Jordan’s legs ached from standing. According to Captain Melnyk, they were still waiting for word from the IIC on where to transport the bodies. It had now been over an hour, with nowhere to sit.
To stay warm and ease the tension in her muscles, she walked the crash site near McClasky and Zhen. In the light cast by the waning moon and the glow from the fires, she took a closer look at the fuselage. There was one section near the wing where it appeared something had punched inward, tearing the metal.
A missile?
Moving in for a closer look, she discovered pitting along the fuselage. In a number of places, she could see small metal fragments embedded in the body of the plane.
Shrapnel?
It seemed an unlikely placement for a hole caused by an engine explosion. Maybe the plane had struck something upon hitting the ground?
She called Melnyk over and pointed out what she’d found. He scoffed at her discovery.
“We might be a country at war, but we are four hundred kilometers away from the fighting. The crash was most likely caused by a mechanical failure, an engine exploding.”
“Except this spot on the body of the aircraft would have been protected. Do you see how the metal breaks right here above the wing? I think it’s possible this plane was shot down.”
Melnyk dismissed her theory with a shake of his head. “Don’t let your imagination run wild, Agent Jordan. We don’t need you spreading rumors. This was a terrible accident, some sort of catastrophic failure, nothing more.”
Jordan hoped he was right. It was up to the IIC and the aviation experts to determine the cause of the crash. A task that would likely take weeks—if not months—of investigation. Still, as she watched him walk away, she found it hard to shake the feeling that something was off.
Turning back to the hull, she snapped several pictures of the damage with her cell phone. Then, after making sure no one was watching, she pried a quarter-sized metal fragment from the fuselage and stuck it into her pocket. One fragment wasn’t going to change the course of the investigation. She would run it past the lab rats at the embassy and see what they had to say.
A flash from the road caused her to snap her head up. Scanning the crowd, her gaze stopped on a tall, dark-haired man pressed up against the press barricade and snapping photos in her direction. Had he seen her take the fragment or was he just photographing the scene?
For the most part, she viewed journalists like hyenas—offensive and sneaky predators feasting on the sensationalism of a moment. Distanced by pen and lens, they inhabited a world of sound bites and photographs, capturing impressions that highlighted the most dramatic elements, which they manipulated for effect. Too many times the real story was lost or ignored, usurped by moments taken out of context and distorted by the reporter’s own bias.
Squinting, she tried getting a better look at the man—an impossible task at this distance and in this light. Then, leaving Jordan with a sense of unease, he stepped back into the crush of reporters and vanished.
Jordan decided to look on the bright side. If it was hard for her to make out features in this light, even with a telephoto lens, the reverse should be true. The likelihood he captured a clear image of her from that distance was practically nil.
Walking back toward the bodies of McClasky and Zhen, Jordan stamped her feet against the night chill. In spite of the fires, a dampness permeated her bones. An aerosol can burst in the wreckage and she flinched, the explosion tweaking her already fried nerves. Her head pounded from breathing the fumes of the burning jet. All she wanted was for Sergeant Hycha to return so she could get out of here.
A few minutes more and she spotted the sergeant picking his way back through the crash site. Now maybe someone would tell her the plan.
The captain, who stood off to one side conferring with his team of soldiers, sauntered over when the sergeant drew near. “Ya dumav, vy nikoly ne buly povertatysya.”
“In Russian, please,” Jordan reminded him.
“I said I thought he would never return.” Melnyk snatched an 8½ x 11 manila sleeve out of the sergeant’s hand. Opening the flap, he stuffed the transit paper and passports inside.
“The IIC had questions,” Sergeant Hycha said in halting Russian. “He requests that someone accompany the woman to the morgue.”
“The agent,” Jordan corrected him. Her gaze ping-ponged between the two men. “I take it this means you’re not releasing the bodies.” They’d been waiting over forty minutes, and this wasn’t what she wanted to hear, though admittedly it was what she expected.
Melnyk ignored her. “What else did the IIC say?”
“He thinks your solution for securing the documents is good.”
Melnyk nodded and then handed the manila sleeve to Jordan. “Seal it and sign your name across the flap.”
“Why is this necessary?” Jordan asked. “Why not just let me take the papers?”
This was exactly why she’d remained quiet about the envelope secured in her waistband. The sooner the director knew the contents of the communications, the faster the U.S. State Department could counter any potential security threats. Following protocol, it could take weeks.
