The Missing Spy

by J A Heaton

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said.

  Rex headed back to the waiting taxi as Daniel kissed his mom goodbye.

  Minutes later, while the streetlights rushed by as they rode in the taxi, Rex said to Daniel, “Officer Carter told me about your adventure in the sauna. She warned me we need to be careful over there.”

  Daniel waited for Rex’s rebuke for falling into a trap and then allowing the assailant to escape.

  Instead, Rex observed, “I agree with Officer Carter’s assessment. Just when you are approached to join an investigation into a traitor, a suspect is attacked, and a bomb goes off in a city related to the investigation. Coincidence? Not in our business.”

  Tashkent, Uzbekistan: a city unknown to most Westerners, it had been the Central Asian capital of the Russian Empire since the 1800s. Once the Bolshevik Revolution took hold, it was only a matter of time before communism spread to the land of the Uzbeks. The peoples of Central Asia were accustomed to being the crossroads of the East and West as the infamous Silk Road wound its way through the mountainous desert, and they were accustomed to all that this entailed. They had grown used to being conquered by foreigners. This had gone on for centuries.

  Alexander the Great was the first such conqueror; his empire stretched all the way into Central Asia, and myths and legends still bear his name. But the Mongols and Islam Islam also made headway into these lands. Most of them were smart enough to know which way the wind was blowing politically. None of them had any reason to think a principled stance for freedom, liberty, or independence would lead to anything other than poverty and oppression, and so the population was content, with rare exceptions, to celebrate the arrival of communism. Some resisted, but they were quickly dealt with. If there was any doubt about the benefits of being part of the USSR, those were demolished in 1966.

  On the morning of April 25, 1966, a massive earthquake struck Tashkent. By some accounts, ninety percent of buildings were destroyed. The number of deaths is uncertain, but nearly the whole city became homeless overnight. Not willing to allow a disaster to go to waste, the Soviets quickly oversaw the rebuilding of the city. Working with a clean slate, the new architecture was Soviet, and the workers came from many other Soviet republics. This was government job creation at its best. Today, the average Tashkent resident knows that the sugar was sweeter under Communism, and they also remember that the Communists rebuilt their capital city for them.

  And the Land of the Uzbeks reciprocated for the good of the USSR. They provided the front-line soldiers during the Cold War in Europe in case WWIII broke out, and the Soviet tanks began rolling West from Eastern Europe. Many such soldiers on the front lines would certainly die, especially if nuclear weapons were used, and so it was best to keep the Russians in reserve as the Central Asians became the necessary cannon fodder. All for the greater good.

  Of course, none of them encountered such a fate, but Central Asia continued to serve its purpose for the mighty USSR. The space program launched out of present-day Kazakhstan, far from the prying eyes of the West. Factories and power plants were nestled away. The work kept the populace docile—there was always work, the men would say—even if it were backbreaking and dangerous. But they were also isolated targets, out of the way of strategic bombers, whether they be Nazi or NATO.

  The USSR also flexed its technical muscle and showed off its economic prowess when it came up with an audacious goal. They wanted the Central Asian Soviet Republics to produce all the cotton necessary for the USSR. The USSR was dependent on non-Soviet nations for cotton, and they wisely endeavored to wean themselves off any foreign dependencies. Of course, their technological genius could overcome the fact that the land was mostly a dusty desert. The resultant irrigation system did produce cotton, but it also wasted about 70% of the water flowing through it, and it produced the greatest ecological man-made disaster. The Aral Sea shrunk from a resort-like sea to a salt-poisoned mud puddle. Central Asia was not only a good hiding place for industry and the space program, but it was also a suitable place to conceal disasters. Nobody else in the world knew or cared much about Central Asia.

  Lastly, Uzbekistan was the staging ground for the Soviet-Afghan War. Always eager to expand, and hesitant to have non-communist neighbors, the Soviets began pressing the issue in 1979 by invading Afghanistan. Although they controlled the cities before long, many of the villages and countryside were not in favor of the new invaders.

