The rugged serpentine valley west of Vatan that Medzhid had chosen to confront the approaching border garrison was not only ideal ground for a smaller force to hold off a larger one. It was also, Medzhid had told Jack, the site of one of Dagestan’s most famous battles, Lemmes Nok, where six hundred Avar, Kumyk, and Tsakhur tribesmen had banded together to repel Tahmasp Qoli invaders.
• • •
HAVING SECURED the local garrison commander’s commitment that morning, Medzhid had to make only a single call to get the four-thousand-man force moving northeast out of the city toward Vatan.
By the time the Ural truck in which Medzhid, Jack, Ysabel, Dom, and Spellman were riding reached the entrance of the canyon, the troops were already in position, standing at attention and formed into eight phalanxes of five hundred men each that blocked the mouth of the canyon, from rock face to rock face. None of them was armed.
It was an impressive spectacle, Jack thought, but useless on a modern battlefield. Of course, Medzhid knew this, as did the city’s garrison commander, and probably every one of the four thousand men. If whatever military vehicles were about to come down this road decided to open fire, many hundreds would be dead within minutes.
Dressed in his formal Ministry of the Interior politsiya uniform, Medzhid climbed down from the truck with his doctor’s help, then made his way up the road, passing through the phalanxes’ ranks as he went. He looked straight ahead, his gait steady. Jack saw no trace of pain on his face, no small feat, given what he must be feeling. His lung was working at half capacity at best, the doctor had told Jack in the truck. And not until they got him into surgery would they know whether there was any hemorrhaging.
Jack and the others followed behind Medzhid until he reached the front of the formation. He stopped to exchange salutes with the garrison commander, then continued on until he was twenty feet ahead of the first rank and standing in the middle of the road.
Jack checked his watch: 5:20.
An earlier reconnaissance report from one of Medzhid’s ERF units had put the lead units of the border garrison three miles away.
• • •
JACK FELT THE APPROACH of the armored personnel carriers at first as shivering of the ground beneath his feet, then as a rumbling as the first vehicles came around the bend three hundred yards up the road.
Jack said to Ysabel, “If they start shooting, I want you to go—”
“You’ll never learn, will you, Jack?” she said, and gave his hand a squeeze.
• • •
UPON SEEING MEDZHID’S blocking force, the leading APC eased left, making room for the trailing vehicles until four of them were moving down the road in a line abreast. One by one, the APCs’ thirty-millimeter cannons swiveled about until they were aimed at Medzhid’s force. They closed to a hundred yards and then ground to a halt.
After a minute or so a GAZ Tigr—the Russian Army’s version of the Humvee—rumbled down the shoulder past the APCs, then eased left into the middle of the road. The Tigr kept coming, its diesel engine echoing off the canyon walls, until it was thirty feet away. It slowly coasted to a stop, and a man in camouflage coveralls and a maroon beret climbed out of the passenger seat and walked forward.
“Good morning, Minister Medzhid,” the man said, saluting.
Medzhid returned the salute. “Colonel Lobanov.”
“May I ask what this is about, Minister? Why are these men blocking the road into the city?”
“The city is quiet, Colonel. There is no need for you to enter.”
“I have orders to the contrary.”
“I have orders from the people of Makhachkala,” Medzhid replied. “You are an Avar Muslim, aren’t you?”
“Pardon me?” Medzhid repeated the question and Colonel Lobanov nodded. “I am.”
“I’m also Avar, but Russian Orthodox. The city’s garrison commander is of mixed heritage, Lak and Chechen. His wife is Azerbaijani.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“There are thirteen different ethnicities that call Dagestan home, Colonel. We all speak Russian and probably a mixture of other dialects. We know one another’s foods and drinks, our various marriage and funeral customs, our religious holidays and festivals. We are Russians, but we are also Dagestanis—Avars, Laks, Chechens, Tsakhurs . . .
“What you have been sent here to stop isn’t a violent uprising of three million thugs. The only damage that’s been done to Makhachkala has been done by covert forces sent here by President Volodin. The reports of violence you’ve received were not acts committed by people who call Makhachkala home.
“Earlier today, Colonel, I was shot by my own trusted bodyguard, a man working for Moscow. He is also responsible for the deaths of two dear friends. Another man, a sergeant named Pavel Koikov, with whom I served during my early days in the politsiya, was kidnapped from his home. This, too, was done at the behest of Moscow. Three days ago I was accused of having killed sixty-two fellow Dagestanis, burning them alive in a mosque at Almak in 1999.”
Lobanov said, “I know Almak. My father talked about you. I remember reading the news stories. You killed only terrorists.”
“Terrorists who had beheaded nine Russian soldiers,” Medzhid added. “Agents from Moscow took and tried to kill Sergeant Koikov for fear he would tell the truth about Almak.
“My own daughter was kidnapped, Colonel, taken from the university where she is studying to become a doctor. You remember Aminat. You met her four years ago at my birthday party.”
“I remember.”
