Jet (8 page)

There had to be a way to ingratiate himself with the Russians, to prove that he could be useful to them in exchange for leniency.

Because, in the end, the others wouldn’t take a bullet for him, he was sure. And he saw no reason to risk his life on their behalf, to throw it away for nothing.

When Savenkov returned, he’d see what the man offered. It wouldn’t hurt to listen. He was aware that the first salvo from a skilled interrogator would always be shock and awe, and the next round was likely to be a lifeline after enough time had gone by for the prisoner’s fears to whittle away his resolve.

An effective technique, to be sure.

Evgeny curled into a fetal position, shivering in spite of the warm temperature, and closed his eyes, willing away the visions of himself waist deep in snow, struggling to survive on a Siberian chain gang.

Pristina, Kosovo

Matt stared at his phone in frustration. His attempts to call Jet had failed after the aborted first connection, and all he was now getting for his efforts was a fast busy signal. If not for the break-in at his shop, he’d have attributed the failure to the sketchy Kosovo communications infrastructure, which periodically experienced lapses of cell and Internet service for no apparent reason, but now he suspected the worst.

The thought that Jet had been hurt, or worse, because of him, gnawed at his guts like acid, and he resolved to go by the house. If they’d known where he lived, they would have been waiting for him as he’d come out his front door. That he was still walking around, free, and they were stuck in his shop, proved there was a limit to how much they knew.

That was a slim advantage, but one he’d use to maximum effect.

Matt poked his head around the corner of the building and took in the street beyond the alley, searching for any surveillance. Everything appeared normal: the flow of traffic was dwindling as the morning rush ended, and the cars that lined both sides of the boulevard were empty. He knew what to watch for – furtive, sudden movement as a head ducked below a dash, cigarette smoke rising from a partially open window – but he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

He started the scooter and flipped the tinted visor of his helmet down, the cover offering at least the illusion of anonymity. After a final fruitless try of Jet’s phone, he accelerated away and took pains to navigate back to the house using a circuitous route he normally wouldn’t have taken. The late-summer foliage no longer looked inviting to him, the brightly painted buildings no longer benign, and he realized with a sinking heart that their brief shot at a normal life had come to an end – Pristina was no longer home, but now a trap they’d need to escape.

Their talk of another child popped into his mind as he neared the house, and he frowned. How could they have been so naïve to actually believe, much less dare to hope, that they could ever let down their guard? The thought seemed ridiculously foolish now; the almost imperceptible shifting of a boot on a tiny screen had changed everything. What would he have done if he had two children to worry about, to protect, instead of only one?

When he arrived at his street, he slowed to a leisurely pace and was relieved to see nothing out of place. He deliberately avoided looking at the house except for a sidelong glance, and choked back anxiety when he spotted the attic window.

The signal.

The house had been compromised. It wasn’t safe to enter. For all he knew, he could have crosshairs following his helmet down the street.

He resisted the urge to twist the throttle and duck, and instead continued putting along, in no apparent hurry, an unremarkable figure on a relic of a scooter going about his business. When he reached the corner, he turned left, eyes roaming over the street for any sign of watchers.

Nothing.

But the signal was unambiguous. There was only one reason for either of them to leave it for the other to find.

He had to assume the worst.

Matt piloted the motorbike to a larger artery and made a right, scanning his mirrors in vain for any hint of pursuit. Outwardly he was relaxed, but his mind was racing through the contingency plan he and Jet had agreed upon.

If one of them left the signal, the other was to spirit Hannah to safety without delay, after securing their important papers and the diamonds they kept in a downtown safe deposit box. They were to abandon the go bags they’d secreted in a hidden compartment they’d created in the basement slab, leaving them to posterity, the thin skin of cement they’d slathered over the makeshift hatch sufficient to conceal it indefinitely.

He stopped for a red light and checked the time. The priority was Hannah. The bank would be open until mid-afternoon, so barring a disaster, he would have no problem getting to the box; but Hannah would be more difficult. He had to assume that whoever was after him, or them, might be watching the school.

Because that was what he would have done.

And if they had Jet, it might be only a matter of time until they forced the information out of her. Matt had conducted too many interrogations to kid himself that between the latest drugs and good old-fashioned torture, anyone could hold out indefinitely. That was a myth made popular in sensational films that bore no relation to the truth.

Reality was far uglier. Strategically placed electrodes, a blowtorch, a syringe full of truth serum – all would have even the most courageous captive singing like a canary before long.

Which meant he was racing the clock in more ways than one.

He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket and hit speed dial. A woman’s voice answered.

“Montessori School, may I help you?”

“Yes, hello. This is Adrian Locke,” Matt said in English, using the alias he’d affected in Kosovo. The staff was trilingual, even the receptionist. It had been one of the things that had appealed to them both – the children learned to speak multiple languages at an early age. “Hannah Locke’s father,” Matt continued. “She’s in your preschool play group.”

“Yes, of course. What can I do for you, Mr. Locke?”

“We’ve had an emergency at home, and I wanted to check on coming by early to pick her up.”

“Oh, dear, I trust everyone is all right?”

“Yes, yes, it’s nothing like that. She’s there, right?”

“Of course she is,” the receptionist said, sounding confused.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I’m trying to do three things at once. Listen, I’ll come by in about an hour for her. Can you notify her teacher?”

“This is most irregular, Mr. Locke.”

“Yes, I realize that. If we had any choice in the matter, we’d leave her in for the rest of the day. But I need to pick her up.”

“Very well. I’ll alert Mrs. Krauss. Just check in with me when you arrive.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the receptionist said, the tension in her voice demonstrating her concern. Matt could sympathize with the woman. The school was chartered with the children’s well-being, and anything that disrupted its orderly operation posed a potential problem for the staff. Her tone made it clear that the school didn’t appreciate having its students pulled out of class on a whim, even if he had the written authority to do so as Hannah’s father – at least, according to the documentation they’d filled out.

