JET - Forsaken

by Russell Blake

  Jet had him drop her off a block from the exhibition hall, which was adjacent to the world-famous futuristic white curves of the Heydar Aliyev Center – a landmark in Baku and one of the most recognizable buildings in the region, as iconic as the Sydney Opera House or the Eiffel Tower. The area was surprisingly active, considering the time, with couples strolling together toward the waterfront and groups of youths meandering with no obvious destination.

  The pedestrians made her job easier, and she circled the huge complex, eyeing the security that was already in place, relieved to see that the rear loading area was still bustling with truckers and contractors working to get last minute exhibit arrivals into the hall in time for the opening. The scene was pure chaos – loaders pushing dollies laden with crates, cleaning staff milling about, harried-looking exhibitors burning the midnight oil all swarming the open doors – and the guards stationed on either side weren’t looking particularly attentive.

  She watched the commotion for half an hour and, when a phalanx of cleaning people arrived, joined their ranks as they filed into the hall. She hunched over so her bearing wouldn’t flag her as an outlier, kept her head down, and stayed toward the middle of the group of over fifty janitors, none of whom seemed thrilled about working the graveyard shift, many smelling of alcohol.

  Inside the center, floodlights mounted on stands illuminated the hall, where a group of laborers was unfurling banners and rolling red carpeting into place in the lobby. After slipping on a yellow vest she’d lifted from a chair outside one of the bathrooms, she did a slow circuit of the trade show floor, where still more contractors were loitering and avoiding any actual work, laughing and joking, no supervision in evidence.

  Jet spotted the stage where the president would speak, and turned to view the spot Leah had selected for her. It was off to the side of the hall, but too exposed for her liking, with no obvious egress that couldn’t be blocked, and a knot tightened in her stomach as she considered the alternatives. The trick would be to make it out alive, not pull off the sanction; and she didn’t like her odds, based on the layout. She called up a photo of the site blueprint on her cell phone and studied it. After several moments, she nodded to herself and thumbed the image away.

  A glance up into the dark rafters confirmed her impression from the blueprint. Like in many convention halls, a series of girders and metal supports spanned the hall, the lighting suspended below them, the bones of the structure painted black so they wouldn’t mar the impressive interior. She spotted a maintenance entrance hatch near the roof five stories above and made her way out of the hall and up a stairwell that led to the roof.

  Another check of the plan identified the passage that terminated at the door, and she crept along the corridor, straining her ears for any noise of approaching workers. Satisfied that she was alone, she tried the handle on the hatch and it turned easily.

  Jet found herself on a narrow steel walkway that ran along one of the primary structural beams, with a bird’s-eye view of the hall and stage. Signage blocked her view of the podium, but as she edged along the platform, she found a spot midway that was hidden from view below by an exhibition banner that hung from a nearby girder yet had an unobstructed line of sight to the spot where the president would deliver his speech.

  After confirming the location’s viability, she returned to the door and identified two possible escape routes, the more promising one an access way beneath one of the elaborate ventilation system’s air ducts. She pulled up the building schematic a final time and traced the ducting to a room in the basement, from which she could make it outside via one of the exits. In the pandemonium that would follow the assassination, she was sure nobody would be thinking of the air duct network as the concealment system for the shooter’s escape, at least not at first – and that delay in sealing it off would be her window of opportunity to evade security and get clear of the complex.

  She confirmed her impression by walking to the access door of the oversized air ducts and sliding it aside. Inside, as she expected, was a series of frames supporting the sheet metal that formed the duct walls. Jet didn’t need to climb in and confirm that she could use the ribs in the vertical sections – she could see that the ribbing was uniform and that it would more than work.

  Downstairs, she continued along the stairwell into the basement and was nearing the spot where the ducting entered the maintenance room when she heard voices approaching along the corridor. A glance at the passageway told her she’d never be able to evade detection, so she continued walking, studying her phone as though she belonged there.

  Jet came face-to-face with four beefy maintenance men in orange coveralls and looked up from her phone in surprise.

  “What are you doing down here?” one of them demanded.

  “I…it’s embarrassing. I’m supposed to meet my cleaning crew somewhere around here, and I think I’m lost,” she said, batting her eyes.

  “Where are you supposed to meet them?” another asked.

  “They said the level below the loading area. They didn’t tell me enough to find it, though.” She hesitated. “I’m sort of running late, so…”

  The men laughed. “Well, you’re on the right track,” the first one said. “Keep going down this way, and when you come to the T-intersection, make a left. That will take you to the rear loading area basement.”

  “Is it far?” she asked, checking her watch.

  “Not that far. Maybe two minutes away.” The speaker smiled at her. “You want me to show you the way?”

  She returned the smile. “No, that would just make me look even more stupid. T-intersection, hang a left. I can find it.”

  Jet pushed past them and hurried away, feeling their eyes on her back as she picked up her pace. It had been a decent bluff, but she didn’t want to push her luck, and if she stayed any longer, she risked one of the men asking to see her security pass or wondering why a woman with a perfect Moscow accent was working on a cleaning crew in Baku.

