Jet (19 page)

“Everything is possible. The question is not whether it can be had, the question is what such a thing might be worth to you.”

“I’m sure you have a value in mind.”

“It is true.” Zarif smiled and named a number five times higher than the going rate.

“I only require two, not twenty,” Simon replied, his tone reasonable.

Zarif gave him an apologetic shrug. “What can I say? The value is ever-changing, and now, with the recent offensive, such items are in considerably greater demand.”

“I might be able to pay a bit more than I was told to expect, but there are limits to what the client has authorized. They are discerning customers, and if it becomes too expensive, they may well go elsewhere.” Simon shrugged back. “It’s outside my control. I have a range for the pair of missiles which I can’t exceed. I’m sure you understand.”

Simon and Zarif went back and forth on price, and when they’d concluded the negotiation to their mutual satisfaction, Zarif led him into the warehouse to one of the crates near the entry. He gestured to the fighters, and one approached with a pry bar. He wedged it beneath the lid and worked the top loose, revealing four gleaming Igla-S missiles, obviously new in the crate.

“We were fortunate enough to intercept several shipments intended for a rebel faction that wound up being absorbed into our group after seeing reason,” Zarif explained. Simon nodded, understanding that “seeing reason” was a euphemism for the mercenaries who were doing most of the fighting in Syria being offered better pay from the other side – in this case, ISIS. “We have access to virtually anything you might want, except of course, fighter jets. Although if you’d like to place an advance order…”

Simon laughed politely and studied the missiles. He made a show of inspecting the arming and targeting systems, and then looked at Zarif and nodded. “Perfect.”

“You have the money?” Zarif asked.

“Yes. In euros or dollars. Your preference.”

“Dollars.”

“When your men take me back to town, I will give them the location of my hotel and will retrieve the cash for them. We can exchange the arms for the money there, if you don’t mind.”

“That will work.”

They walked back to Zarif’s office and Simon glanced around. “I’m sorry, but do you have a bathroom? It’s been a long drive, and the tea…”

“Yes, of course. This way,” Zarif said, and indicated a door in the corner.

Simon returned two minutes later and finished his cup. “I trust that if I require any other…specialized equipment, I can contact you through our mutual acquaintance?”

“Of course. I would be delighted to accommodate you. As you can see, we have been blessed with quite a stockpile. We even have a number of American tanks, should your tastes run in that direction.”

“Impressive. How did you get those, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“The Americans left them behind when they abandoned contested areas in Iraq. They literally left a billion dollars’ worth of armaments. It has proved quite helpful to the cause. Allah works in mysterious ways, does he not?”

“Indeed,” Simon agreed.

The tea finished, Zarif and his silent sidekick led Simon back to the same dusty car he’d arrived in. The driver tossed Simon the sack, and Zarif shrugged apologetically.

“I’m sorry for any discomfort this causes you. It is necessary.”

“I understand. It would be nice if you could convince your men to be more liberal with the air-conditioning, though,” Simon said.

Zarif ordered the driver to chill the car’s interior until frost formed on the windows, and then barked at his men. Two of them rushed over carrying the missiles, which barely fit in the trunk. Simon watched as they packed rags around the launch tubes so they wouldn’t move on the drive back to the hotel, and then he slid into the rear seat and pulled the sack back over his head, resigned to another long drive, but this time with freedom waiting on the other end. The engine started, and the vehicle droned away down the dusty, anonymous road, leaving the arms depot behind in the arid Syrian night.

Moscow, Russia

The Volga stopped beside the roll-up door, and Jet whispered to Yulia, “Kill the engine. That will give it a chance to cool off while we’re waiting.”

Yulia looked doubtful. “What if it doesn’t start again?”

“It will.”

She twisted the key and the motor went silent after a final cough, the only sound now the ticking of the engine block in the cool night air and the patter of rain on the roof. Jet twisted to the men in the back and spoke softly.

“There might be a watchman inside. I don’t think so, judging by the absence of lights, but you never know. If there is, let me deal with him. Nobody try to be a hero or you could wind up gut shot.”

