JET - Forsaken

by Russell Blake

  Ten minutes later Hannah emerged from the bathroom with dripping hair, a towel around her torso. Matt rose wordlessly, removed clean clothes from her backpack, and handed them to her. She returned to the bathroom in silence, and Matt made a mental note to take her shopping for a top and some jeans, there being no further reason for her to dress like they were destitute.

  He stared down at his pants and smiled sadly. He could use a change of clothes himself. If he didn’t appear to be a refugee, perhaps he’d have an easier time of it and get more cooperation if he needed to hire an attorney to help Jet – assuming she’d been arrested. He was loath to jump to conclusions, but if she didn’t call within another hour or so, he had to expect the worst and be prepared to go on the offense to free her before the system could identify her and their situation took an ugly turn for the worse.

  Chapter 16

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  The outbuildings surrounding the vast grounds of the Muslumov steel factory were a drab gray that matched the sky. Taymaz Hovel walked with a retinue of aids and security men, guided by the factory director of operations, who was giving the president a tour of the grounds.

  Part of Hovel’s platform promise was to create jobs, and his trip to the plant was a gesture to show the seriousness of his intent – which ignored that during his two terms unemployment had skyrocketed and labor force participation plummeted. The official stats the government released painted a rosy picture of a healthy economy, in defiance of the data and simple observation. But like all good politicians, Hovel simply sidestepped inconvenient facts, simultaneously claiming the economy was robust while acknowledging that it needed more jobs.

  The steel factory was one of the city’s largest non-petroleum-based companies; the industry was considered a stronghold of Azerbaijani productivity and a lynchpin of the country’s prosperity. That much of its work came from the government as a result of side deals negotiated in back rooms wasn’t mentioned – the message was that the future looked bright under Hovel’s strong leadership and that nothing could stop the country if it reelected him so he could continue his good work.

  Hovel murmured to Hasanov as they neared the end of one of the long production structures.

  “How many?” he asked.

  The tour was to end with a rally in the mammoth parking lot, where Hovel’s party had bused in supporters who’d been promised a hot meal and gift cards from the local supermarket chain in exchange for their appearance. Camera crews had taken up station near the stage to memorialize the event, and a small army of soldiers maintained order, ensuring that there would be no danger to Hovel or his entourage.

  Hasanov did a quick calculation. “Couple of thousand.”

  Hovel’s eyebrows rose. “That many?”

  “Yes. Quite a few showed up unexpectedly. Which is good for the media coverage – speaks to your popularity.”

  Hovel was to give a twenty-minute speech to the masses, reading from handwritten notes, looking appropriately earnest and interested as he dispensed with the mandatory address. As the election drew near, his advisors had stressed that he be accessible and unafraid to appear in public, in contrast to the demonic figure the Nationalist Party had painted him as, in their relentless criticism of his regime and its policies.

  Hovel checked his watch. “Are we on schedule?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I’m starving. I want to get this over with.”

  The factory director finished his tour, and the group made their way to the stage that had been erected near the central administrative office building. A sea of faces watched as Hovel arrived, and the cameras swept over the crowd as jubilant shills, in a staged spontaneous outpouring of support, held up signs emblazoned with Hovel’s campaign slogans that had been distributed to them upon arrival.

  Hovel walked to the microphone, where the director was introducing him with a laudable recitation of his accomplishments, and then it was showtime and the teleprompter blinked to life as applause rose from the gathering right on cue. Hovel waited until it died down and then began speaking, his voice evenly modulated with the practiced nuance of a professional liar.

  “My fellow countrymen, thank you for coming. I’ve just received a tour of this factory and can honestly say that I’m astonished at how modern and competitive it is – truly a fitting symbol of the strides we’ve taken as a nation since I took office. If you recall, the country was in desperate straits then, but thanks to our collective efforts, we were able to build it into a powerhouse that is a beacon of progress in the region!”

  A smattering of applause greeted his pause. Hovel had first taken power in a highly suspect vote a decade earlier, then was re-elected in an even more unusual contest five years later. There was no term limit, so he could theoretically continue to rule until he died of old age many years in the future.

  “But we still have work to do. Our children deserve a bright future, a safe future, a prosperous future, where their voices are heard and count in their governance. It is that future that keeps me striving to improve our systems to meet the challenges of the new century. With your help, we will develop it together.”

  This time the applause was hardly audible, so Hovel picked up the pace.

  “Every era has challenges; this one is no exception. I am committed to ensuring that the wealth of the nation is more evenly distributed moving forward, and that the corruption we have made progress against is eradicated by the time my next term is finished. That is my commitment to you, the voters, and it is shared by my cabinet and the prime minister.”

  Several boos echoed from the middle of the crowd, but Hovel soldiered through without acknowledging the outbursts.