  “Hey!” a voice called out behind her, and she debated continuing on. She opted for a more normal response and slowed while looking over her shoulder.

  “What? I’m late.”

  “I’ll be up by the loading area when the shift changes if you want to have a drink later.”

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Maybe. Let me see how the rest of the night goes.”

  “My name’s Sergei.”

  “Okay, Sergei. If I see you, let’s talk then.”

  Jet smiled to herself as she resumed her rush and, after a right turn, arrived at the T-junction. The basement widened into an equipment storage area packed with crates, pieces of machinery, and parts of exhibits that had been abandoned or were regularly featured. She moved among the pallets of boxes until she found a stairway and ascended to the ground level, where the beeping of backup warning alarms and the throaty rumble of forklifts drowned out the exhortations of workers muscling displays from the trucks.

  She eyed the loading docks, counting two dozen trucks backed up against the platform, and shrugged out of her vest and tossed it into a trash barrel. Forty-five minutes later she was back at the safe house, tiptoeing to her room, satisfied that her foray had yielded fruit. She grimaced when her door handle squeaked as she turned it, and then she was in her room, stripping off her outfit, exhausted and ready for sleep.

  Down the hall, Leah’s door eased shut with a soft snick.

  Chapter 27

  Jet slept in, and when she emerged from her room with a yawn and ambled down the hall to the kitchen, Leah was seated at the dining room table, her laptop in front of her. Jet nodded to her handler and opened the refrigerator to see what she could find to eat, and Leah cleared her throat.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  Jet looked over her shoulder at the older woman. “Morning.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “So-so.”

  “You went out last night. Where did you go?”

  Jet removed three eggs from the
fridge and bumped the door closed with her hip. “What’s it to you?”

  Leah’s tone hardened. “Everything you do is my business, Katya. Answer the question.”

  “I like to go for long runs when I can’t sleep,” Jet answered, the statement itself technically true even if not an accurate answer. “It helps my body adjust after all the flights.”

  “Where did you run?”

  “I don’t know the names of any of the places anywhere around here. I just ran.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Jet exhaled in thinly veiled exasperation. “I don’t know. Along the big boulevard. I tried to avoid anything smaller so I wouldn’t get jumped.”

  “How long were you gone for?”

  Jet shrugged, removed a bowl from the cupboard, and set it on the counter before cracking the eggs and dumping the whites into the dish, taking care that the yolks remained in the shells. “Beats me. I ran until I wore myself out. Maybe an hour or two.”

  Leah eyed her skeptically. “Big difference between one or two.”

  “Maybe to you. Not when I’m running.” Jet paused. “Where are the pans?”

  “In the big cupboard next to the oven.” Leah’s tone hardened further. “You were gone for two and a half hours.”

  “Then why bother asking me how long it was, if you already know?”

  Leah stood, hands on her hips. “Look, Katya, I’m your handler, which means I’m your lifeline. Anything you do here is my business if it affects our mission. I can tell you resent that, but I’m surprised, because I was told you’re experienced, and you should know how this works. My job is the successful outcome of the operation and your survival. If you don’t cooperate, both might be endangered, and I can’t allow that.”

  “I’m used to working on my own.”

  “That may be, but on this assignment, you report to me, so if I ask about your whereabouts, it’s not some passive-aggressive power play, it’s because I need to know what you’ve been up to.”

  Jet placed an iron skillet on one of the gas burners and lit the flame. She waited a few moments for the butter she’d dropped into the pan to melt, and then poured the egg whites in with a sizzle.

  “Fair enough. I went for a run. Which you now know. Anything else?”

  Leah snapped her notebook shut, her lips a tight line. “I don’t want you leaving the house until tomorrow. That’s an order.”

  Jet raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “I was planning on going for another run today.” Jet decided to extend an olive branch. “Maybe you can go with me? I don’t do well cooped up before a mission.”

  Leah regarded her, trying to figure out whether Jet was playing her or not. Eventually her expression softened. “When?”

  “This afternoon, before dusk, when it’s cooler. I can find ways to occupy my time inside until then.” Jet paused. “I like to work out any nerves before I go into action. There’s no reason for me to be forbidden from running. It’s not like I’m in deep cover or anything.”

  Leah gathered her computer and the power cord and nodded. “Fine. But don’t leave the house for any reason before then. Clear?”

  Jet stirred the eggs with a fork, busying herself with cooking, and waited just long enough to annoy Leah without seeming to do so on purpose before answering, “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  Leah stood beside the table and appeared to be debating reprimanding her further, but opted to leave instead of giving voice to any objection. She and Jet weren’t there to become best friends, and she didn’t have to force the issue of who was in charge. Most importantly, Leah needed Jet to trust her enough to rely on her; otherwise the op might be jeopardized, and proving a point over something that had already occurred wasn’t worth it.

  When Leah had disappeared into her room, Jet’s face didn’t change other than an amused glint in her eyes. She’d never been good at being ordered around, which was why she’d been at home in the Team, where everyone operated autonomously except for instructions issued by their control, David, whom they all respected.

