Moments later she sat up and tested her weight with her arms. She grimaced at the spike of pain that lanced from her ribs, but ignored it and forced herself to her feet. After a final look at the lodge, she took four steps back and ran at the wall again, this time her footing sure. Her hands locked on the top, but she froze, the pain blinding, and then heaved herself up, nearly blacking out from the effort.
More shouts from behind her sounded through the rain, and she rolled over the top of the wall and dropped on the far side. Her side throbbed and her breaths came ragged. After a moment to orient herself, she rose and took off at a trot. The ground here was rockier, the dense vegetation making it less likely the guards could easily follow.
Flashlight beams played across the top of the wall where she’d been only seconds before, and more shouts told her that the guards had discovered her tracks. She found a faint trail in the darkness and followed it toward the main road; and then stopped at the sound of an engine starting up at the lodge, joined almost instantly by another.
The exhaust tone told her everything she needed to know: the guards had ATVs.
Jet knelt and eyed the ground, trying to make out any trace of her footprints. Now that the soil composition had changed to a combination of dirt and shale, she couldn’t see anything suspicious. And if the rain continued for any length of time, any footprints she’d left would be eradicated.
She stood and squinted at the darkness while her fingers probed her sore ribs. The ATVs revved and she sprang into action, pushing through the brush and doubling back toward the mining road. The guards would likely do a sweep of the exterior of the wall, but with no tracks to follow, they’d be wasting their time. It was possible that they’d ride to the mine road, but she suspected that given the conditions, they would stay close to the lodge in case the intruder who had breached their defenses was only the first onslaught from an unknown adversary.
Pain seared through her with every footfall, but she ignored it and powered on, jade eyes probing the gloom. The sound of the ATVs diminished as she battled her way through the brush, and then the foliage thinned and she was on the trail she and Itai had used for the final approach to their vantage point.
Jet picked up speed as the downpour eased. Her entire left side was now numb from her shoulder to her hip, her body providing temporary relief as shock set in. She was sure she’d broken a few ribs, or at least badly bruised them, but she couldn’t do anything about it until she was clear of the threat on her tail.
The track veered to the left and she turned right, remembering that the mining road was down the slope, not up. Ten minutes passed, the ATVs now a distant buzz, and she emerged from the underbrush onto the road as the rain tapered to a drizzle. Visibility was still close to nil, but she could move with more assurance, the outline of the edge of the road clear even in the gloom.
She made her way down the mountain toward the bridge, pain returning as the adrenaline in her system bled away. By the time she made it to the wooden span, she was limping, favoring her right side and wincing at every step.
The stream surged beneath the bridge, swollen from the rain. She made her way across, noting that the wood had splintered in places from the weight of Itai’s car. Her foot broke through one of the planks and she fell, catching herself with her hands only at the last minute, sending agony shrieking through her side again. She gasped from the intensity of the pain and stars danced behind her eyes as she fought the creeping darkness of unconsciousness, willing herself to stay focused long enough to make it to Itai. Her chest heaved with effort, and she slowly pulled her leg from the gap she’d opened in the wood with her boot, wincing with every movement.
A minute later she had recovered enough to stand, and she hobbled the rest of the way across the bridge. When Jet reached the far side, she looked around for the car, any tire tracks long ago erased by the water. Her eyes roved over the brush and followed the road, and she spotted the roof fifty yards down the slope. She picked her way slowly along the road; the ruts treacherous in the dark, and her ankle swelling in her boot reminded her that she’d exhausted any luck for the night. When she reached the vehicle, the windows were fogged over, and Itai jumped when she tapped on the driver’s side glass.
He opened the door and regarded her. “Well?”
“I think I broke some ribs,” she said, and limped around to the passenger-side door to let herself in.
Itai watched her in silence and then pulled his door shut and turned to her.
“So how did it go? Were you successful?”
She gave him a clipped report of her attempt, ending with a frown. Itai shook his head and reached for the ignition key. “Then it was a failure. This was all for nothing.”
Jet fastened her seatbelt with a grimace and leaned her head back against the headrest. “Maybe not.”
Chapter 47
Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the lodge windows as Kazamov sipped a cup of coffee, a snifter of cognac beside it for fortification after a difficult night. The ATVs had awakened him and he’d been unable to sleep since then for more than minutes at a time, furious that anyone had made it past his security force and then managed to escape. He paid top dollar for his retinue of ex-Spetsnaz commandos, and the idea that an intruder could make it this close to his sanctum was disturbing, to say the least. The only good to come out of it was that Nabiyev hadn’t been harmed, so as troubling as the night had been, in the end, it had been only that, nothing more.
Nabiyev had managed to sleep through the ATVs, and when Kazamov had checked on him that morning, he’d been groggy but otherwise unaffected by the night’s excitement. He’d looked like he’d wrestled a bear, the vodka clearly unkind to him the following day, but he was alive and unharmed, ready to lead his country forward, if a little bleary-eyed and sluggish.