Mikhail’s face darkened, and he leaned toward Yulia. “Who does she think she is? We’ve all seen our share of fighting. I don’t appreciate being spoken to like a schoolboy.”

Yulia sighed. “Mikhail, please just cooperate. Sandra has some remarkable skills – I’ve seen them at play. I trust her judgment. Do as she says.”

“I don’t like it. Since when is she our leader?”

Jet debated a response and opted for a conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry. We’re all under a lot of pressure. But Yulia is right – I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing. I’m not trying to wear your pants, Mikhail, just get out of this in one piece. Like all of us.”

Mikhail didn’t look convinced, but he seemed at least somewhat mollified by Jet’s words. “Maybe you can tell us exactly how you have all this experience. Because if I’m going to rely on someone I just met, I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

Jet sighed. “I’m a mercenary. Got my start with the German mafia,” she explained, inventing the story on the spot.

Mikhail switched to passable German. “How do we know you aren’t lying? That you aren’t a plant whose job is to deceive us?”

Her German was flawless. “Deceive you out of what? Fashion tips? Advice on how to get arrested? What could you possibly have that I want?”

Mikhail looked away and switched back to Russian. “I guess we have no choice but to go along. Yulia’s the boss.”

“You have every choice,” Jet countered, her tone hardening. “If you like, I can walk away right now, and you’re on your own. If you can make it four hundred something kilometers without me, have at it, because I can vanish in minutes without a trace.” She paused. “I’m not interested in butting heads with anyone. I owe Yulia for getting me out of there, so it’s her call. Your contact didn’t show, or we wouldn’t be having this little discussion, but if you think you’ve got a better way to do things, then you go hot-wire a vehicle and I’ll wait here.”

Yulia intervened. “We’re soon going to have the entire Russian system hunting us down – we don’t have time to bicker among ourselves, Mikhail. Your objections are noted, but I’m overruling them – it’s my responsibility to get us home in one piece, so my decision is final. I brought Sandra into this because I felt she would be an asset. Everything I’ve seen so far says that was a smart decision. Let’s do this her way.”

Mikhail grumbled assent with crossed arms. Jet cracked the glove compartment open and rooted around. Finding nothing that would help her but a plastic roadside assistance card, which she pocketed, she stepped into the rain, which thankfully had abated to a drizzle.

She crossed to where the trucks were parked and stopped beside a panel van that looked like it had been the losingest vehicle in several demolition derbies. After a brief glance at its tires, she tried the doors and, finding them locked, edged to the building’s pedestrian entrance to the side of the loading dock.

That knob was also locked. She pressed her ear against it, ignoring the rain splattering on her face, and listened intently for half a minute. Hearing nothing, she moved to a dumpster and lifted the top, using her penlight for illumination. She spotted a length of rusty wire, reached in to grab it, and pulled it loose before setting the lid quietly back in place and moving to the van. After quickly making a few bends in the wire, she slid one end into the passenger-side lock and the other beneath it, feeling for the tumblers.

The door opened with a pop. Jet tossed the makeshift lock pick aside and leaned over to the steering wheel. After another glance outside, she flipped on her light again and studied the snarl of wire alongside the steering column till she spied what she was looking for.

After several coughs, the engine rumbled to life and she sat up. The fuel gauge sat at a little over half full, which would get them a decent distance at low speed. She turned and looked in the rear of the van and smiled at the sight of a bundle of uniforms. She’d broken into a delivery van, and evidently it had been laundry day.

She returned to the Volga a few moments later clad in one of the dark blue uniforms. The pants were too large and the top baggy, but the ensemble was nevertheless a marked improvement over prison clothes. The Ukrainians gaped at her in amazement, and she allowed a half smile.

“Van’s full of outfits. Get out of your convict clothes, and let’s get on the road. Yulia, I’ll follow you. Turn your headlights on and off when the engine looks like it’s going to blow and find someplace secluded to abandon the car – someplace it won’t be noticed for a few days, ideally.”

The men climbed from the backseat and hurried to the van, its exhaust steaming in the drizzle. Yulia watched them go and nodded to Jet. “I knew it was a good idea to break you out.”

