Tom Clancy Under Fire (24 page)

W
HICH WAY?”
Ysabel asked, gasping for breath.

Jack turned in a circle, trying to orient himself. To his left he saw the concrete wall of the canal. That was east. He turned and ran for the other edge of the roof with Ysabel close behind.

He skidded to a stop and peeked over the eaves and down into the alleyway that separated Dobromir’s house from his neighbors’. Clotheslines crisscrossed the gap so thickly that they looked like a fishing net. The bottom of the alley was lost in shadow.

Jack backed up a few steps, then leapt to the next roof. Ysabel did the same and they kept running, dodging chimney vents, low-hanging wires, and satellite-dish risers until they reached the last roof on the block.

To the west, Jack heard sirens approaching, growing louder as they converged on Dobromir’s house.

Ysabel said, “Here, Jack.”

She was kneeling beside the curved railing of the fire-escape ladder. He walked over. Directly below them was a blue Volga—Dobromir’s, Jack assumed. They’d soon know.

A police car, its lights and siren off, rounded the corner at the other end of the block and headed toward the canal. Jack and Ysabel pulled away from the edge until they heard the engine fade into the distance.

“There’s no point in waiting,” Ysabel said, then started down the ladder.

At the bottom they stood in the alley a few feet behind the entrance.

Jack walked over to the Volga and tried the key in the lock. It worked. “We’re good, come on.”

They got in. Jack started the car and they pulled away.

•   •   •

THEY HAD LEFT
their map in their own car, so Jack had only his vague recollection of Khasavyurt’s layout to go on. He headed directly west, driving just under the speed limit, slowly but steadily putting distance between them and Dobromir’s house. Ysabel sat crouched on the passenger-side floorboard.

“They’re looking for a man and a woman,” she explained. “Do you think they know about this car?”

“Judging by Dobromir’s security precautions at the house, I’d say no. We’ll find out.”

“That poor man,” Ysabel whispered.

•   •   •

WITH EACH MILE
they covered, Jack breathed a little easier, until finally they cleared the city limits and headed into farm country. Both sides of the road were lined with miles of apple groves. Here and there Jack saw farmworkers spraying the trees, many of which were already showing tiny white blooms.

“You can sit up now,” Jack said.

Ysabel did so and buckled her seat belt.

They passed a white-on-blue sign with Cyrillic lettering. Beside the label was an arrow pointing straight ahead. Beside the arrow was a green, white, and red flag.

“That’s the Chechen flag, Jack,” said Ysabel. “We really don’t want to go there.”

Jack chuckled. “Understatement of the year.”

Another mile brought them to an intersection. He turned left and they drove for another ten miles before reaching the next town. The Volga’s gas gauge needle was on E. Jack found a gas station. Ysabel went inside, then emerged with a map. Jack finished filling up, then climbed behind the wheel.

“Look, English captions,” Ysabel said, the map open against the dashboard. “According to this, we’re in Leninaul.”

“How far to Makhachkala?”

“About two hundred kilometers. So, a hundred twenty miles. I can’t tell how good these roads are, though.”

“Ysabel, there’s something we need to talk—”

Out his window, Jack saw a police car drive past the gas station.

“Company,” Jack said.

The car stopped in the middle of the road, swung right onto the shoulder, did a U-turn, then headed back in their direction.

“Should we run?” asked Ysabel.

“We wouldn’t get far. Stay here and do what they tell you. Your name is Julie Smith. Give me your wallet.”

She handed it over and Jack got out of the car.

“You’re not leaving me, are—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Jack walked into the station. He asked the female clerk behind the counter,
“Gde naxoditsa tualet?”

She pointed down a short hall. At the end of it on the right was the bathroom; next to this was the station’s back door. Jack opened it, stepped outside, then looked around. There was nothing: no garbage, no debris. He pulled out his passport and wallet, tossed them onto the roof, then went into the bathroom and shut the door. He turned on the water and waited.

He heard a voice shouting in Russian, then the clerk’s agitated reply.

Jack opened the bathroom door and stepped out. A cop was stalking toward him, gun drawn and shouting,
“Ruki vverh! . . . Ruki vverh!”
Hands up! . . . Hands up!

Jack raised them.