Sizzling echoed from the kitchen along with the clatter of crockery, and one of the servants appeared with a fine china plate heaped with sausage, baked bread, and eggs. Kazamov took an appreciative sniff.
“Will there be anything else, sir? More coffee?” the man asked.
“Nyet. This is fine,” Kazamov said, his eyes on the screen across from him, where a news program was covering the latest from the capital. The coup had been put down, the looters and vandals arrested, the armed gangs contained. Earlier an unconfirmed report had stated that the assassination weapon had been discovered in the hall, but there was no further news about it, nor about the claims by the military officers who’d been taken into custody that the coup had been orchestrated by the president himself.
A woman with bouffant blonde hair read from a teleprompter with the bland sincerity of a bank teller, reciting the latest rumors masked as news. Most notable had been the statement from the Nationalist Party calling for restraint and calm, and of course Nabiyev’s televised address, which had been well received by most.
Questions about the prime minister’s whereabouts had been answered during the broadcast, and he was expected back in the capital by nightfall. There was still a curfew in effect during evening hours, but the civil unrest had passed and the city was largely calm. Outlying areas had reported no issues, but the military was continuing to advise that any lawlessness would be met with an immediate and unequivocal response.
Kazamov forked a mouthful of sausage and eggs into his mouth and chewed contentedly as he read the news feed at the bottom of the screen. He loved it when a plan came together, and his impromptu leveraging of the phony assassination attempt had been a masterstroke – and a bargain at the price. He was completely disconnected from the entire debacle, had total deniability, and best of all, the scheme had worked. An increasingly difficult parasite had been removed from office, and a more malleable one inserted. He was a kingmaker. It was a heady feeling.
A noise from the hallway drew his attention. A slender brunette beauty with heavy black Clark Kent glasses crossed the great room and beamed at him, her sweatpants and halter top bouncing as they struggled to c
ontain her curves. “Good morning, Ygor,” she purred.
“Morning, darling. May I offer you some breakfast and coffee? Or perhaps something stronger?”
She giggled and smiled again. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Go into the kitchen and tell them to make you the Kazamov special, and to be quick about it.”
“You’re too good to us, Ygor.”
“It is one of my curses – my generosity,” he agreed, watching her walk to the kitchen with an appreciative eye.
The girl was one of many from a world-class selection he flew in from Moscow for special guests. The local talent was serviceable, but nothing like the Russian beauties to which he’d grown accustomed. This one was studying to be a doctor, or so she said. Whether it was true or not was unimportant to him.
A shout from upstairs interrupted his musing, and he frowned at the alarmed tone of the man’s voice.
“What is it?” Kazamov called out.
“We need a doctor!”
“What? Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s the prime minister.”
Kazamov leapt to his feet and hurried to the stairs, his bulk preventing him from moving very fast. He labored up the steps, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the effort. He paused at the upstairs landing when he spotted the two dancers he’d selected for Nabiyev’s entertainment, their hands over their mouths, standing by the guest bedroom door and clad in only neon pink and green lingerie. Kazamov toddled past them and stopped at the sight of a guard inside Nabiyev’s bedroom, pointing into the bathroom, his expression grim.
“Speak up, man. What is it?” the Russian demanded.
“He’s…I think he’s dead.”
“Think? Does he have a pulse?” Kazamov snapped.
The guard didn’t answer, his expression betraying that he hadn’t checked.
“Get out of the way, you idiot,” Kazamov barked, and pushed past the guard. There on the floor lay Nabiyev, mouth agape, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Kazamov retched at the overpowering smell from the pool of cologne the man was lying in. The precious nectar was evaporating from the shattered bottle on the floor, its gold dome cap resting against the base of the toilet. He stepped closer to Nabiyev and leaned down to touch his neck, but withdrew his hand at the feel of cool flesh.
“He’s dead, all right,” the Russian said. “What happened?”
“The girls found him. They called me.” The guard hesitated. “I think he had a heart attack or something.”
Kazamov shook his head and stormed from the bedroom, his face a mask of fury. All of his machinations had been in vain – the stupid bastard had overdone it with the booze and hookers, and his heart had given out.
His security chief met him at the base of the stairs, and Kazamov explained in a couple of sentences what had happened. “Get a doctor up here. Use the sat phone. I’m headed for the airport. I can’t be delayed by the locals and their questions. Tell them I was here, but left before Nabiyev was found.” Kazamov paused and turned his head. “Girls! Pack up. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
The security man nodded. “So we found him?”
“Of course. He was alive the last time anyone saw him. In good spirits.” Kazamov didn’t wait for a response and instead returned to his seat at the table and downed the entire snifter of cognac at a gulp. The ebony-haired vixen sitting across from him was visibly scared by his mood and didn’t utter a word. Kazamov speared a piece of sausage, took a bite, and spit it across the room in anger.
“Damn,” he exclaimed, and yelled for the servant. “Pavel! Pavel, you dolt! My breakfast is cold.”
