Jet (3 page)

Their Russian was lightly colored with the accent of the south, as distinctive as the American variation of English from its southern states. Here, near Moscow, it sounded out of place, the huge city’s pronunciation faster-clipped and more abrasive. Denizens of the capital city, the largest in Russia and a melting pot of ethnicities, quickly adopted the urban cadence and looked with disdain at those with more languorous speech, considering any but Muscovites provincial.

Yulia and Taras had been in Russia for six weeks, networking with like-minded Ukrainians to organize financial support for their cause. They wanted to rid their country once and for all of what they thought of as Russian lice perverting their nation’s heritage, and considered the pro-Russian insurgent forces in the North and East to be traitors. Their leadership had hatched a plan where they could use Russian-built missiles to attack civilian locations, creating the impression that the Russians were engaging in war crimes, which would in turn force the Russians to pull out of the country, their denials hollow to a world accustomed to government lies.

Subterfuge was the order of the day, and in order to garner the trust of the mafia in Moscow, they’d posed as pro-Russian guerrillas in need of weaponry to aid in the rebellion against the Ukrainian government. Even the organized criminal elements that operated in Russia for their enrichment would balk at selling pro-Ukrainian separatists missiles, no matter the profit to be made, but the palatable lie that they were really more or less on the same side had been effective.

The meeting on the outskirts of Dmitrov to which they were headed was the culmination of weeks of negotiations with an offshoot of the Russian mob whose primary business was trafficking in arms stolen from the army. Each year five to ten percent of all weapons and armaments in official hands simply disappeared, usually showing up in trouble spots around the world – in the hands of Central American gangs, Middle Eastern terrorist organizations, Mexican cartels, Colombian rebels, and African despots. After considerable fruitless probing, Yulia had finally been introduced to a pair of brothers who owned a network of nightclubs in Moscow as well as a host of other business interests, including what they’d cautiously described as an import/export company that could obtain virtually any commodity a buyer was willing to pay for.

More meetings had ensued, and a shopping list, as well as a price, had been agreed upon. Yulia’s network had come up with the first half of the payment required to guarantee delivery of a truckload of Igla-S shoulder-fired missiles that had gone missing from various army bases around the country.

Yulia squirmed in the uncomfortable seat, trying not to think about the money in her bag – more cash than she’d ever seen, a half million euros, counted and recounted the prior sleepless night once she and Taras had arrived in Dmitrov and checked into an anonymous hotel. Four other members of their group had driven to town that afternoon, and their car was trailing by a block. All were armed with pistols, although they hoped they wouldn’t need to use them. The chances of being robbed were slim, given who they were dealing with – anyone foolhardy enough to make a grab for the mafia’s money wouldn’t live out the evening.

The Lada inched around a stopped pest-control van, an image of an anthropomorphic pesticide tank wearing goggles and wielding a spray wand with its unlikely gloved hands emblazoned on the side, with its hood up and the driver staring at the engine with a baffled expression. Yulia and Taras sat in silence as traffic cleared past the van, and after two more long blocks he turned onto a smaller street that paralleled the river. Huge waterfront cranes stood motionless along the waterfront like alien arms reaching into the burnt orange sunset.

Taras inclined his head at a long, low concrete bunker ahead. “That’s it.”

Yulia’s eyes narrowed as she took in the structure. The high perimeter walls were dark, only a few lights on beneath the ungainly building’s roofline. “Looks deserted.”

Taras nodded to her. “They’ll be there.”

He turned off the road and pulled to a stop at a guard shack, where a grizzled pensioner in a threadbare coat regarded them indifferently through a haze of hand-rolled cigarette smoke.

“Closed,” the guard announced, squinting at Taras with bloodshot eyes.

“We’re here to see Nico.” Taras paused and jerked a thumb at the headlights rolling to a stop at his rear bumper. “The car behind us, too.”

“Yeah? Who are you?”

“Christof,” Taras said, using his operational alias.

The guard grunted and slid the glass door closed. They watched as he picked up a black telephone handset and spoke into it, waited, and then nodded and set it back in its cradle. When he returned, his demeanor was only slightly less gruff. “Loading docks are on the far end. You’re expected,” he growled, pointing into the gloom.

