JET - Forsaken

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 32

  Yashar Bahador looked up from the television screen as Sergei entered his office. Bahador’s dour features were grim, mirroring Sergei’s, both men experienced enough to know that the murder of the president was a game changer.

  “I’m glad you made it. Looks bad out there,” Bahador said.

  “And getting worse. The streets are crawling with army and police, and there are some pockets of armed resistance.”

  “Who would be stupid enough to take up weapons now?”

  “There’s always a fringe that waits in the wings. We both know that. Probably the Anarchists or the Revolutionary Party.” Both groups had been suspected of attempting to assassinate Bahador and were known to appeal to extremists of all stripes.

  “Well, if it’s them, they deserve what they get.” Bahador eyed Sergei and tipped his head toward a bookshelf behind him. “Drink?”

  “I could use one.”

  Bahador rose and fetched a bottle of premium vodka and two tumblers. He poured both half full and sat back down. Sergei reached for one of the glasses and toasted his master, and then they swallowed a third of the liquor, eyes brightening at the bite.

  Bahador shook his head and set the drink down. “Who do you think is behind this?”

  “The assassination? Could be any of a half dozen culprits. Hovel was widely hated, so narrowing it down is the challenge.”

  “What does anyone gain by his demise, though?”

  “I’m hearing rumors that it is a coup attempt by a faction in the military.”

  “We would have been alerted, no?”

  “Not necessarily. That bunch tends to be secretive, and God knows there are enough cliques in the top brass for one of them to get it into their heads to take over.”

  “But with the elections so close, it makes no sense.”

  “I understand. However, a better question is, what’s our response going to be?”

  Bahador’s brow furrowed and he took another swallow of vodka. “Obviously we must condemn the assassination. I’ve been working on a draft to issue within the hour.”

  “Obviously,” Sergei agreed.

  “Further, I’m calling for all members of our party to refuse to participate in any unrest. I don’t want to be lumped in with any agitators in the coming clampdown – we cannot afford to have anything to do with rioting or looting or the administration will come at us hard and manufacture a reason to dismantle our party. That must be avoided at all costs. We both know they would like nothing better than to eliminate us.”

  “Are you going to do a broadcast?”

  Bahador nodded. “I’m waiting to hear back from the national radio station. The television outlets will pick it up live, so we’ll get maximum coverage.”

  Sergei nodded slowly. “Good idea.” He eyed the Nationalist leader over the rim of his glass. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I honestly have no idea. Nobody wins with Hovel dead, except perhaps Nabiyev, but only if he suspends elections long enough to campaign.”

  “You think he would do that?”

  “The man’s a weasel. I wouldn’t put anything past him. But I don’t see him orchestrating an assassination.” Bahador hesitated. “One thing I find troubling is how fast the unrest has begun. Someone knew in advance and wants lawlessness.”

  “Why? Who benefits?” Sergei asked.

  “I’m trying to figure that one out. If it’s a faction in the military, perhaps they want cover while they consolidate their power.”

  “The country would never go along with it. And the international community would reject any attempt to seize the reins. I don’t see that as viable.”

  “Neither do I. I’m just throwing it out there.”

  “What about foreign interests? With the contracts scheduled to reset next year, a change in leadership might be part of a larger strategic reorganization.”

  “I can’t see the Americans being behind this, and they’re the usual suspects. Do you see anyone else being foolhardy enough to assassinate a democratically elected head of state simply so their corporations benefit?”

  “Not immediately. But the sums involved are huge.”

  The subject was a sore point for both men, who felt that the nation’s wealth was being stolen from its people by foreign interests. It didn’t matter what flag flew over the oil fields, if the profits largely flowed to foreigners, the people were the ultimate losers, exactly as had played out all over the rest of the world where international conglomerates pocketed most of the benefits from impoverished populations’ resources. Whether mining in the Congo, with the wealth transferred to Belgium, or oil in Argentina to a consortium of international interests, the same predictable pattern repeated again and again.

  “It’s possible it was a private effort, but I don’t think we should speculate. They haven’t found the shooter, and until they do, it’s all guesswork.”

  Sergei frowned. “Oh, I know, officially. I was just asking what you thought.”

  Bahador finished his drink. “I think I need to polish my speech so it hits all the right notes. Which is why you’re here. You have a talent for these things. Here’s what I have so far,” the older man said, and slid a notepad to Sergei.

  The younger man read, nodding in places, frowning in others, and held out his hand when he was finished. “Do you have a pencil? I can see a few spots that might be improved.”

  Bahador handed him one and sat back, his mind racing. Even after fifteen years in politics, this night would go down as the most stunning in his career – where everything had changed in a blink, and the nation’s future had gone from predictable to precarious in a heartbeat.

  He watched Sergei scribble and erase, and mulled over the possibilities Sergei had raised. The next hours would have to be handled with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon, and if Bahador managed things correctly, he would emerge as a clear leadership figure at a time of unfathomable crisis. The truth was that Hovel’s death had benefited one group far more than any others, if they didn’t blow it, and that was the Nationalist Party, at least at first blush. Whether they could leverage that into a win on election day was really the question, but one Bahador felt optimistic about the more he thought the idea through. No matter how mild the police and military response to any unrest, it would create tremendous resentment with a segment of the voting public, and the more draconian their actions, the worse it would be for them.