  Leah’s problem was that she was dealing with a different kind of operative than the usual Mossad agent who would blindly obey and not think for themselves. She probably wasn’t a bad handler, but she didn’t know enough about Jet’s background to understand why her attempt to assert dominance was the wrong approach to take.

  Jet hummed as she shut off the burner and scraped the eggs onto a plate. She’d have to cut Leah a little slack and play nice. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the woman, and it was in Jet’s best interests that they get along.

  She carried the plate to the table and returned to the kitchen for a cup of coffee before taking a seat and waiting for the eggs to cool. Jet needed to focus her attention on the task at hand, not get sucked into diversions. The assassination was tomorrow, and she needed to be a hundred and ten percent on. Leah’s suspicions or dislike of her tone couldn’t interfere with that, and Jet resolved to push the interaction aside and rally her resources for the job she was there to perform: to kill a president.

  Chapter 28

  The following afternoon, Jet was striding toward the exhibition hall, wearing a smart black pantsuit, her micro transmitter sewn into the lapel and a tiny flesh-toned earbud concealed by her fall of hair. She’d spent the morning getting outfitted by Leah and Itai, who’d put in an appearance at lunch to participate in her final briefing before the main event.

  “You’re to show up several hours before the speech, walk the floor, and collect samples and literature from the exhibitors,” Itai had said. “When Leah gives the word, move to the booth where our people have the rifle. It was smuggled in as part of the piping that supports the backdrop and the signage, and they’ll have removed it today and concealed it in a pair of cardboard tubes that look like samples of their lighting products.”

  Leah had taken over from there. “The rifle has a sound suppressor and subsonic ammunition, so your firing location will be undetectable. It’s got a three-round magazine, but my advice would be to use only one, because it’s unlikely you’ll get off a second or third shot with any success.”

  The gun was a modified 5.56mm rifle with ammunition that had been engineered to explode on impact, causing lethal damage even though a small round – more than the typical tumbling that round would experience once it struck. Accurate to three hundred meters even with the subsonic load, her firing position would be from a hundred and fifty meters, so the execution should be a cakewalk from a functional standpoint.

  Her escape would be more difficult, but Leah had a convincing plan: Jet would join the exhibitor crew of the lighting company, where the staff would swear that she had been standing during the shooting if anyone questioned her whereabouts. Jet hadn’t been as enthusiastic about relying on the authorities simply accepting that the assassin had dematerialized as if by magic, but Leah had insisted that the combination of Jet’s gender, coupled with the witness testimony, would be sufficient for her to slip into the parking lot, where the Mercedes and Leah would be waiting. From there she would be smuggled to a private airstrip in the Dagestan Republic, and a turbo prop would fly her back to Israel.

  That had all sounded fine in the dining room of the house, but now that she was nearly at the exhibition hall, the little voice in her head was poking holes in the plan, which largely relied on everyone being so entranced by the president’s speech they wouldn’t notice her getting into position or assembling the rifle. The idea was that his ten-minute oration would give her the chance to make her move, and that she would execute him once he was seated with the rest of the dignitaries on the podium following his keynote address, while others waxed eloquent about free trade and the relentless march of progress. That was the only good part, in her opinion, because he would be immobile, making the shot one even a rookie could easily accomplish.

  She snapped back to the present at the sight of the cordon of soldiers in black c
ombat gear, replete with flak jackets and automatic weapons, positioned on the path to the hall and at strategic points along the exterior of the building. None of this was unexpected, and it had been part of her briefing, but the reality of it still sent a momentary chill down her spine.

  At the entrance, she presented her passport and credentials, which a tall man studied carefully before scanning her ID and sending her on to a metal detector. Her purse had nothing that would raise any suspicion – a few cosmetic items, a wallet, extra business cards, pens, a cell phone, a trove of other expected odds and ends – and she handed it over so it could pass through a scanner while she walked through the detector without setting off the alarm.

  The hall was a different place than the chaotic scene she’d visited two nights before – carpeting now blanketed the exhibition area, and the booths were elaborately lit and manned by interchangeable wonks in shiny suits and beaming professional salesman’s smiles. She took an oversized plastic bag with the logo of a pipeline company on it from a woman passing them out, and proceeded to make a circuit of the floor, collecting information from exhibitors as instructed.

  Her earbud crackled, and Leah’s voice buzzed in her ear.

  “I can hear the attendees. You must be inside by now.”

  “Da,” Jet said, covering her hand with her mouth while pretending to cough.

  “Okay. You have an hour and a half before he’s onstage. I’ll go dark until then, but I’ll be monitoring the feed. Pretend to make a phone call if you need me. I’ll hear everything you say.”

  The earbud went silent, and Jet returned to her apparently random wandering, pausing at each booth and listening to the canned pitches before thanking the staff, bagging some more handouts, and continuing to the next, exactly as a genuine attendee would do.

  She was nearing her final destination booth, which was a Romanian front company that distributed electrical products, when an overbearing, well-padded man in a cheap suit cornered her in a pipe-fitting booth, his intent obviously not limited to professional interaction. He reluctantly tore his eyes from the badge lying against the bulge of her breasts from a lanyard around her neck, and offered an oily smile.