Chapter 48
The mood at the Nationalist Party headquarters was festive on the evening of the election as Hovel’s gutted administration conceded defeat to Yashar Bahador, who would become the new president of Azerbaijan by a slim majority of the vote. Bottles had been cracked and the hall was packed with triumphant supporters yelling, singing, and celebrating the win.
Bahador and Sergei stood in the administrative offices at a mirrored window overlooking the floor, a bottle of imported champagne open on a nearby desk, plastic cups in their hands. Bahador watched the revelry on the floor below with an amused smile.
“They seem overjoyed. That is good. Of course, now the real work begins,” he said. “The entrenched powers will be lining up to corrupt anyone in my cabinet, and I fear that some may be able to resist anything but temptation.”
“It is a huge victory. The first time the nation has had a real chance since we gained independence.”
“Yes. But recall how quickly the parasites went to work then. Some things never change.”
“It’s a matter of selecting your staff carefully,” Sergei said.
Bahador smiled. “Our staff, my friend. I didn’t get here alone. Don’t think I will forget that.”
“I’m honored to serve in any capacity I can.” Sergei shook his head as though bemused. “Nabiyev stroking out was timely, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Although we could have beaten him. He was no Hovel.”
“There were rumors he was going to suspend the election.”
“Rumors. This country is like a gaggle of geese, always squawking about a new conspiracy.”
“I’m somewhat surprised they didn’t stuff more ballot boxes.”
“The observers made it impractical. After the loss of two members of the ruling party within a matter of days, they subjected the key stations to rigorous checks. Any significant variance from the exit polls would have thrown up a red flag.”
Sergei took a long sip of his champagne. “I think they lost their will once Hovel was assassinated. He was always their backbone. Nabiyev was a weasel, but he didn’t have what it takes to lead.”
“Probably,” Bahador agreed. “All water under the bridge now.”
The lead-up to the elections had been chaotic, with voter intimidation, accusations of bribery and blackmail, and massive protests against any delays in the voters making their choice. When Nabiyev had died, his successor had proposed postponing the election for three months, but the popular response had been so pronounced that he’d quickly backpedaled and the vote had gone forward as planned.
An aide entered with a message slip and handed it to Bahador before hurrying off. Bahador read the contents and his face tightened. “There’s rioting over at the coliseum. Cars burning. The police are sending over a squad to maintain order here.”
“That’s not reassuring. Who’s rioting?”
“Doesn’t say,” Bahador said. “Might be staged by the administration. One of the things I’ve feared is that they’ll try to create such upheaval that the people will demand they stay in power to protect them.”
“That would be illegal.”
Bahador nodded. “Yes, but it wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened, would it? There are no new ideas. Let’s hope that it doesn’t get out of hand.”
Sergei checked his watch and eyed the camera crews below. “About time to make a statement, don’t you think?”
Bahador sighed and set down his champagne. “I suppose. Something about peaceful transitions and a new tomorrow?”
Sergei smirked and felt in his jacket. “I have a little something written.”
“Give me ten minutes to digest it in peace, and then it’s showtime. Cue the dancing girls.”
Sergei passed him the speech, two double-spaced pages, knowing that Bahador would memorize it quickly and only skim it during the broadcast or, even better, begin reading it and then toss it aside as though he was departing from the script. Cheap theater, but effective on the population, which had elected him based on a desire for meaningful change rather than a continuation of a corrupt and oppressive status quo.
“Thank you, young man,” Bahador said, and turned from the window.
Sergei moved to the door and paused at the threshold. “I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed.”
Bahador nodded again
. “Ten minutes.”
Chapter 49
Tel Aviv, Israel
Matt answered the knock on the door and his face broke into a grin at the sight of Jet, slightly worse for wear, standing in the hall with her emerald eyes gleaming in the halogen lights. He moved to hug her, but she stopped him and instead tiptoed and kissed him hard on the mouth.
When she pulled away, she was glowing, a small smirk twisting her lips.
“Sorry I couldn’t call. They wouldn’t let me,” she said.
“That’s one way to surprise me.” He looked her over. “No hug?”
“Not for a while. I’ve got two fractured ribs and some pretty amazing colored bruises to show you.”
His expression grew serious. “Aside from that, everything’s okay?”
“Sure. Never better. Just going to need some recovery time.” She looked behind Matt. “Where’s Hannah?”
“In her room. Since she discovered my tablet and YouTube, I haven’t been able to get her to put it down.”
Jet stepped inside and took Matt’s hand. He eased the door shut and called out, “Hannah! Mama’s home!”
The little girl came tearing around the corner and Matt had to stop her before she threw herself at Jet. “Whoa. Mama has some boo-boos, so take it easy,” he warned.
Hannah hesitated and Jet knelt to face her. “I can manage a real gentle hug. No squeezing, though.”
Hannah’s face lit up and she approached Jet with hands outstretched. Jet embraced her and decided it was worth the pain to feel her daughter in her arms. She kissed Hannah’s cheeks and smoothed her hair, her eyes moistening.
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