Jet (11 page)

“Doesn’t help that State overrules anything we tell them these days,” he muttered as he shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a door hook. He sat heavily in his chair and stared at his monitor before shaking his head and closing his eyes.

He would get through this. More importantly in the politically charged corridors of power, nothing would stick to him if it all blew up. His subordinates would take the blame, be shifted sideways in the organization in reward for their support, and the next crisis of the moment would command everyone’s attention.

Larry checked his inbox and began the mental process of compartmentalizing that would be required for his briefing with the president. The commander in chief only needed to know certain relevant details and nothing more. That way he could claim plausible deniability if anything went seriously wrong, which would inevitably be followed by a congressional hearing that would go nowhere, one largely designed to bore the public until everyone had lost interest with whatever was being investigated.

It was the way the system had worked as long as Larry had been with the agency, and it would most certainly outlive him.

Like Nicholson had said in his most famous movie line, the public wasn’t able to handle the truth.

Which ensured that Larry would have job security for as long as he wanted to show up for work.

Pristina, Kosovo

Matt walked into the bank with Hannah’s hand in his, her little feet shuffling on the granite floor. He’d circled the block multiple times before parking the scooter two blocks away and reconnoitering on foot with Hannah. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he’d told her to be a little more patient for their lunch and had led her into the imposing building.

After an annoying few minutes of failing to find his verification paperwork, the assistant manager finally managed to pull it up on her system and directed him to a hand scanner. He held his palm up to it and the vault door clicked open, and then they walked together into the safe deposit chamber, where she watched him like a hawk as he used his key to free the long box. They then moved to a smaller room with a metal table and three chairs, and after she explained to him that he’d have to buzz her to get back out of the security area, Matt thanked her for her time and she left.

He lifted Hannah onto one of the chairs and opened the lid of the box. Inside was a nylon tote bag containing six passports in different names – two for each of them – and four thick stacks of American hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands. He extracted the documents and dollars and then removed another thick wad of euros, a compact semiautomatic pistol with a spare magazine, and Jet’s tiny worn leather satchel on a lanyard, containing her travel stash of diamonds, the rest stored in her Uruguay bank box for permanent safekeeping.

Most of the currency went into his backpack along with the passports. He slid the pistol and magazine into his jacket pocket and looped the lanyard with the diamond satchel around his neck. Finished, the box empty, he considered leaving one of the passports and some money for Jet, just in case she somehow made it to the bank later, but opted instead for a cryptic note telling her to contact one of his blind email accounts, which he’d be checking hourly from his phone. If she was able to get into the box, she’d be able to email him and could explain what she needed and where and when she’d be able to meet up. If not, he hadn’t wasted a passport and twenty grand that would sit unused in the box until the end of time.

Matt and Hannah returned to the vault door, and he pressed a button on the keypad mounted to the heavy steel door frame. The assistant manager took her time, and Matt occupied his adjusting the new cargo in his backpack and straightening Hannah’s hair, messy from the helmet. He’d already decided to ditch the scooter at their next stop – it was impractical with a three-and-a-half-year-old clinging to his back.

Back on the bike, they negotiated the back streets until arriving at the art museum, where he parked the scooter among scores of others, hung the helmet from the handlebars, and led Hannah to the café that would serve as their rendezvous point for the day. The contingency plan was that should either Jet or Matt leave the crisis signal at the house, the other would wait with Hannah at the café until dusk. If the other failed to appear, plan B kicked into effect.

Matt desperately hoped there would be no need for the second phase, but he wasn’t kidding himself.

They took a table just inside the café, out of sight but from where Matt could scan the street through the glare of the picture window. Matt ordered a sandwich for each of them, along with a double-strength cup of coffee for himself, and settled in for the duration.

Hours stretched by, and by the time the sun was melting into the hills, it was obvious that Jet wouldn’t be putting in an appearance. Hannah had become increasingly restless as the day wore on, tiring of coloring and drawing in the notebook among her school things, and asking seemingly every ten minutes where Mama was.