“They threatened to send her back to my wife and me in pieces.”
“Minister, I am truly sorry that these terrible things have happened, but I have my orders.”
“Orders from where? Moscow? From whom? The same people who ordered done all the things I just told about?”
“I have no choice—”
“You have discretion!” Medzhid shot back. “You’re Dagestan’s military governor. You live here, Colonel, along with your wife and two sons. You’ve called Dagestan home your entire life. Colonel, you’re Russian, you’re Dagestani, you’re Avar, and you’re Muslim, and you live and work beside people who are the same as you, and yet different from you. These are the people Moscow has told you are militants and thugs. That’s the story they want you to believe. But what do you think?”
“Minister, what would you have me do?”
“Turn around, return to the border districts, and tell Moscow all is quiet in Makhachkala.” Medzhid offered Lobanov a smile. “If later you hear otherwise, call me and you can come down and see for yourself.”
Lobanov held Medzhid’s gaze for a long ten seconds, then shook his head and smiled. “Good day, Minister Medzhid.”
“And to you, Colonel. Safe travels.”
EPILOGUE
Baku, Azerbaijan
JACK WASN’T SURE it qualified for the strict definition of irony, but in the end Raymond Wellesley’s obsession over derailing the coup, which was matched only by Seth’s obsession to see it succeed, would be the SIS man’s downfall.
The fact that Wellesley had chosen to use the Four Seasons Baku as his bolt-hole after leaving Makhachkala made Jack wonder if there was something to Jung’s theory of synchronicity after all.
“I love it when a plan comes together,” Ysabel said, taking a sip from her coffee cup.
“I’m not celebrating until I see him step off that elevator,” Jack replied.
From their position in one of the lobby’s seating areas, they had a perfect view of where Wellesley was to emerge.
Jack only hoped that wherever Seth Gregory had gone, he was watching what was about to unfold—especially since it was Seth who’d made it possible. His seemingly trivial act of making off with the coup’s operational funds had been the final nail in Wellesley’s coffin.
Having invested so much time and effor
t in trying to stop the coup, Wellesley had chosen to tap into his own private operational war chest, funds that were themselves suspect. Gavin Biery and Matt Spellman, working in conjunction with a recovering but still hospitalized Medzhid, and Medzhid’s counterpart in Azerbaijan’s own Ministry of the Interior, had managed to penetrate Pacific Alliance Group, the front company Wellesley had used to lease his nerve center schoolhouse in downtown Makhachkala. From there, the rest of the dominoes had fallen in rapid succession—through Pacific Alliance Group, Wellesley had not only hired the Igarka to transport the Kvant to Makhachkala, but also paid, in person, the owner of the flatbed truck that was to take the Kvant to yet another PAG-leased building from which the Kvant was to track Seth’s hubs for the Krasukhas on the ridge above Makhachkala. Finally, Wellesley had used funds from Pacific Alliance Group to rent the only available property outside the village of Keshar-e Sofla, a cabin at the end of the lonely dirt road where Ysabel had ambushed Jack’s kidnappers.
At Gerry Hendley’s request, Mary Pat Foley had presented this evidence to the chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, who, as it turned out, had recently initiated a covert probe into Wellesley’s extracurricular financial activities.
While Gavin and the others had found no proof that Wellesley had received compensation from the Russian SVR, Jack suspected that evidence would eventually be found. In men like Raymond Wellesley, hubris always trumped hypocrisy.
“Are you sure we can’t shoot him?” Ysabel asked. “Even just a little bit?”
Jack smiled. “Tempting as it is, no. I’m already on thin ice with my boss.”
“There he is,” Ysabel murmured, nodding toward the bank of elevators.
Dressed in khaki trousers and a blue oxford shirt and carrying a leather valise draped over his shoulder, Wellesley looked more like a visiting businessman than an intelligence operative who may or may not be on the run. Though Gavin had been able to pin down the front end of Wellesley’s travel arrangements, his destination was a mystery. However, unless they’d missed some detail, it appeared the SIS man assumed he was in the clear.
Wellesley strode past them, pushed through the revolving doors, and headed to the waiting black ZiL limousine. The driver opened the rear door, shut it behind Wellesley, then walked around to the driver’s side.
Jack’s phone chimed with a text message: READY WHENEVER YOU ARE.
Jack and Ysabel stood up and walked out of the lobby. Jack opened the ZiL’s rear door and leaned in. “Morning, Raymond.”
Wellesley’s face went pale. “Jack, what are you—”
“Do you mind if we join you? Ysabel, after you.”
Ysabel climbed in and took the seat opposite Wellesley. Jack did the same and shut the door. He asked, “Are you carrying?”
Wellesley seemed to have regained his composure. His shocked expression was gone, replaced by the smug half-smile Jack had seen many times since meeting the SIS man. “No, Jack, I’m not armed.”
“That’s good, because our driver is.”
“I see. What’s your plan, then? Take me out into the countryside, shoot me, then bury me?”
