Tom Clancy Under Fire

by Grant Blackwood

  Jack glanced at his watch: 2:12.

  Wellesley said, “You’re lying. Otherwise I would have already been called home.”

  “Not if what you’re doing isn’t sanctioned. I think you’re out here trying to set national policy.”

  Wellesley’s cell phone chimed. He finished chewing the piece of chicken in his mouth, said, “Excuse me, please,” then pulled the phone from his inner suit pocket. He studied the screen for a few moments, typed a reply, and then returned the phone to his pocket.

  “Jack, since Nine-Eleven both our governments have shared a unified policy when it comes to terrorism, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I would.”

  “Like him or not, Valeri Volodin knows how to handle terrorism—he crushes it where he finds it. If you believe the Caucasus is troublesome now, imagine the region with someone other than Volodin at the helm. That is what keeps me up at night, Jack, as it should our leaders. Sadly, it does not.”

  Raymond Wellesley had in essence just admitted he had indeed gone rogue. Even so, the confession wouldn’t be enough to indict him in the eyes of his government. While Wellesley was objectively right about Volodin’s stance on terrorism, the man’s larger national policies, dominated by blunt aggression, would eventually spill beyond the borders of the Russian Federation. If that happened, terrorism would be the least of everyone’s worries.

  “So, to directly answer your earlier question: Do you really imagine someone of my standing would betray Her Majesty’s government?”

  “You suggested Paul Gregory had done just that, and he had more years of service than you do. And he was a better man than you.”

  “You mean Paul Gregory, aka Boghos Grigorian? I am nothing like him. Tell me, Jack, how is Seth faring? Stable, rational?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Of course he is. Did he tell you where he got his father’s coup manual? No, on second thought, he probably didn’t.”

  Jack felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. It had been Wellesley. Via Oleg Pechkin, the SIS had given Seth the manual. He’d done his research on Seth, had found his weak spot, then planted the seed and nurtured it into an obsession. Bastard.

  There was no telling how much of Seth’s planning had been guided by Wellesley’s deft hand—or how many of their own countermoves he and Pechkin had prepared. Wellesley was playing a chess game he might have already won.

  Jack said, “You give yourself too much credit, Raymond.”

  “As you said, I guess we’re going to find out. Jack, none of this needs to happen. You abort, we’ll do the same, and we all go home, no harm done.”

  Jack was surprised Wellesley thought he’d buy such a blatant lie.

  “That’s a call way above my pay grade. I’m here for the duration.”

  Wellesley put down his fork and carefully folded his napkin. “Jack, I think it’s time you come with me.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Yes, it is. Stand up, Jack.”

  “What’s your plan, Raymond, a gunfight right here?”

  “No, we’ll just walk you out to the car and drive away.” Wellesley turned and nodded at his bodyguards. They stood and walked to the table.

  “Time to go, Jack.”

  As if by magic, Dominic Caruso appeared and took up station to their left, his sight line to both them and Wellesley clear. Dom said cheerily, “Hi, guys.”

  In unison the bodyguards slid their hands into their jackets.

  “Don’t,” Dom said.

  Jack glanced sideways and saw Dom had his Ruger tucked behind his left leg, the muzzle just visible.

  Jack told Wellesley, “Seth was right about you: You’re too cocky for your own good.”

  Scowling, Wellesley stood up. “We’ll see each other later, Jack.”

  Jack gave the SIS man a parting shot he hoped would shake the man’s calm: “Come find us.”

  • • •

  BACK AT THE OPEL, Jack first recounted the meeting for Ysabel, then called Gavin, who asked, “Did it go through?”

  Going into the lunch date, Jack had one primary goal: to definitively sort out the two landline telephone numbers they’d collected from their Khasavyurt trip, Dobromir’s contact for Wellesley and Helen’s line to Pechkin, which was the same one Osin was to call after the raid.

  “Yes,” Jack answered. “Wellesley answered the two-twelve call.”

  “Okay, good. That’s the number Dobromir had for him. Cocky bastard hasn’t even bothered to change it.”