Melnyk handed her a pen.
She chafed at the lack of verbal response but licked the manila sleeve, pressed it shut, and scrawled her name across the closure. “Now what?”
“Put it in the body bag,” he said. “When it’s zipped shut, I will secure the bag with a tie and sticker, which you will also initial, and then we’ll transport the bodies to the police station morgue in Reshetylivka, where they’ll be kept under guard until you submit the proper repatriation documentation.”
“Why not save us all some work?” Jordan asked, again challenging the need for the extra steps. “Let me call in the Marines and have them transport the bodies back to the U.S. embassy in Kyiv. I promise, we’ll fax you the paperwork in the morning.”
“Zarozumilyy amerykans’ka divchyna, vy povynni dumaty, shcho my idioty,” Hycha said, posturing and stepping toward her.
Melnyk raised his hand and silenced his NCO. “The sergeant says the IIC requires proper documentation be on file in order to release the American bodies.”
With the sentence construction similar to Russian and many of the words the same, Jordan was fairly certain the translation was more along the lines of “Arrogant American girl, you must think we are idiots.”
“That’s what I thought,” she said, squatting down and placing the envelope on McClasky’s chest. “I need to make a phone call and inform my boss of the plan.”
The captain nodded. “Make it quick.”
Jordan had held off calling Lory until she had a clear picture of how things would go. Now she stepped aside and dialed from her cell. Lory answered on the second ring, and she gave him the recap.
“Just go with it. They have their procedures, and this ensures any information McClasky has on him remains with the body.”
“But sir—”
“Let’s not make any waves. Accompany the bodies to the morgue, and then find a place to sleep. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow.” He paused. “By the way, good job on finding our boy.”
“Thank you, sir.” She refrained from mentioning the envelope she had secured at her back. There were too many ears, too many people who might understand enough English to put two and two together.
By the time she hung up, the bodies were tagged and bagged, and the captain was ready for her to initial the seals. She’d barely finished scribbling the letters when the soldiers started hauling the bags toward a waiting military ambulance.
“Captain, I am to stay with McClasky. I’ll need to leave my car here tonight and ride along.”
“That’s out of the question,” he said. “Only authorized personnel are allowed in the ambulance.”
“I have my orders.”
He studied her a moment, then jerked his head toward the road. “You’ll come with me.”
Not exactly the outcome she’d been looking for.
“In that case, Captain, how about I just follow you in my own car?” It made more sense than coming back out here in the morning. She’d already found McClasky and Zhen. With any luck, the morgue would be closer to Kyiv.
“Nyet. I have my orders, too. The IIC wants you accompanied. You’ll ride with me, and Sergeant Hycha will follow us with your car.” Melnyk extended his hand. “Your keys.”
“That really isn’t necessary.”
He flashed a thin smile. “The IIC wants to ensure your satisfaction in the treatment of your diplomatic immunity.”
Captain Melnyk clearly had his orders, just as she had hers. Jordan looked toward the ambulance and watched the soldiers securing the back doors. It was time to concede the point.
“Fine,” she said, digging the keys to the rental car out of her pants pocket and handing them to the captain. He tossed them to Sergeant Hycha and then gestured for her to go ahead of him toward the road. She started to move past him when Melnyk placed his hand on the small of her back.
“What is this?” he demanded, moving his hand up. The envelope crackled against the flat of her spine.
“What’s what?” she said, moving away.
Melnyk caught her arm. “Don’t play with me.”
Knowing she’d been caught, Jordan reached back and pulled out the envelope. “It’s a letter.”
“I told you she stole something off of the body.” Hycha jabbed a finger into her face. “We should be arresting you.”
“On what charges? This envelope is addressed to the director of the Diplomatic Security Service.”
“You took it off your dead agent’s body.”
“Prove it. I just pulled it free of my belt.” She didn’t feel the least bit guilty about lying. Her job was to secure any papers McClasky carried, not to appease the Ukrainians. If she’d learned one thing from her experience in Israel, it was that sometimes, in order to achieve your goals, you had to be willing to scuff the lines.
Hycha’s eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t matter what you say. The letter is now in our custody and a matter for the IIC. Give it to me, Captain, and I will take it up to the command center.”
“No!” Melnyk said, taking the envelope out of Jordan’s hand. “We’ll handle it like the other papers.”
Jordan weighed the pros and cons of arguing. Sometimes it came down to knowing which battles to choose.