•   •   •

OUTSIDE,
the lone police car had been joined by two more, all of them arrayed in a crescent facing the station’s front door. One of the officers had Ysabel shoved against the side of the Volga, her hands cuffed behind her. A second one was leaning close to her, whispering.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked her.

“Yes.”

The second cop walked up to Jack and in Russian demanded his name. Jack shrugged, feigning ignorance.

“Name,” the man barked.

“John Smith.”

“Your wife, there, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Come with us.”

•   •   •

THIRTY MINUTES LATER
they were back in Khasavyurt. Jack and Ysabel were led into a two-story gray cinder-block building fronted by glass windows covered in what looked like anticrime posters. Once through the doors, they were herded past the front counter, an area containing four wooden desks, then left down a hallway whose right side was lined with windowless jail cells with mint-green walls. They were ushered inside and the door banged shut.

“This can’t be good for us,” said Ysabel, sitting down on the bench. “Where did you put our wallets?”

“The first place they’ll probably look after the toilet. We should probably talk about something.”

“You mean aside from us being in jail?”

“Back at his house, Dobromir said the police showing up couldn’t be a coincidence. He’s right.”

“Well, we know we weren’t followed.”

Jack said, “Only five people knew where we were going and who we were seeing. And they were all in the back of the GAZ.”

T
WO HOURS PASSED.
Jack heard the clicking of footsteps coming down the hall. A lanky man with a tidy black mustache appeared, carrying a wooden chair. Very carefully, he placed the chair before their door and then sat down. In his right hand were their phones.

“My name is Major Umarov,” he said in decent English. “I am the police commander for the Khasavyurt district.”

Medzhid’s uncooperative underling,
thought Jack.

Half expecting Umarov’s next words to be “We found your wallets on the roof,” Jack was relieved when he said, “Tell me your names.”

“John and Julie Smith,” said Jack.

“Can you prove this?”

“No.”

“Tell me the passcode to your phones.” When Jack didn’t respond, Umarov said, “You are both American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know a man named Dobromir Stavin?”

Jack had expected this question. “We just left his house. He told us to run, so we ran. We didn’t know it was the police.”

“According to my captain, they identified themselves as police.”

“We don’t speak Russian,” said Ysabel. “We heard banging on the door, then saw the guns. We were frightened.”

Umarov gave this some thought, then shrugged. “An understandable reaction, I suppose.”

Jack couldn’t tell whether Umarov’s semi-amiable disposition was genuine or a prelude to something a lot less pleasant. Nor could he be sure Umarov was the one who’d been tipped off to their arrival here. Whoever had burned him and Ysabel could have called any number of sources in the Khasavyurt
politsiya
. One thing was certain: If Umarov disliked Medzhid, their being linked to him would worsen their situation—perhaps dangerously so.

Again Jack chastised himself for sharing with Seth and the others Dobromir’s name and location.

Umarov asked, “Why do the two of you have no identification?”

“We were robbed on the way here, in Gadari.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I will have my sergeant take a report. By the way, I do not believe your story about what happened at Stavin’s home.”

“I see,” said Jack.

“Captain Osin claims you shot Mr. Stavin moments after they gained entry to the house.”

“We didn’t do that,” said Ysabel.

“He has sworn to it. He saw you fire the weapon,” Umarov replied, pointing at Jack. “And the gun you used was found at the scene.”

“He’s lying.”

“Then you would submit to a test, yes?”

“What kind of test?” asked Jack. He knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from Umarov.

“A lead-barium analysis. It will determine whether you have fired a weapon recently.”

To his credit, Umarov at least had the science of GSR testing right. Jack shouldn’t have been surprised. Crime-scene television made the test look complicated and dramatic. It wasn’t.

“We can at least solve that part of the mystery,” Umarov said. “If you are innocent, there’s no danger in taking the test.”

Jack suspected their permission was irrelevant. Damned if we do, damned if we don’t. “Who will be doing the test?”

“I will.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Once Umarov was out of earshot, Ysabel whispered, “Jack, what are you doing? This is the man Medzhid talked about. If he—”

“They’ll give us the test either way. Pass or fail, we’ll know whether Umarov’s honest or not. If he is, then his captain lied and he’ll know it.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll let us go.”

“True,” Jack admitted. “But at least we won’t be charged with murder.”