Taras nodded and waited as the old man rolled the gate open, and then he eased through, trailed by the other car. The tires crunched on gravel as they drove toward the building, and Yulia absently fingered the butt of the Makarov pistol in her jacket pocket as the oversized loading dock doors came into view. For all her tough exterior and recent combat experience, her role as a clandestine operative was still new, and her life as a political activist at university felt like inadequate preparation for the part she now played. She silently reminded herself of the many who were depending on her, and she squared her shoulders as the Lada ground to rest in front of a loading dock.

Taras killed the engine and waited for the second car to arrive. The men got out and the group moved to the steel loading dock door, Yulia in the lead. Another, smaller door opened by its side, and a swarthy man with a sour expression eyed her like she’d stolen his wallet before barking at her.

“You have the money?”

Yulia nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her heart suddenly jackhammering in her chest in spite of her outward calm. The man looked her up and down and then waved at Taras and her entourage. “What the hell is all this?”

“My people,” Yulia managed.

“It was supposed to be just you and the driver,” the man snapped.

“Right. And it was supposed to be just Yakov and Sasha. Who are you?” Taras fired back.

The man gave him an ugly grin and spit to the side. “Hospitality committee. All right. Come in.” He moved to the side and held the door open. Yulia brushed by him into the gloomy interior, followed by Taras and their men.

The door slammed shut behind him, and a bank of powerful spotlights illuminated, blinding them. Yulia squinted in the glare and was raising her hands to shield her eyes when an amplified voice boomed through the cavernous space.

“Freeze. Keep your hands where we can see them. You’re under arrest.”

One of the men behind Taras turned and grabbed for the door handle as he fished a pistol from his pocket. A burst of deafening automatic rifle fire exploded from behind the lamps, and the man jerked like a marionette before slamming against the cinderblock wall and collapsing in a pool of blood. The voice spoke again. “I repeat: you’re under arrest. Anyone makes another move and you’re all dead. There won’t be another warning.”

The sound of boots running toward them echoed off the rafters, and then Yulia was pressed facedown against the hard concrete floor, and a heavyset man who stank of onions and alcohol cuffed her. Taras lay next to her, abject failure twisting his face. Their noble romantic adventure had abruptly ended, replaced by the prospect of a lifetime in a Russian prison and the reality of a dead colleague barely out of his teens lying footsteps away.

Four days ago, Pristina, Kosovo

Hannah ran delightedly along the stone path that wended through the main city park, chasing a flock of pigeons that lacked her enthusiasm for her game. Her light brown hair bounced with each step, and her fingers waved above her head.

Matt watched with a smile as he trailed the little girl, marveling at the amount of energy she had. To be three years old again, he thought, with that kind of stamina and the constant wonder at the newness of her experiences…

The pigeons flapped skyward and made their way across a clearing to a more tranquil area. Hannah slowed as they escaped into the air and then stopped, panting slightly, hands on her hips and a pout firmly in place.

Matt approached, smoothed her hair, and took her hand.

“Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Fun,” she said in faint agreement.

Hannah had adjusted well after a rocky start in Pristina, the trauma of her recent past waking her most nights with nightmares. He and Jet had taken to having her sleep in their bedroom on a makeshift corner bed for several months and then moved her into her own room when she’d normalized. Now, ten months later, she was a typical kid, growing into her body, her vocabulary developing, any memories of the past crowded out by more recent ones.

Matt and Hannah had bonded and were virtually inseparable – one of the lingering symptoms of her insecurity with their domestic stability. She didn’t like being left alone, even for a short time, and had regressed somewhat in that regard, throwing tantrums if it looked like she’d be on her own.

This morning Matt had offered to take her to the park to burn off some energy. She’d made friends with several of the neighbor children, but they were away on vacation, and she was going stir-crazy in the house with two adults and little stimulation.

Matt was jolted from his reverie by Hannah pulling free. She pointed down the path and giggled, and then she was gone, off like lightning, having spotted a squirrel near one of the iron benches that lined the walkway.