Matt explained to her that they would be meeting her mother somewhere else if she couldn’t make it to the café, and Hannah had given him a skeptical look informed by her months on the run. She might have been knee high, but she’d already seen more of the world than most, and understood innately that when she was pulled out of class only to learn that her mother had disappeared, it signaled nothing good, no matter how Matt spun the news. Misgivings aside, she put on a brave face, but couldn’t disguise her agitation, no matter how many funny stories Matt invented about passersby for her entertainment. By the time twilight was darkening the sky, she was as antsy as Matt had ever seen her, and he could barely keep her from running out of the café as he gathered their things.

He flagged down a taxi, gave the driver an address on the edge of the city, and settled back into the seat with Hannah as the cab shot forward in defiance of oncoming traffic and common sense, swinging into the flow of rapidly moving cars as though possessed of a death wish. The trip across town took fifteen minutes, and when the cab screeched to a stop in front of a long row of industrial buildings, Matt was more than ready to be done with the man’s kamikaze approach to motoring.

They watched the taxi roar away in a cloud of dust and waited until it was out of sight to walk toward the industrial park. After confirming that there was no obvious surveillance, Matt entered the office of a rental storage facility and pushed through the doors to where his unit was located. The combination lock opened with a loud snap, and Hannah watched curiously as he rolled up the metal door, revealing a muted green truck with a polished aluminum camper shell and Romanian plates.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Our new home, at least for a little while. We’re going on a vacation. Camping.”

“What’s camping?”

Matt realized she had no idea what he was talking about. “A trip into the country. Just you and me, while we wait for Mama to show up.”

Hannah asked why Jet couldn’t go with them, and Matt replied that she was busy, but would be along shortly. When she pressed him as to what shortly meant, he dodged, feeling guilty at misleading her but seeing no alternative.

The truck thankfully started without drama, and Matt inched it out of the single stall and left the engine running while he relocked the rolling door. He consulted a map from the glove box as he waited for the iron security gate to swing open, and traced a route with his finger, muttering the names of towns along the way as he committed them to memory. He glanced at Hannah in the passenger seat beside him and tried a smile.

“Ready for our adventure?” he asked.

“I want Mama.”

He nodded. “So do I. But for now, it’s just you and me, kid.”

She fell silent, staring at the dashboard as he steered through the security gates and onto a midsize road that led to the highway. His were the only set of headlights; apparently nobody else was eager to drive to the Serbian border after dark, which didn’t surprise him. The good news was that based on his research, the document check at the borders would be cursory and the search of their possessions nonexistent, the customs agents unmotivated and the supervision lax, there being little to smuggle from Kosovo to Serbia, much less to Romania. He checked the fuel gauge reflexively and confirmed that it was full, more to give himself something to do than because he didn’t remember filling it before putting it into storage, and did a final check of his blind email inbox with his cell phone. There were no messages or voice mails, which didn’t surprise him, but merely confirmed that the signal at the house had been no mistake.

He slowed as he neared the onramp and removed the sim card from the phone, and then stopped and exited the vehicle to place it on the pavement in front of his driver’s side tire. After jettisoning the battery into the thick foliage, he slid back behind the wheel and rolled over the phone with a satisfying crunch, effectively eliminating any chance that the GPS chip in it could be tracked. He had another unlocked phone in the glove compartment to use once over the border. This one was compromised – the shop security system had the number programmed in, although that was in an encrypted secure area of the server, and there would be a record of his calls to Jet’s cell, even though his caller ID was blocked. He had enough operational experience to know that the phone company could bypass that and come up with the number that had been calling – and if it was his old friends at the CIA who’d tracked him to Kosovo, they’d already be doing exactly that.

