jack: The possible success or failure of Dagestan’s attempt to break free of Valeri Volodin and the Russian Federation now rested on the fate of a sickly, retired
politsiya
sergeant who was until a few days ago thought to be dead. Koikov probably had no idea that he’d become the most important man in the whole country.

•   •   •

ASSUMING KOIKOV’S
KIDNAPPERS
had continued north after Dom had lost them in Bakhtemir, Seth and Spellman began hunting for a location in Dagestan’s northern lowlands that could be connected directly to Medzhid or at least to the MOI.

There were four possibilities, Spellman told Jack a few hours later: a currently unmanned training base for
politsiya
armored vehicle units outside Bakhtemir; the decommissioned Rybozavad Naval Base for Caspian flotilla patrol boats now under the guardianship of the Ministry; a two-hundred-acre stretch of tidal marshes outside Suyutkino that Medzhid’s predecessor had appropriated as a private duck-hunting preserve; and an abandoned prison called Bamlag West, nicknamed after an infamous Siberian gulag. This, too, Medzhid said, was a throwback to Dagestan’s Soviet era, when hundreds of enemies of the state had either served for decades or died from forced labor.

•   •   •

AT FIRST LIGHT
Medzhid had a spotter plane in the air and headed north from Makhachkala.

Jack and the others sat down at the conference table and waited.

“Jack, how long do you think Koikov’s got?” Ysabel whispered.

“I’ve been thinking about that. Unless I’m missing something, Wellesley’s got no reason to wait. It might already be done.”

•   •   •

ONE OF MEDZHID’S
assistants appeared. She leaned down and whispered in Seth’s ear. He picked up the remote control on the table and aimed it at the bank of televisions.

Medzhid, standing on the front steps of the Parliament Building, was speaking. “. . . It has come to my attention that another member of my team that was present at the Battle of Almak is still living. Upon hearing that Sergeant Koikov’s demise had been misreported, I ordered my staff to begin scouring Ministry of the Interior personnel records, both electronic and hard copy, for similar errors.

“We did indeed find the name of another brave officer, a private named Shimko, who has been living in the town of Kula for the past ten years. Right now, this man is being escorted here and is prepared to give sworn testimony regarding the 1999 events in Almak.”

Seth muted the television. “I’ll be damned.”

“Did you know about this, Seth?” asked Spellman. “Is it true?”

“No and no. Medzhid did have his people review the records, but Koikov is the only surviving member from Almak.”

Clever,
Jack thought. With another possible witness coming forward at Medzhid’s behest, having Pavel Koikov turn up dead would do Wellesley and Pechkin no good.

Medzhid had just bought them some time.

“But what happens when this Private Shimko doesn’t show up or someone finds proof Medzhid is lying about him?” asked Ysabel.

“Then Koikov’s dead,” Spellman replied.

•   •   •

AT ONE-FIFTEEN
came the first report from Medzhid’s spotter plane: No activity at the Bakhtemir training base.

The next report came two hours later.

“Nothing at the hunting preserve,” Seth said. “Two more to go: Rybozavad Naval Base and Bamlag West.”

“How far away?” asked Jack.

“Rybozavad, a hundred kilometers or so from the plane’s current position. It should be overhead within the hour. Bamlag’s inland from there.”

The hour came and went with no report.

Medzhid returned. He shrugged off his coat, tossed it onto the couch, then loosened his tie and strode to the conference area.

“That was brilliant, Rebaz,” Spellman said.

“No, I am a fool. I shouldn’t have used Shimko’s name. One of my assistants got a call from the editor at
Pravda
asking for details—Shimko’s dates of service, commendations, location and names of family members . . . By morning, all of Makhachkala will know I was lying about Shimko.”

The phone rang again. Seth said, “Negative on Rybozavad Naval Base.”

Have I got this wrong?
Jack wondered. Had Wellesley simply killed Koikov and dumped him in a ditch somewhere?

•   •   •

AT SIX-TWENTY
the conference table phone rang again. Medzhid grabbed the receiver, listened for a few moments, then said, “No. No pictures. Tell them to get out of there and return to base.” Medzhid hung up and said, “They spotted lights in one of the buildings at Bamlag. There should be no one there.”

“That has to be it,” Jack replied.

Wellesley’s choice of location was both intentional and symbolic: the lone witness who could bring down Medzhid executed and buried in what Nabiyev would dub an “MOI Gulag.”

Seth said, “Rebaz, how soon can your ERF people get up there?”

“What are you talking about? I can’t send them.”

“Why?”

Jack answered. “Having the ERF descend on Bamlag could produce the result Nabiyev wants: Sergeant Koikov dead and Medzhid’s people on the scene.”

“We have to do it,” Spellman said.

•   •   •

WITH SETH
at the wheel of the Suburban, Jack, Spellman, and Ysabel headed up the coast road, then turned onto a gravel track leading to a wharf. Ahead was a wheeled fence gate emblazoned
KEEP OUT
in Cyrillic.

“We’ve picked up a tail,” Seth announced.

“Describe it,” Jack said from the backseat.

“Compact four-door, white.”

“He’s with me. Have the guard wave him through.”

“Whatever you say,” Seth muttered. “You and your damned secrets, Jack . . .”

Seth gave the guard his name and the gate rolled open. They pulled through and followed the curving road to a paved area between two warehouses lit by a caged bulb affixed to each of their walls.

As they climbed out, Dom walked up carrying his black duffel.

Jack said, “Seth, this is Dom; Dom, Seth.”

“Another arbitrage buddy?”

“Something like that,” said Dom.

Spellman asked Dom, “That your gear?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got a spare rucksack. Come on, I’ll help you sort it out.”

Together they sorted and divided their loadout—three ARX assault rifles and Ruger pistols, comms headsets and portable radios, and binoculars.

“God bless,” Dom said. “Somebody’s modified these ARXs. Single shot, three-round burst, and full auto.”

“You’re welcome,” Spellman said. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

They secured the rucks and followed Seth toward the wharf.

“Let me guess,” Ysabel said. “You want me to stay behind.”

“Yes, but not why you think. I need you to—”

“Keep an eye on things at the Tortoreto. I’m fine with it. The truth is, this stuff isn’t exactly my specialty. I’m betting that whoever’s holding Koikov is above my skill set.”