“Careful,” Matt called after her, resigned to skinned knees and bruised foreheads as a matter of course. He was still relatively new to parenthood, but he was a quick learner, as was Jet – and compared to what the little girl had been through since reuniting with her mother, a few tumbles and scrapes were nothing.

He gazed up at the vivid blue of the morning sky and inhaled deeply. A sense of well-being flooded through him with the crisp air. His days were uneventful, which was how he liked it. His work week was spent operating a small computer repair shop he’d opened in order to have something to do, his weekends reserved for Jet and Hannah. It was a calm he savored, unfamiliar to him until recently, but addictive, he found.

It was amazing how good it felt not to have anyone trying to kill them.

“Hannah,” he called, seeing her pause to consider running off the path and into the surrounding brush. He’d forbidden her from straying from the walkway, but he knew that in the heat of the chase his admonition could easily be forgotten.

A shrill whistle pierced the still of the park behind him, and he turned toward the sound just in time to see a crowd rounding the corner, blocking the entire street, hand-painted signs held high, voices chanting in angry cadence with the rhythmic intensity of the outraged. He groaned and spun to where Hannah had frozen at the sight of the mob.

“Hannah, come here. Now,” he ordered, his tone firm. Periodic street protests were not uncommon in Kosovo as different factions agitated for power, and while usually orderly, anytime there was a large throng there was a chance that he and Hannah might get separated. There was no way to know when one of the protests might stop traffic for hours, and barely a week went by without one group or another taking to the streets.

Hannah scurried toward him, the squirrel forgotten, and Matt studied the approaching group. Mostly college age, there were some older men and women along the fringes of the crowd. Another whistle shrieked from behind the protestors, and a squad of police clad in riot gear materialized from a smaller tributary and took up position along the sidewalk.

Hannah reached him just as six police cars arrived with sirens blaring. A personnel carrier pulled to a stop at the edge of the park and disgorged a squad of more officers, and Matt and Hannah watched with alarm as they encircled the protestors, who were now in the park, chanting their incomprehensible slogans and hoisting their signs overhead.

Matt glanced around for a means of escaping the possible confrontation but saw with sinking spirits that for whatever reason, the police had decided to stop the protestors at the park. The chanting increased in volume as the leading edge of the mob marched toward them, and he retreated toward the police line, his free hand raised overhead so they could see he was no threat.

When he reached the police, he pointed to himself and Hannah, and then to the protestors, and signaled that he had no part in the gathering. And older officer with a stern expression studied him for several long seconds and then motioned for them to pass through the line. Matt pulled Hannah along with him and brushed past the police, their translucent plastic shields and batons portending nothing good, and then lifted the little girl into his arms and carried her to the far edge of the park, ignoring the gaggle of media memorializing the encounter, their cameras rolling at the prospect of a clash.

Once they were clear of the scene, he set Hannah down and crossed to another boulevard that ultimately led to their neighborhood. He stopped at the corner and looked back over his shoulder at the park, and then at the little girl, whose eyes were wide at the unexpected excitement.

“It’ll all be okay, Hannah. We just picked the wrong day to chase birds,” he said, trying to reassure her.

Her pout was instantaneous at the realization that her hour of freedom had been preempted by the protestors, and Matt took her hand again as they waited for the light. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ll find another park. That one’s a little too crowded right now.”

She nodded trustingly and then looked up at where the kit of pigeons was soaring overhead, away from the commotion, their morning calm interrupted for the second time by unwelcome human interlopers.

One day earlier, Moscow, Russia

Leo Filipov sat back in his executive chair and gazed through the window behind his antique desk at the Kremlin’s red towers. Another ten-hour workday under his belt, he blinked away the burning in his eyes and stared glumly at the pile of documents neatly stacked in front of his computer monitor. Even after promoting several associates and hiring more staff, he was still playing catch-up with the deal flow left by his brother after his untimely death – labeled an accidental suicide by the press but in reality a murder, he knew from the footage he’d retrieved from a hidden security camera in his building.