  All Bahador had to do was wait for them to shoot themselves in the foot, and then step in as a voice of reason, advising his supporters to work within the system rather than attempting to take matters into their own hands.

  Bahador couldn’t have scripted the opportunity better if he’d tried, and he didn’t plan to blow the godsend that had fallen in their laps. Whoever was behind the assassination had just done Bahador the biggest favor of his career, whether intentionally or not, and now he was ready to step onto the world stage and speak with conviction.

  Until then, he would caution restraint and let the administration dirty itself with the fallout.

  The phone on his desk rang. He answered, his voice velvety, his calm unflappable after four fingers of vodka.

  “Yes, my friend. It’s shocking, no doubt. Thank you for the chance to address the nation in this tumultuous time.”

  Chapter 33

  Jet tore across another street after verifying that nobody was observing her and there were no emergency vehicles on the road. As she had made progress, she’d become less concerned with being attacked, most Azerbaijanis apparently preferring to stay behind closed doors in their apartment blocks rather than running amok after dark. That made sense – it was usually a tiny minority that viewed upheaval as an opportunity to loot. Judging by the cars, most people in this area of Baku were hardworking middle-class families, and while Jet had no doubt that things might get bad in the slums, the middle class tended to be well behaved.

  That assessment changed when she saw a man gun down another in the mid
dle of the street, the crack of his pistol shattering the quiet of the residential area. She shrank into the darkness of a doorway as the man kicked the body several times and then spit on it and walked off, his gait unsteady, obviously inebriated or injured.

  There would be those who used the opportunity to settle scores – drug turf disputes, criminal rivalries, jealous crimes of passion – but she wasn’t worried about her safety because miscreants were scrabbling over territory or someone was getting even for wooing his girlfriend. Her big fear was the men she’d seen in the trucks near the convention center. They’d seemed organized and well-armed, if undisciplined and drunk, and that implied foreknowledge and a plan. If she ran afoul of a group like that, it wouldn’t be as easy as it had been with the muggers, who were obvious amateurs with no skills. Even an idiot could be deadly with an AK, she knew from harsh experience. Once the gunman had vanished around a corner, she continued toward the safe house, the temperature dropping as the hour grew later.

  She activated the phone again to check her progress and frowned when it displayed no service – not completely unexpected, as police and government agencies in many countries shut down the cell system during times of chaos to prevent gangs from communicating with each other.

  Jet closed her eyes and recalled the image of the map in her head, and guessed that at the rate she was going, she’d be at the house within minutes. Hopefully Leah would be there, ready to transport her to safety. Jet had no idea what had gone wrong on her handler’s end, but she would know soon enough. If she’d been apprehended or injured, Jet would call Itai. The station chief would have a backup plan; they always did.

  Jet pushed herself harder in the final stretch, anxious to make it to the safety of the house as the neighborhood deteriorated. She spotted a couple of young men down the block as she turned onto the safe house road, but if they saw her, they ignored her.

  She slowed as she neared the darkened house, no sign of Leah’s Mercedes in the drive. A scattering of vehicles was parked on the street, and Jet automatically scanned them for occupants, grateful for the dark and the dearth of streetlamps. Seeing nothing to alarm her, she strode purposefully toward the house, senses tingling, her nerves raw.

  When she reached the front door, it was locked, and she glared at the wood slab. Nothing had gone right the entire night. She wrenched the handle again and then moved to the front window, stopping in frustration at the bars that protected it.

  She tried the tall iron gate on the side yard, but it was padlocked shut. Jet looked around again and then stepped away from the barrier and took a running start at it. When she reached it, she vaulted upward while scrambling against the side of the house. Her fingers clamped onto the top of the gate and she hoisted herself over it, landing on the dead grass in a crouch.

  Jet rounded the back of the house and surveyed the small yard, and then turned to the walls separating the property from other homes abutting them. After taking several deep breaths, she moved to the rear door. The handle didn’t budge, and she slid her purse off her shoulder and rooted in it until she found a credit card in Katya’s company’s name. From what she remembered, the locking mechanism was ancient, and she’d made a mental note that a schoolgirl could have opened it with a little time and almost no skill.

  She slid the credit card along the jamb until it found the curved part of the bolt and, with a swift motion, pulled it and the handle toward her. The door swung wide and she smiled in the dark. At least that had gone well.

  Jet stepped into the house, her eyes roaming over the hall, and called out with little hope of a response. “Leah?”

  Nothing.

  Jet reached for the light switch, but stopped when she saw a tiny red LED blinking by the front door. She moved toward it, passing her and Leah’s rooms, and stared at a small box mounted near the ceiling.

  A box that hadn’t been there earlier.

  She couldn’t make out what it was, so removed the phone from her pocket and used the flash to illuminate the device. Her eyes widened when she identified it.

  An alarm.

  Which she’d triggered opening the rear door.

