“How?”
“Here’s what I’d do,” Jet said, and leaned into Yulia and began speaking in a murmur so soft it could have been the wind blowing through the high barred window slit above them.
Five minutes later, Yulia pounded on the door and called for the guard. The man returned and she exited the cell, tray in hand and a smile on her face. She paused at the door and looked back at Jet, and then turned to the guard. “My friend and I were talking over your boss’s offer. We might be interested. We could sure use the money.”
The guard leered at Yulia and reached out to grope one of her breasts. Yulia’s expression didn’t change. He ran his hand down to her crotch and then stepped back. “I can relay the message. He’ll be here in a few hours.”
“He mentioned the other day that the next party would be tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“How much is he offering?”
The guard eyed Yulia like she was livestock, and then looked Jet up and down with a grin. “Depends. I’ll let him discuss it with you two.”
The door slammed and Jet was again alone, but for the first time since being imprisoned, she felt a tiny flutter of hope in her gut. Yulia’s plan could work. As far as getting to the Ukraine, she could worry about that once they were outside the prison walls. Yulia hadn’t told her how she planned to traverse Russia and evade capture; she’d only assured Jet that her contacts could arrange it, just as they’d arranged for the guards to help them escape. Whether they actually could was a different story, but Jet’s clock time was running out, and she had no other option but to trust the Ukrainian – at least, for now.
Chapter 26
Manbij, Syria
Simon Mandolfo nodded to his contact at the sidewalk café as he approached the table where the man was seated, a dusty canvas canopy shielding the area from the worst of the blazing midday sun. The streets were largely empty in this district; the heat was too much to bear until after dark, even for residents accustomed to the temperature. A Toyota truck with several gunmen in the bed, a black flag with Arabic symbols embroidered on it fluttering from a pole mounted to the vehicle’s passenger door, crept down the street, reminding the inhabitants that they were under ISIS rule.
Simon didn’t give the truck a second glance – his ivory coloring and fluent Arabic served as adequate protection from harassment by ISIS militia in the city. Outside its perimeter, the situation was more dangerous, with roadblocks manned by zealots checking documentation at will and questioning drivers and passengers alike, executing anyone they felt suspicious about on the spot. But such was the terrorist group’s grip on Manbij that only those who supported it without question remained, and the patrols were more for show than for any realistic measure of security.
A sixteen-year veteran field agent for the CIA, Simon had spent most of his adult life in similarly perilous situations, although this was arguably the most volatile, the sound of airstrikes at night his lullaby in the simple hotel where he was renting a room. On the first meeting with the local liaison, the man had regarded Simon like he was mad for setting foot in Manbij. Not far from the truth, Simon conceded.
A dun-colored dog with short dusty hair and ribs showing through its coat trotted panting down the gutter, accompanied by a cloud of flies. One of its legs had an infected wound where it had scratched away the fur down to raw flesh, and Simon averted his eyes, the sight suddenly triggering a nausea that the abundant human misery around him hadn’t.
Which probably said much about his character, Simon thought as he neared the rendezvous. Then again, animals were easier to get along with than humans and didn’t slaughter each other out of idealism or due to religious differences.
For not the first time, the idea occurred to him that the world would be a better place if wiped clean of his species and left to the animals. He smiled at the thought and pushed it aside as he freed a chair and sat opposite his contact, a local named Amir.
“Beautiful day for it, no?” Simon asked, making conversation. “What is it, one hundred twenty degrees in the shade?” He fingered his short-sleeved white linen shirt, soaked through with sweat from a two-block walk, and scowled.
“But it’s a dry heat,” Amir replied with a sad half smile. “Tea?”
“Of course.”
Amir snapped his fingers and a boy no more than eleven ran from the doorway.
“One more for my guest,” Amir said, pointing to his own half-full cup.