  “I’m painfully aware that some can’t find suitable work, and I share their pain. Even in an economy that’s prospering, there will be gaps, and part of our duty as a society is to find ways to fill those gaps so that every citizen can have a productive life and a decent standard of living. We’re not there yet, but contrast today to where we were ten years ago and you’ll see that much has changed. Is it enough? No. Of course not. It’s never enough until every person can fulfill their promise, can raise their children with full bellies and in good health, and can enjoy the fruits of their labor with a minimum of government interference.”

  A red orb sailed from the throng. The tomato missed the podium by five feet but spattered colorfully against the stage. Hovel instinctively ducked at the inbound fruit, his body language fearful, and it was that image that was captured by the cameras trained on him and broadcast live. Shouts of protest erupted from somewhere in the middle of the press of bodies, and fists flew as supporters and protestors began fighting, while the front of the crowd surged toward the stage in an effort to get clear of the combatants.

  Hovel’s security team whisked him from the podium and down the steps at the back of the stage, and a cordon of armed soldiers closed ranks to prevent anyone from following. His bodyguards escorted him to a waiting column of SUVs and he climbed aboard the lead vehicle, the blood drained from his face at the unexpected outburst. The rallies had been peaceful up until now, but that the opposition forces were so emboldened as to disrupt a large one in the heart of his most supportive district boded ill for the election.

  He glared through the bulletproof window as the driver dropped the transmission into gear and began rolling forward, Hasanov beside him with a strained expression.

  “I want the troublemakers rounded up and dealt with. This is inexcusable. It will not be tolerated. We need to send a clear message,” Hovel spat.

  “Yes, of course.”

  The driver’s handheld radio blared from the front seat, and a voice reported from the stage. “It’s turning into a riot here. Get going.”

  “Roger that,” the driver said, and tromped on the throttle.

  “No shooting,” Hovel ordered. “That wouldn’t look good. Put down the protest, but don’t kill anyone.”

  A mass slaying at his rally would dest
roy any remaining support he had, and Hovel’s political instincts weren’t so poor that he was willing to risk that. Better to let the masses beat themselves bloody and wear themselves out than to appear to be an authoritarian despot – precisely what the Nationalists accused him of on a daily basis.

  Hasanov nodded and reached for the radio. “I’ll relay your instructions.”

  Hovel’s stomach rumbled, and he sat back fuming as the driver sped toward the complex gates, with the other vehicles keeping pace, the triumphant rally now an unmitigated disaster.

  Chapter 17

  Milan, Italy

  Jet looked up from her position on the unyielding steel bench in the holding cell. The other prisoners gave her a wide berth, as though sensing danger even though she hadn’t engaged with them.

  She’d been taken in cuffs to the main police station, where she’d been questioned by a detective until they were interrupted by a uniformed officer, who’d whispered something to the interrogator before hurrying away. The detective had leveled a hard stare at Jet and shaken his head.

  “One of the men you injured just died. A rib punctured his lung. Too far gone by the time they got him into surgery.” He paused. “That changes things.”

  “How? I told you I was defending myself. Three men attack me, so what am I supposed to do? Give them a disapproving look? They had knives. Your men recovered their weapons.”

  “That’s your story, and I don’t doubt it. But they’re saying you’re the one who attacked them. You…and others.”

  “What others? That’s preposterous. It’s clear what happened. They tried to rob me, I responded to save my life, a couple of them got hurt. Being muggers is dangerous work. And now I’m in trouble?”

  “Save it for the judge. We’re going to process you and then you can contact an attorney, or one will be appointed for you. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. But with a dead man, this is far more serious, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

  “So you’re arresting me?”

  “Yes.”

  Jet had clammed up at that point, silently cursing the man who’d died. She’d thought that she could talk her way out of the jam, but with a body in the morgue, she understood that the state had to do something – and it probably didn’t help that she was a refugee and therefore suspect from the start.

  She snapped back to the present as footsteps approached. Two guards neared the barred door and ordered the prisoners to step back. They opened it and motioned to Jet, who silently stood and walked out of the cell, surprised that they didn’t cuff her. She considered breaking both their necks and making a run for it, but dismissed the idea; she’d never get out of the station alive.

  The guards walked her to a steel door at the end of the hall, and the one on her right held it open for her. Inside, a man in his thirties sat on the opposite side of a steel table, the chairs bolted to the ground. Jet looked at him, her face unreadable, and he nodded to the guards, who closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in the room.

  “What is this?” Jet asked in Italian. “Are you my attorney? I don’t want a public defender. I want to make my phone call.”

  “Sit down,” the man said in Hebrew.

  Jet’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she did as instructed. “How did you know I would understand?” she whispered.

  “No games. I know everything. We’ve been tracking you for some time or at least trying to. You’ve led everyone on a merry chase. But your prints triggered a flag, which is why I’m here.”

  “And you are…?”

  “My name is unimportant. You know who I represent.”