“It worked for Oleg Pechkin.” Sort of.
“Who?”
Ysabel said, “You know, Mr. Wellesley, Seth was right about you: You’re too arrogant for your own good.”
“Ah . . . How is Seth, by the way?”
“Dead,” Jack replied. But already on his way home, he thought. He and Ysabel would be back in Virginia in time for the funeral.
“Sorry to hear that. I actually liked Seth. He reminded me of a younger, more crass, less intelligent version of myself. Come to think of it, he was nothing like me. But the man had vision, I will say that.”
Jack clenched his jaw, but was careful to keep his face impassive. “Things have a way of working out, Raymond,” he said, then called out, “Dom, we’re ready.”
“On our way,” Dom replied.
• • •
THEY SAT IN SILENCE, Jack’s eyes never leaving Wellesley’s. By the time they reached Heydar Aliyev International Airport’s charter terminal, the SIS man was shifting nervously in his seat.
Dom pulled through the rolling gate, then turned right through an open garage door and into a dimly lit hangar. Through the window Jack could see a gleaming white Gulfstream 650 jet with its folding stairs extended. Standing at the bottom of the steps were a pair of trim, broad-shouldered men in navy blue suits.
Wellesley glanced out the window. “What are you playing at, Jack?”
Ysabel replied, “This is your plane, isn’t it?”
“It is. This is perhaps the worst kidnapping in history, you know that, don’t you?”
Jack ignored him. He checked his watch: 8:20 a.m.
“Raymond, five minutes ago, e-mail and text messages went out to forty-two thousand Makhachkala citizens. In an hour, they’re going to be on the streets, surrounding every government building; in ninety minutes, President Nabiyev will be announcing his resignation. In two hours, Rebaz Medzhid will be on every radio and television network in the country. In six hours, every major network and social media site in the world will be streaming the coup, live and in color.”
“Good Lord, Jack, you’re not a very fast learner, are you? Volodin will simply order the border garrisons back in—”
“He may indeed. It won’t matter. Those garrisons will never come within fifty miles of Makhachkala. Medzhid and the military governor have come to an understanding. If Volodin wants to put boots on the ground in Dagestan, he’ll have to fly them in—an order which has gotten a little stickier.”
“What does that mean?”
“Over the last twenty-four hours Volodin’s foreign minister has been visited by or has heard from ambassadors from the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, and China. I’m paraphrasing, but the message was simple: You’ve had your fun in Crimea, Ukraine, and Estonia. Don’t push your luck.”
“That won’t scare him.”
“Probably not, but he’s no idiot, either. He’s going to have to make a choice: let Dagestan go and hopefully maintain a cordial relationship—something I think Medzhid will be open to—and easy access to Caspian oil, or march in, crush yet another republic that simply wants freedom, and take his chances with the backlash he’ll get from a new crop of Dagestani insurgent groups, not to mention the nasty ones already in Chechnya and Georgia—as well as the non-Federation Caspian governments who’ll like the idea of another free country sitting beside the basin’s deposits. My guess is Volodin will make the smart move and keep the crude flowing.”
“That’s a big gamble, Jack.”
“The Dagestani people are willing to roll the dice.”
Wellesley shook his head sadly. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You’ve turned this whole region into a terrorist incubator.”
“That may be,” Jack replied. “If so, we’ll hunt them where they are—just like we always do. You’ve got no faith, Raymond. The West doesn’t need Volodin, and it never will.”
Jack scooted forward and opened Wellesley’s door. “Time to go home, Raymond.”
Wellesley climbed out, followed by Jack and Ysabel, who said, “Travel safe, Mr. Wellesley.”
The SIS man gave them a puzzled expression, then turned to head toward the plane. Blocking his way were the two blue-suited men. The older of the two said, “Mr. Raymond Wellesley, I’m placing you in custody for suspicion of violating the Official Secrets Act.”
“Pardon me?”
“Turn around, sir, and surrender your bag.”
The younger man placed his hands on Wellesley’s shoulders and jerked him around so he was facing Jack and Ysabel. As the SIS man felt the handcuffs ratchet into place, his face went blank. “What the bloody hell is this, Ryan?”
“You were careless with your money,” Jack replied. “You wrote
one too many checks on your Pacific Alliance Group account.”
“You bastard!”
With one hand on each of Wellesley’s biceps, the two SIS men frog-marched him to the Gulfstream, up the steps, and through the door, which closed a few moments later. As the gap closed, Jack heard Wellesley cry, “. . . bloody fools, don’t you—”
Dom called, “Anybody for breakfast?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Ysabel replied.
Dom climbed back into the driver’s seat.
Ysabel said to Jack, “Have you decided where we’re going?”
“I’m going to leave it up to you. I’ve got two weeks’ vacation and I’m taking every second of it.”
Ysabel nodded, pursed her lips as she thought. “Matt’s suggestion of Tahiti works for me.”
Jack smiled. “Me, too.”
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