“We’re still a long way from free.”

“True, but with you, our odds have improved dramatically.”

“Problem is we can only do so much on our own. We’re going to need some help. After we ditch the car, let’s make it a priority to locate a phone and find out what happened to your people.” Jet paused. “Because if we have to go it alone, we’re screwed. It’s a lot of ground to cover.” She wiped her face. “Eventually our luck’s going to run out.”

Yulia nodded. “I’m sorry about Mikhail. He can be a pain sometimes, but he has a good heart. And he’s brave under fire. That counts for a lot.”

“I don’t take it personally. We have bigger battles to fight.”

“Agreed.”

“Give me a minute and then let’s get out of here,” Jet said. She spun and ran back to the van. The men were all outfitted in uniforms now, Evgeny’s comically short sleeves and pants providing amusement for the rest.

“What do you want us to do with our jail things?” Taras asked.

“I’d say burn them, but they’re too wet. We’ll leave them wherever we ditch the car. They’ll already know we stole it, so it won’t provide any new information.”

“It could give them an idea of the direction we’re going.”

“True, but Russia’s a big country, and we’ve got a significant head start. At some point they’ll realize that we’re making for the border. But if we do this right, we should be able to stay ahead of them. At least long enough to get some help from Yulia’s contact.”

“Who so far would have had us standing by the side of the road with our thumbs up our asses,” Evgeny griped.

Vlad elbowed him. “Got us out, didn’t he?”

“Only half the job. What good is it if we’re caught a kilometer away?” Evgeny fired back.

Jet fastened her seat belt and inclined her head at the Volga’s flashing brake lights. “Nobody’s caught us yet, and if we’re smart, nobody will. Now hang on. I like to drive fast.”

“In this rust bucket?”

That drew a much-needed laugh, and the tension dissipated as she pulled away from the building and accelerated after Yulia, wishing she felt anywhere near as confident as she was pretending for the men’s benefit. The truth was that their chances of making it were dismal, and if they were smart, they’d split up and go it separately. None of which she said, preferring to keep her glum observations to herself, mentally reciting the phone number of a faraway bed-and-breakfast in the Romanian hills, where she hoped more than anything Matt would be waiting, safe, with her daughter.

Verkhnee Turovo, Russia

Six hours later, after two frustrating stops at pay phones that turned out to be broken, their luck ran out. The old van was creaking down a secondary road that headed west toward the border from Voronezh when it rounded a bend to find a pair of police SUVs, roof lights flashing, blocking the way. Yulia was driving, having taken over from Jet a few hours earlier after abandoning the Volga in a ditch near a sewage treatment plan. The area hadn’t been ideal, but there had been no more promising spots to dump it, and when the motor seized, it had been all Yulia could do to coast off the pavement and into the depression.

“Damn. You think that’s about us?” Taras whispered from the back of the van.

“Probably. Could be a routine check, but I doubt it,” Yulia said as she braked. “How do you want to handle this?” she asked Jet.

Jet’s voice was calm. “As we discussed.”

They’d come up with a plan for roadblocks. As far as they knew, the van wouldn’t be reported as stolen until business hours the next day, so any police would take at face value that they were a work crew on their way to a construction site. After all, they had the uniforms, and with a female driver, the likelihood was that lazy provincial cops would wave them through without question, especially as far from Moscow as they were. Every minute they put between themselves and the prison increased the odds that they’d gotten away clean, and everyone had begun to relax now that they were four hundred and fifty kilometers south.

Yulia downshifted, and the heavy vehicle slowed. A stoic officer stood with his palm facing them, and four other cops leaned against the SUVs, smoking, watching the van approach with faint curiosity. Jet noted that two of the smokers had submachine guns, but nobody looked particularly alert, and she suspected this roadblock might be unrelated to their escape.

The cop neared the driver’s window, and Yulia cranked it down. He peered in at her and then at Jet.

“Morning. Where you headed?” he asked.

“Kursk,” Yulia lied, naming the next large town.

“Purpose of your trip?”