Matt sighed as he settled into the slow lane, and silently hoped that Jet had managed to evade whatever threat she’d had to contend with. Because as of now she was on her own, and there was nothing Matt could do for her but wait, as agreed, for three days at an inn in the Romanian hinterlands. Beyond that, there was no plan, and the thought of going on without her, just he and Hannah, burned like an open wound in his heart.

Bangui, Central African Republic

Leo’s Bombardier business jet decelerated on the runway and taxied toward the terminal of the Bangui M’Poko International Airport, which looked as inviting as a septic tank to the Russian, if not quite as clean. Once the plane had come to a stop, the crew opened the fuselage door and he stepped outside into a muggy, humid swelter that reeked of exhaust and sewage and burning garbage. His companion, a short man with curly black hair and a sagging face, followed him into the bright sunlight, blinking like a mole surprised by a spotlight. A tan Range Rover arrived moments later, and two African men in slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts emerged from its interior and walked across the tarmac toward them.

“Mr. Filipov, welcome to Bangui,” the taller of the pair said to Leo with a dazzling white grin, his English accented with the musicality of French. “We’re honored you could make it. I am Hassan, and this is my driver, Frederick. We are at your service.”

Leo eyed the holstered sidearms both men wore on their hips and nodded politely.

“Pleased to meet you. This is my associate, Levi.”

“Likewise,” Hassan said. “Come. Let’s get you into the air-conditioning. It’s brutally hot here at the best of times, and it rained this morning, which makes it twice as sticky as usual.”

“Perfect,” Leo said absently, staring at his cell phone as it struggled to acquire a signal.

“Any luggage?” Hassan asked, looking at Leo’s shoulder bag and Levi’s small nylon satchel.

“No. We’re just here for one day. We’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

“Ah. Very well, then. This way.”

Hassan and Frederick led them to the waiting SUV and held the rear doors open for them. The interior of the vehicle was arctic compared to the ambient air temperature, and the Russians sat back, savoring the climate control, relieved to be out of the city’s stink.

The driver slid the transmission into gear and the big vehicle lurched forward. Hassan twisted to see Leo. “How was your flight?”

Leo shrugged. “Any time we take off and land without incident, it’s a success.”

Hassan laughed. “Yes, well, your arrival caused quite a commotion. We don’t see many private planes here.”

Leo’s phone beeped, indicating that it was connected to the network, and it vibrated, signaling a message. He read it quickly and then pressed a speed dial number with a glance at Hassan. “I’m sorry. I need to make a call.”

“Be my guest,” he said, and swiveled to face forward, leaving Leo a modicum of privacy.

The line rang and Rudolf answered. “You finally got my message?”

“Yes. I’ve been in the air for the last eight hours. I’m in Africa. What’s the status?”

“Ah, that explains the lapse.” Rudolf paused. “We have her.”

“You…you do?” Leo asked, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yes. We’re transporting her to Russia for you to deal with at your leisure.”

The Range Rover bounced over an iron grid, past four soldiers with submachine guns slung over their shoulders, and continued down a pothole-filled road that paralleled the runway.

“Where will you hold her?”

“A jail near Moscow. We have some connections there. They don’t ask questions when we need someone sequestered off the books.”

“Did she put up any resistance?”

“She gave us a hell of a chase, but in the end, we caught her.”

“That’s the important thing.” The call quality degraded and static hissed over the line for several seconds before Leo could hear Rudolf’s response, which sounded like only every other word was coming through. “Listen,” Leo said. “I’ll call you later, or tomorrow, about the other thing we discussed. Reception’s terrible. Keep the woman on ice until I get back.”

“I under–”

The call went dead. Leo hung up and looked through the window as the SUV turned onto the main artery. Reddish brown dirt coated every surface, including most of the patchy asphalt, and he cringed at the sight of a group of children splashing in a depression filled with noxious water, clouds of black flies buzzing around it. Mounds of trash rose from the curb where containers had been dumped into the street, and a pair of emaciated locals dug through the refuse with sticks, searching for anything edible.