  “What did you text?”

  “What you told me to: ‘I’m Dobromir, I’m pissed, Helen’s in a Scottish jail, and I want answers.’ I don’t see what good this is going to do us, though.”

  “It’ll rattle Wellesley’s confidence. By now they probably know Aminat’s home safe, but as far as they’re concerned Helen could be alive and talking to Scotland Yard. This is just one more thing for them to worry about.”

  “And waste time on. Got it. Okay, the other number: When it rang through I got that generic female voice asking for a text message. I put in, ‘Khasavyurt raid negative. Umarov suspicious. Instructions?’ I haven’t heard back yet.”

  Jack now knew something about how Wellesley and Pechkin were operating in Makhachkala. Wellesley’s cell, and probably Pechkin’s as well, depending on whether Gavin got a response, were being routed through landlines, perhaps from inside Wellesley’s Chirpoy Road apartment. If so, Jack might have identified their war room.

  He asked, “What did Wellesley text back?”

  “He told Dobromir to sit tight and he would find out what was going on.”

  “Let me know when you hear back from Pechkin.”

  • • •

  JACK AND YSABEL returned to the Tortoreto apartment. When they stepped off the elevator, Vasim and Anton were at their usual posts.

  “Hi, guys,” Jack said.

  Anton nodded at him.

  “I don’t think I got a chance to say this, but you did good work back in Georgia. I was glad to have you along.”

  This seemed to break the ice. Vasim gave him the barest trace of a smile and said, “Thank you.”

  “Where did you two serve before joining the minister’s detail?”

  “Novolaksky district, near the Chechen border.”

  “Both of you?”

  “Yes,” said Anton.

  “Pretty tough area,” said Jack. “You sure as hell earned this posting, didn’t you?”

  Now Anton opened up a bit: “We have many years of service.”

  Jack got out his phone. “I just realized I don’t have your mobiles. It would probably be a good idea.”

  “Ask Minister Medzhid.”

  “No problem, I understand,” said Jack. “Anyway, thanks again.”

  He and Ysabel went through the door; as it closed behind them she said, “What was that all about?”

  “Just making friends.”

  He texted Dom: STATUS?

  AT CHIRPOY ROAD, came the reply. NO ACTIVITY.

  THANKS FOR THE ASSIST EARLIER.

  NO PROB. FUN TIMES.

  I’LL RELIEVE YOU AT SEVEN.

  They walked to the conference table, where Seth and Spellman were sitting.

  “Where’ve you been?” asked Spellman.

  “Having lunch with Raymond Wellesley.”

  Seth’s head snapped around. “What? Why the hell did you do that?”

  “To plant a few seeds,” said Jack. “And I learned something: We’ve got them more nervous than we thought. He tried to snatch me from the restaurant.”

  “Ballsy fucker. Was Pechkin with him?”

  “No, just a couple leather jackets.”

  One of Medzhid’s pantsuited assistants came down the hallway. “Mr. Gregory, the minister would like
to see you.”

  Seth told Jack, “We’re doing radio and TV call-ins. They’ve started tossing him softballs now, so I think we’ve turned the corner.”

  Seth got up and followed the assistant back toward Medzhid’s mini-suite. Once he was out of sight, Jack said, “We’ve got a problem, Matt. Wellesley’s the one who gave Seth the coup manual. He’s been playing Seth from the start.”

  “Ah, holy crap,” Spellman said, and groaned. “Not that I doubted it, but man, Wellesley’s good. I’d hate to play chess with the guy.”

  Ysabel replied, “I think we already are.”

  Looking at the CIA man’s face, Jack decided the frustrated expression he wore was genuine. Under the frequent hammering of John Clark’s “Trust your gut” mantra, Jack had developed, he thought, solid instincts. His were now telling him Spellman was one of the good guys. This was a relief; they needed someone trustworthy in Medzhid’s true inner circle.

  While Wellesley’s admission that he’d been jerking Seth’s emotional strings removed any doubt for Jack about his friend’s allegiance, he was more worried than ever about Seth’s stability.