He hung up and drifted toward the curb, where a corner market’s open doors featured a dazzling display of brightly colored junk food. He needed a few minutes to think through how he was going to approach the school without being seen, and negotiating morning traffic was demanding too much of his bandwidth. He stopped the bike, shut off the engine, and walked inside in search of a bottle of caffeinated soda. The adrenaline that had surged through him at the sight of the attic window had faded, leaving him groggy and dim. He needed some carbohydrates and Coke, and quickly, because the coming hours were likely going to demand every resource he could muster, and even the smallest miscalculation could cost him everything.

Jet sat motionless on the steel bench in the jail holding cell and cleared her mind of the fury and worry that were clouding her thinking, using a meditative technique she’d learned as part of her Mossad training. She silently repeated a two-syllable word over and over, and the mantra occupied her focus, diminishing the force of the agitated emotions until they were mere echoes of their prior selves. Once her imagination had quieted, she allowed herself to connect to the still place from which her power emanated, drawing from it like a shipwrecked sailor drinking from a newfound spring.

Her breathing slowed till her chest was barely moving, her inhalations so shallow as to be barely noticeable, and her body flooded with a glacial calm, untroubled by anything, at one with the cosmos. Thoughts flitted on the periphery of her consciousness, but she ignored them, repeating the mantra until that too faded to nothingness, and she simply…was.

She remained like that for half an hour and then reluctantly returned to a surface wakefulness that banished the more complete sensation of connectedness, replacing it with sound, sight, and smell. She stirred and slowly opened her eyes, invigorated and cleansed, and cocked her head at the sound of approaching footsteps.

The cop who had taken her into custody stopped at the barred door and stared at her impassively, two guards framing him. She looked at him without reacting, her jade eyes unreadable. He frowned and moved closer.

“That was quite a performance. Of course, it would be more impressive if my teenage sons couldn’t have done it better without breaking a sweat,” he said.

Jet waited silently, wondering why the man was trying to bait her. He studied her as though she were a curiosity on a laboratory slide and spoke again. “You’re to be moved to the airport. Stand and put your hands through the slot in the door so we can cuff you.”

Jet slowly stood and did as instructed. One of the guards ratcheted metal handcuffs over her wrists. When they were secure, she retracted her hands.

“Step away from the door,” the cop said, all business.

She complied, and the second guard glanced down the hall and nodded. The door buzzed as the automatic locking mechanism opened.

The guard who had cuffed her swung the door wide and fixed her with a cold stare. “Come on. Move.”

Jet remained where she was. “Nobody’s told me what I’m being charged with, what I’m accused of. And I’ve asked to see my lawyer a half dozen times, with no response. Now you’re transporting me to the airport? What’s going on here?”

“You’re being extradited,” the cop snapped. “Now do as you’re told, or we’ll drag you out of here kicking and screaming.”

“Extradited? To where? And for what? By what authority?”

The cop’s beady eyes narrowed and his thin lips pulled downward. “By the authority I’m empowered with. As to the charge – for murder.”

“Murder! That’s insane. Where are you sending me?”

“Russia. Which should be quite unpleasant for you, I’d imagine.”

Her voice quieted to a whisper. “Russia?” She hesitated. “Why are you doing this?”

“Enough.” The cop turned to the guard on his right. “Get her out of my sight,” he snapped, and stepped back so the guards could remove her from the cell.

Jet didn’t fight their grip on her arms, even though she could have easily disabled them both and broken the cop’s jaw before they knew what had happened. She saw no point in doing so, at least not yet – the police station had at least forty officers prowling around, so escape would have been impossible.

But the airport raised interesting possibilities. For all its gentrification, Kosovo was at best second world, and her chances at the airport would be better than reasonable if anyone slipped up. They had obviously not been told anything about her capabilities or they’d have never made the mistake of cuffing her hands in front rather than behind her back – an error that she hoped would translate into freedom within the hour – although the truth was that she could have still easily slipped her hands from behind her when seated in whatever vehicle they put her in, given her flexibility. But they didn’t know that, and the rookie mistake told her much about how little they knew about her.

More ominous was the mention of Russia.

Extradition? She didn’t have to work hard to think of sanctions she’d carried out on Russian soil – the hard part was trying to figure out which one she was being charged with. The oligarch’s son? The attorney? One of her victims from her operational days?

And how had the Russians found her? That was the most troubling – the implication that she’d somehow slipped up, made an error that had resulted in her capture.

Although…

If this was about Russia, why had Matt called to tell her that he’d been compromised? Wouldn’t he have said that she’d been blown, not that he had been?

None of it made any sense to her; too many pieces of the puzzle were missing for her to fit it together.

Her transport was a windowless brown van with a security grid between the cargo area and the cabin. The guards helped her climb into the rear and then passed a braided steel cable through her cuff chain and locked it to the steel bench.

The guard who had cuffed her drove in silence as the second watched the mirrors – for what, she couldn’t imagine. She didn’t try to engage them in conversation, there being no point to the effort she could see.

The van bumped along a frontage road and stopped in the red zone at the smaller of the two terminal buildings. The guards got out, unlocked her, and led her into the terminal. Jet, cuffed and subdued, drew curious stares from the few passengers milling around the entrance. Inside, they moved to the far end of the terminal, past ticket counters and retail shops, to a security area, where an armed police officer stood with a bulletproof vest strapped across his chest, his face red from likely early congestive heart failure or high blood pressure caused by chronic alcoholism.

“Here she is,” the driver said, pushing her toward the officer.

“Doesn’t look like she’s going to be much trouble,” he replied, looking Jet up and down. “Although she doesn’t look very happy.”