•   •   •

UMAROV RETURNED
a few minutes later. In turn he asked each of them to stick their hands through the bars. Umarov swabbed their fingers, palms, wrists, and forearms, then placed each swab in its own plastic vial half-filled with clear fluid. With one in each hand, Umarov shook the vials. The fluid remained clear.

“Is that good or bad?” Ysabel asked.

“For you, good. For Captain Osin . . . very bad. Please excuse me for a moment.”

Umarov walked out.

Fifteen minutes later he returned with two officers, who were frog-marching between them a man in a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. They walked him to the end of the corridor, shoved him into a cell, and shut the door. Umarov walked back to Jack and Ysabel.

“Is that your captain?” she asked.

“Not any longer. He is bad. Dishonest.”

“And a murderer.”

“That, too. It is sad it came to that. I should have been more diligent.” He saw Ysabel’s puzzled expression, then smiled. “Let me guess: Here you are in a remote
politsiya
district with a commander answerable to no one and subordinates who are corrupt and incompetent.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You did not have to.”

“You’re going to let us go now?”

“Let you go? No. At the very least, you are witnesses. There may be a trial, you may have to testify.”

“That could be a problem for us,” Jack said.

“Not my concern. Even so, you are foreigners with no identification, found driving a stolen car after fleeing the scene of a crime.”

Ysabel said, “Dobromir gave us permission to—”

“Perhaps so. But you might further help your case if you tell me your names. I will give you some time to think.”

Umarov left.

•   •   •

JACK AWOKE
to the sound of shouting and grunting. He pushed himself upright and saw Captain Osin being dragged down the corridor by two
politsiya
officers. They disappeared around the corner. A door slammed and Osin’s shouts went silent.

“What are they going to do with him?”

“
To
him,” Jack corrected her. “Something bad.”

•   •   •

FOUR TIMES
throughout the night Osin was dragged from his cell, only to be returned thirty or forty minutes later. Each time Jack saw no marks on his face or body, but the exhaustion was etched into his face, his eyes hollow and red and vacant. This procedure continued throughout the morning, then into the afternoon and evening, until finally Osin didn’t return.

•   •   •

WITH A GUARD IN TOW,
Major Umarov appeared with their evening meals. The guard opened their cell. Umarov stepped inside, handed them their trays, then nodded for the guard to leave.

Umarov sat down on the bench. “If you run—”

“We won’t run,” Jack replied, taking a bite of bread.

“Do you have anything you would like to share with me?”

Jack glanced at Ysabel, who nodded. Earlier they’d discussed and agreed on the course Jack was about to take. The best lie is the one closest to the truth. Whether Jack would be digging them deeper into trouble or out of it, only time would tell.

“Our wallets are on the roof of the gas station,” he said.

“Thank you for telling me.” Umarov chuckled. “Clearly my officers need some remedial training.”

“My name is Jack Ryan and this is Ysabel Kashani. I’m American and she’s Iranian.”

“Interesting. Why were you visiting Mr. Stavin, Jack? May I call you Jack?”

“Sure. How well do you know Dobromir?”

“Not very well. He has a number of parking tickets, but nothing more.”

“Do you know his girlfriend?”

“Helen. I’ve heard her name, but not met her. She travels for work, some kind of sales.”

“She died a few days ago,” Jack replied. “We came to give Dobromir the news.”

Umarov’s eyes narrowed. “Is this the truth?”

“It happened in Scotland. She was shot.”

Umarov sighed. “That’s very sad. And for Mr. Stavin to know . . .” His words trailed off. “How do you know all this, Jack?”

“Helen and I worked together.”

“You could have simply called Mr. Stavin with the news.”

“She asked us to come,” said Ysabel.

“Why did you lie about your wallets being stolen?”

“I told you,” she replied. “We were afraid. We saw a man killed in front of us.”

Umarov nodded thoughtfully, then walked out and shut the cell door behind him. “I’ll have my sergeant go to the gas station.”

•   •   •

“YOU APPEAR
to be telling the truth,” Umarov said an hour later.

“What now?” asked Jack.

“Well, there’s still the matter of assault on a police officer. Captain Osin claims you threw a chair at him.”

“It was a nightstand,” Jack replied.