  Jet could think of several reasons Leah might have wired the house after Jet had left: if she’d feared a robbery attempt, or a hostile actor breaking in and lying in wait, or an intruder bugging the place. But why wouldn’t she have alerted Jet that she was doing so? Jet recalled Leah’s arrogant tone when addressing her and shook her head in disgust. Because Jet had no need to know. She was just the hired help – a pair of hands to operate the gun, nothing more.

  Of course, Jet was assuming it was she who’d triggered the alarm and that nobody had been there before her.

  The thought sent a chill up her spine, and she backed away from the front door and stopped at Leah’s room. The door was closed. Jet tried the knob and it opened easily.

  Inside, there was no trace Leah had ever existed. The bed had been stripped, and the closet cabinet doors stood open, the interior empty.

  She was interrupted by the faint squeak of metal in the front of the house.

  Brakes.

  Jet darted to a window by the entry and spied the dark form of a personnel carrier, its police markings visible in the dim moonlight. She didn’t hesitate, but ran as fast as her legs would carry her to the back door and pulled it softly closed as the sound of boots on the sidewalk in front reached her. She glanced around and then tore toward the rear wall and ran halfway up before locking her arms over the top and hauling her body over it.

  She heard the front door battered in with a ram and raced along the side of the home that backed onto the shared wall. When she reached its gate, it was also locked, and she repeated her maneuver from earlier and pulled herself over it. She hit the ground and rolled before pushing herself to her feet, and checked to ensure her purse was still in place before scrambling away.

  The sound of engines from the end of the street urged her to greater speed, and she put every ounce of energy into reaching the homes across the way. If she made it, she could disappear into their yards, leaving the police empty-handed, raiding a house with nobody in it. Why they would do so had only one ugly answer: Leah had been captured and had given up its location, or some item she’d been carrying had given it away. Nothing else made sense.

  She reached the front wall of the house across the street and raced toward it, again pulling herself to the top, but this time remaining there and forcing herself upright. Jet moved carefully along the wall, feet placed one in front of the other like a gymnast on a balancing beam. She stepped over a gap at the rear and continued to another street before dropping to the ground and taking stock.

  There were no further signs of anyone searching for her, which was a positive, but when the police discovered the house was empty, they would broaden the net, she was sure. That left her precious little time to get clear of the neighborhood, which she could do without being caught assuming the streets stayed deserted. Seeing no option but to continue, she darted house to house, pausing at each to listen before moving to the next.

  A dog barking at the fourth house made her cringe, and she was back to flat-out running, distancing herself from the animal’s baying as she drove herself hard. If the police heard the animal, they might come to investigate. She had no way of knowing how determined they were, but had to assume the worst, and forced herself to breathe easily as she ran, arms and legs pumping like pistons as she traversed the suburban street, making for the apartment blocks in the near distance where she could vanish into the jumble of buildings.

  She made it to the larger street at the end of the row of homes, and froze, chest heaving, at the sound of blades beating the air to the south. Of course, she thought belatedly, they’d bring a helicopter into the fray. Any slim lead she’d had was rapidly disappearing, and once the helo was overhead, possibly with infrared sensors and night vision equipment, her odds of remaining undetected were zero.

  The thought galvanized her into action, and she tore d
own the street, abandoning any caution in favor of putting distance between herself and the aircraft, her mind churning along with her stomach as she ran, praying silently for just another few minutes of luck before all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 34

  Tank treads ground against asphalt as a column of armored vehicles rumbled down a wide avenue toward the city center. Jet watched the procession from the shadows of an apartment complex entryway with a knot in her stomach, still gasping from the exertion of the adrenaline-juiced run. The faint pop of gunfire from miles away echoed in the night like fireworks over the tall buildings that ringed the convention area, nearly inaudible but as distinct as Morse code to Jet’s trained ear.

  If there was a battle raging a few miles away, then the situation had shifted from unstable to actively dangerous, and she needed to find someplace to hunker down and wait out the power struggle she presumed was under way. The death of the president had created a vacuum, and rivals were shooting it out to determine who got to next loot the country under the guise of governing it. In an oil-producing nation like Azerbaijan the stakes were high, each year’s production a fortune, and he who controlled the tap controlled the purse strings.

  Jet didn’t care about politics except to the extent that they affected her, but she more than understood that most wars and coups weren’t so much about power or ideology as they were about money. That didn’t bother her, and she didn’t think about the ramifications too deeply, because at the bottom of that rabbit hole was the conclusion that the clandestine maneuvering of all governments had little to do with good or bad, and everything to do with profit and loss.

  If she followed that reasoning through, then her role as the instrument of one of those governments became deeply suspect, and she couldn’t afford the luxury of doubts. She was doing what she had to in order for her family to survive, and if she’d refused, someone else would have done it.

  More vehicles pulled into view, and Jet counted another twenty tanks rolling toward the gunfight, escorted by a fleet of personnel carriers, no doubt with hundreds of soldiers. She briefly wondered whether the chatter she’d overheard at the university about a coup might be true – had the Mossad terminated Hovel in order to facilitate a takeover by the military?