  “Does this mean Wellesley has the whole plan?” asked Ysabel.

  “Yes and no,” replied Spellman. “Yeah, Paul Gregory’s plan was ahead of its time, but it couldn’t have taken into account things like social media, the Internet, how far propaganda methods have come, and so on. I’m sure Wellesley knows our plan will rely heavily on that stuff, but he doesn’t know the nitty-gritty.”

  “Such as?” Jack asked.

  “We’ve got the city rigged with satellite Internet and generators at coordination points in case Nabiyev shuts down the ISPs and the electrical grid, which I’m sure he will. For years we’ve been assembling mailing lists in the capital—about sixty thousand people, most of them twentysomethings who want big change, who’ll get an e-mail blast when our social media goes live. We’ve got plenty of bandwidth and servers prepped for the traffic. An hour after the blast, pictures and vids of the protest will be flooding Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Tumblr. If Nabiyev orders in troops from the garrison and it gets ugly, the whole world will be watching it.”

  Could it really be that easy? Jack wondered. The simple answer was no, of course not, but the world had already seen the power of the Internet in places like Tunisia, Iran, Egypt, and Ukraine, where the governments had initially discounted social media only to find themselves playing catch-up as hundreds of thousands of citizens marched through the streets.

  In and of itself this wasn’t a new phenomenon, but leaders who might otherwise ignore, arrest, or brutalize peaceful protesters suddenly find their actions and words scrutinized by the whole world. Club a ten-year-old girl in Cairo and seven minutes later a million people are seeing it on YouTube, a Boycott Egyptian Pistachios blog is up and running with twenty thousand subscribers, and White Hat hackers have turned the official government website into a flashing orange mess of pop-up ads for mortgage refinancing and miracle face cream.

  And Seth and Spellman were taking it even further. Not only would Makhachkala’s streets be thronged with pro-democracy protesters, but they would have a camera-ready champion waiting just offstage. Their plan was solid, Jack thought, but none of it would be happening in a vacuum. Wellesley and Pechkin were no doubt preparing their own counter-measures, much of them based on the SIS man’s knowledge of Seth’s playbook.

  Jack asked Spellman, “Are you running the whole thing from here?”

  “Nah, we’ve got another place, a secure command center in the MOI building,” Spellman replied. “Say, let’s not push Seth on this Wellesley business. He’s already figured it out. He’s kicking himself better than we ever could.”

  “Yes, but is he dealing with it?” asked Ysabel. “Seth can get a little . . . obsessive.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed. The answer is yeah, he’s okay. He’s also a tad passive-aggressive and—”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Ysabel shot back with a smile.

  “—and Wellesley’s mind games are telling him, ‘You can’t pull it off.’ Seth’s response is, ‘Fuck you, watch me.’”

  “That’s the Seth I know. Matt, there’s something else we need to talk to you about.”

  “Shoot.”

  Jack gave him the whole story about Khasavyurt, from their meeting with Dobromir to their being released by Major Umarov. He finished with the telephone trap he and Gavin had set for Wellesley and Pechkin. “We know Wellesley was Dobromir’s contact, and as soon as Gavin hears back from the number Osin had, we could have Pechkin, too.”

  Spellman stared at the table, shaking his head. Jack guessed what he was feeling: An op like this was a juggling act writ large, with balls that were often invisible, and just as often on fire. And covered in thumbtacks.

  “Hey, here’s an idea,” Spellman said. “How about the three of us get on a plane, head to Tahiti, and start a surf shop?”

  Jack and Ysabel laughed.

  “Seriously, though, you’re sure it was just us in the truck that knew about your trip?”

  Jack nodded. “We’ve decided it wasn’t you—”

  “Finally a little love for good ol’ Matt.”

  “—and it wasn’t Seth. As for Medzhid, I can’t imagine it’s him, but who knows how many agendas he’s got.”

  “So that leaves Anton and Vasim.”

  “And Medzhid’s fiercely loyal to them,” Ysabel said. “We’ll need solid proof before he’ll doubt them.”