“But, sir.” By the whine in his voice, Jordan could tell Melnyk’s response wasn’t to the sergeant’s liking. “At least let me search her to see what else she has taken.”
The fragment weighed heavily in Jordan’s pocket. No doubt a search would unearth it, and then they’d be accusing her of tampering with the crime scene. Now seemed a good time to mount a defense.
“I have diplomatic immunity,” she asserted. “Taking the letter and searching me are both in direct violation of the Vienna Convention.”
“Move back, Sergeant Hycha.” Melnyk stepped between the two of them, facing Jordan. “I admire your spunk, Agent, but I believe the sergeant is right. You’re lying about this.” He held the letter near her face. “I think this envelope holds the secrets of a dead man.”
If only she could open it and find out. Jordan planted her hands on her hips. “It seems we’ve hit an impasse.”
“Not really,” he said, pointing her toward the makeshift parking area. “I’m going to allow you to add this to your courier’s packet. After that, we’ll follow the ambulance to the police station as planned.”
She was relieved he wasn’t going to make an international case of it and pull the IIC into the mix. Of course, there was no telling what the sergeant might do.
Climbing the embankment to the parking lot, she waited beside the ambulance while the soldiers unloaded McClasky’s body. Melnyk broke the seal on the body bag and extracted the manila envelope, giving it to her along with a pen. Once the papers were secured and the body bag restowed, Jordan handed him back his pen.
“What now?” she asked.
“We take a ride in my kozlik.” He gestured to an old UAZ-469—an older model, Soviet-style, light utility vehicle affectionately referred to as a “goat.” “Courtesy of our former government.”
Jordan hesitated. “Mind if I grab a few things out of my car?”
“It depends. Are you retrieving your luggage or a weapon?”
“Both.” Her 9-mil and duty belt were locked in the glove box, and her bag was in the trunk. “I’d rather not leave them in someone else’s possession. Is that a problem?” She waited for his reaction.
Melnyk shook his head and flashed a thin smile. “But make it quick.”
“I’ll need my keys.”
“Sergeant Hycha, go with her.”
The walk to her car was done in silence. Hycha mumbled under his breath, but there was no direct communication. Jordan was okay with that. Retrieving her duty belt and 9-mil from the glovebox, she picked up her go-bag and slung it over her shoulder.
“Any idea how far it is to the police station?” she asked, hoping he’d understand her Russian.
She ran the calculations in her head. Well over an hour’s drive.
“Any chance of finding a toilet before we leave?” She figured she had nothing to lose by asking. She’d already earned herself a military escort.
Hycha pointed to the ditch.
“One with some privacy?”
Hycha pointed to a lone oak several yards down the road.
“Of course, why didn’t I think of that?” Jordan muttered, striking out for the tree. She swept her flashlight from side to side as she walked, avoiding the ruts and washboard and staring out at the fields on either side of the gravel road. On one side was total devastation. The land burned, scarred and littered with bodies. On the other side, the fields remained unscathed, covered with sunflowers waiting to greet the day.
It brought to mind other disaster stories—a fire roaring through a subdivision taking out some of the houses yet sparing others, or a tornado hopscotching through a neighborhood. Insurance agents dubbed them “natural disasters” or “acts of God,” which begged the question, if there was a God, how did he choose who lived and who died? Why destroy some lives and leave others to continue on? With her flashlight beam lapping at the charred edges of the wreckage, Jordan found it hard to believe there was a master plan in all this.
Stepping off into the ditch to climb the small embankment, she could see the ambulance, the captain’s UAZ, and Hycha leaning against the trunk of her rental, talking on the phone and watching her.
Once she ducked behind the tree, Jordan called Lory again. This time she told him about the envelope.
“Not much we can do now. I’ll get the repatriation paperwork started. You stick with the bodies.” He waited a beat, then added, “Nice try.”
“It failed.”
“No harm, no foul. We’ll sort it all out tomorrow.” He clicked off, and Jordan tucked her phone back into her jacket pocket, her hand brushing against metal.
The fragment. She needed to protect it somehow. Pulling a small plastic baggie out of her go-bag, she put the fragment inside, marked the outside of the sleeve, and tucked it into her toiletries pouch.
“What’s taking so long?” Captain Melnyk yelled. “Let’s go.”
“Almost finished,” Jordan shouted. Then dropping her pants, she squatted and peed.