  Jet studied his unremarkable features; his dark, wavy hair; his neutral expression. She nodded slowly. “What do you want?”

  “To help.”

  “Why am I not reassured?”

  The man smiled. “The last words you ever want to hear coming from any government agency, I know. Still, I have a proposal, and you have yourself a very real problem. As you’re no doubt aware, we’re not the only ones interested in your whereabouts.”

  “One of the curses of celebrity.”

  “The same alarms that tripped when the prints were entered into Interpol’s database are right now sounding in Washington.” He paused, seeing a reaction in her eyes. “That’s right. We know all about your friend’s troubles with his ex-employer – troubles that are now yours as well. Not to mention that one of your victims here died.”

  “Victims? Attackers, you mean,” she corrected.

  “We both know they stood no chance. I’ve read your dossier.”

  “I have a dossier?”

  “One we compiled after taking an interest in your latest exploits. Of course, there’s no file on you from…before. That we pieced together.”

  Jet held his stare. “You say you want to help. How?”

  “We’ll walk out of here together, and you’ll disappear off the radar again – this time for good.”

  “Is that part of the unofficial retirement package?”

  “In a manner of speaking. We have a situation we could use some help on in reciprocation. One hand washes the other. Isn’t that always the case?”

  She shook her head. “I’m no longer in the game.”

  “Yes, well, your situation is a complex one. As you know, part of what you originally signed up for was a career you don’t get to quit. We know why you faked your death, and your service to us in the terrorism matter since then hasn’t gone unnoticed. So we’re willing to strike a new bargain. It’s simple, really. We’ll keep you safe. You help us occasionally. Quid pro quo.”

  Jet frowned. “Why should I listen to any more of this?”

  “Because if we can find you, so can your enemies, of whom you’ve collected quite an array. You and your new family will never be safe trying to hide the way you’re doing it. The only way it could work is if you had state assistance – that’s what we’re proposing. You return with us to Israel; we create new identities for you and your family and put you into deep cover. Nobody will be able to find you, much less get to you. We can guarantee it.” He paused. “The alternative is you decline, I go back and tell my superiors you’re off the table, and you wait for the axe to drop.”

  They were interrupted by the door opening. One of the guards poked his head in, his voice tight.

  “The AISI is at the front desk, demanding to see her,” he said. The AISI was one of Italy’s intelligence agencies, chartered with domestic security – the rough equivalent of the American FBI. “The desk sergeant is running interference, but he can’t stonewall them for long.”

  Angry voices carried from down the hall, a heated argument coming from the administrative area. The Mossad operative nodded to the guard. “Okay. Is there a back way out of here?”

  “Yes. I’ll show you.”

  The operative eyed Jet. “We have to hurry.”

  The guard led them past the cells to a security door, where he swiped his card through a reader and pushed it open. They entered a stairwell that led into a basement and then another hall, longer than the first, that ran beneath the cell block.

  “This leads to a maintenance access,” the guard explained as they crept along the corridor. “There’s another security door at the other end, and then you can exit through a pair of double doors into the central courtyard. From there, just walk out onto the street.”

  Jet remained silent until the guard had swiped the second door open for them. The Mossad operative nodded his gratitude to the man, who looked worried but calm. Jet followed her new friend upstairs and into the late afternoon sun. At least fifty uniformed officers were in the plaza, some talking in groups, others making their way to or from the headquarters building, and easily double that many civilians were going about their business. The Israeli led her at a moderate pace to the main street entry, where a pair of cops sat on stools, watching the stream of people come and go. The guards didn’t give Jet a second glance, and a minute later they were a block from th
e building and walking faster.

  “What about my papers, money, and phone?” Jet asked.

  “I got your passport and phone. Money’s part of the sergeant’s take.”

  “I was going to ask how you penetrated the police so effectively.”

  He shrugged. “Everything’s for sale. There will be a record found of you being accidentally discharged a half hour before the intel goons showed up. The security cameras have been down for most of the day, so no footage of your departure. Trail ends there. Of course there will be protests, but they won’t go anywhere.”

  “What if somebody talks?”

  “They won’t. I pay well, and nobody wants to incriminate themselves. That’s just how Italy works.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He withdrew a cell phone with a digital scrambler attached from his pocket and dialed a number. After a short discussion, he gave her the handset.

  “Hello?” Jet said.

  “It’s been too long,” the director said, his sandpaper voice as distinct as a fingerprint. “But I suspected we might meet again. I felt we left things…unfinished, in Qatar.”

  “When Isaac tried to shoot me, you mean?”

  “It was never personal. It was a tranquilizer gun.”

  “Same difference.”

  The director coughed, and Jet could hear him suck deeply on a cigarette before continuing. “Our man explained things to you?”

  “You’re offering sanctuary in Israel out of the goodness of your heart. But there might be strings attached.”