  “You got that right. Just think about this: Two guys with guns who are never more than ten feet from Medzhid on the eve of a coup . . . We need to figure this out sooner rather than later.”

  Makhachkala

  LEAVING YSABEL to keep an eye on things at the Tortoreto, Jack took off at six-thirty, swung past the now empty street outside the Ministry building, then drove the three miles to where Dom was staking out the Chirpoy Road apartment.

  As Jack pulled to the curb, the sun was beginning to drop behind the Tarki-Tau hills west of the city. Already he could feel the air cooling.

  “Go get some food and sleep,” Jack said, walking up to Dom’s window. Over the top of his car and through some trees Jack could see the apartment’s gated entrance.

  “Sleep I can use,” Dom replied. “As for food, unless they’ve got a Jimmy John’s stashed away around here, I’ll pass for now. By the way, Ysabel’s very pretty. Are you guys—”

  “Shut up, Dom,” Jack replied with a smile. “How’s it look?”

  “Eighteen rooms, each with a rear barred window and key-card locks on the doors. Whether they’re opened by the gate key card, I don’t know. Second-floor access is through a partially covered stairwell on the north end.

  “Around the wall I’ve counted ten surveillance cameras hidden in the trees, one about every twelve feet, but we can assume the whole thing is ringed. One of the ground-floor apartments, number 102 at the far end, is occupied by some serious-looking dudes wearing jackets that hang like they’re carrying bazookas in their armpits.”

  “Any of them look familiar from my lunch with Wellesley?”

  “No.”

  “I asked Medzhid about this place. He doesn’t know anything about it, so the guards aren’t MOI politsiya. Maybe they’re from the city’s public safety office.”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it,” replied Dom. “I had a cop car drive by about an hour ago. I ducked down and he kept going. Proactivity isn’t on the police academy curriculum here.

  “I’ve only seen two cars go in or out of the gate, but neither of them were Wellesley or Pechkin. The gate must trip some kind of alarm, because every time a car enters, the goon apartment door opens and one of them pokes his head out. The drivers flash some kind of permit and the guard waves, then goes back inside. Whatever that place is, Jack, it’s sure as hell not making money as a commercial
property.”

  “I’ve got Gavin looking into it.”

  “Okay, see you in four hours,” Dom said, and pulled away from the curb.

  Jack got back in his car and started his shift.

  • • •

  WHEN NIGHT FELL, rows of amber spotlights at the base of the apartment’s wall came on, casting cones of light up the brick face.

  At eight-fifteen a car pulled into the driveway. An arm emerged from the driver’s window and swiped a key card, and the gate rose. The car pulled through, then into one of the parking spots. A woman got out, entered one of the ground-level apartments, then emerged a few minutes later. As she exited the gate, Jack zoomed in on the license plate and memorized it.

  Shortly before nine, his phone rang.

  “Jack, where are you?” Spellman asked.

  “Sitting on an apartment. Why?”

  “The men Medzhid has sitting on Koikov’s house aren’t answering. Can you get there?”

  “Where?”

  Spellman gave him the address, then said, “I’ll steer you, just give me your cross streets.”

  “Wait one.” Jack put Spellman on mute, switched apps, then texted Dom: GOTTA RUN. TAKE OVER HERE.

  Dom answered immediately: EN ROUTE.

  Jack started the Opel’s engine and pulled away from the curb, then drove two blocks until he came to a cross street. He switched back to Spellman. “I’m coming up on Vaygach and Tuva. Headed east.”

  “Okay, hold on. You’re three miles away. Head right on Vaygach.”

  For the next ten minutes, with Jack calling out streets or landmarks and Spellman responding with turns, he headed northward to Makhachkala’s city limits.

  “Okay, you’re coming up on Kirovskiy district. Turn right at the next intersection.”

  Jack did so and found himself on a run-down residential street. At the end of it he took a left onto a dirt road bordered on one side by a barbed wire–enclosed pasture.

  “I don’t see any signs,” Jack said. “There’s a mile marker, though, with a twelve on it.”

  “Take the next right. It should be a driveway.”