  Eager to give the USSR a black eye at any chance, the United States supported the guerilla fighters in Afghanistan who opposed the Communists. Many warlords vied for position, but they were all eventually seeking one thing: weapons. Stinger missiles could be used to shoot down the hated Soviet helicopters that terrorized the countryside. When the Soviet-Afghan war ended, the end of the USSR was not far behind.

  Consequently, Afghanistan was an unstable mess. The warring factions were impotent when radical Islam exerted its control. Radical Islam also pressed for power in the new country of Tajikistan, embroiling that country in a civil war for years until the Soviet-style president finally regained control. But in Uzbekistan, the Communist leader holdover, Islam Karimov, immediately squashed any opposition, whether it was radical Islam or otherwise. For this, his people loved him. There was no civil war in Uzbekistan as there was in Tajikistan. Anybody who had opposed the president and his heavy-handed policies was done away with. Consequently, despite the injustice and bloodshed, everybody approved of President Karimov.

  On an average day, well over 99% of Uzbekistan continued life as usual without fear of crime or war. The government had rebuilt their city, the Communists had given them all the work and food necessary, and so other human rights were not worth complaining about.

  When the United States decided to retake Afghanistan from the Taliban in late 2001, Uzbekistan was an eager host. While thankful for the big-brother-like presence of Russia, President Karimov had to assert his power by showing his independence from Moscow. Hosting the Americans in old Soviet bases as they launched a war into Afghanistan was the perfect opportunity. Besides, if the Americans were able to clean out the Taliban, it would mean Karimov would not have to face insurgents from the South.

  Daniel knew the language, history, and culture of Uzbekistan better than any other American. But he was still uncertain about one thing. It was clear that President Karimov was in charge. His secret police made sure of it. It was clear he was happy to welcome the Americans to enhance his own prestige and to keep the Taliban out. But Daniel was still uncertain about the one power that had a shifting relationship with President Karimov and his secret police: the Russian Mafia.

  6

  Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

  About thirty-six hours later.

  Saturday, September 14, 2002. 6 PM.

  About thirty-six hours after they left America, Daniel and Rex landed in Uzbekistan. Jahongir Barakatulla, a police detective, was waiting for them on the runway. Jahongir was leading the bombing investigation. His shoes were black and polished to a mirror-like perfection, which contrasted with his dark-green uniform tinged with teal.

  Daniel and Rex shook his hand. Daniel greeted him in Uzbek, noting his shiny and thick black hair above his long nose. Jahongir responded in English.

  “I studied at Oxford,” the detective said with a slight English lilt. “English will be just fine. I’ll take you to the bomb site.” Two other members of the police, or militzya, followed Jahongir.

  When they arrived twenty minutes later in black Land Cruisers, Daniel was surprised. He nearly had to ask where exactly the bomb had detonated.

  To Daniel’s eye, it was a wealthy neighborhood. The walls and gates that formed the front of every house were ornate, heavy, and well maintained. But that was across the street from the blast site. The blast itself had been in front of a first-floor shop with apartments above. They seemed nice by the standards in Uzbekistan.

  “Any Western embassies or other Western targets in the area?” Daniel asked Jahongi
r.

  “There are a few European embassies within walking distance,” he answered, “but it is hard to see how this bomb could be connected to them. It would have been easy to detonate the bomb much closer to any number of Western targets.”

  “Detonating a bomb here doesn’t exactly send a message and spread terror, does it?” Rex said.

  “Is there a security camera that caught anything?” Daniel asked. “Perhaps from a house across the street?”

  “No,” the detective responded. “None of them have a security camera trained on this area. The shop is too simple to warrant any security other than locking the metal gate at night.”

  “Has forensics discovered anything about the nature of the bomb?” Rex asked.

  “Nothing was to be learned,” the detective said. “Here, we don’t bother looking for needles in a haystack, as you would say. Instead, we knock on doors and get people to talk. That’s much more effective.”

  Daniel noticed the other two accompanying police standing uneasily. For the first time, he saw that one of them had a sprinkling of gray hair.

  “And you can always catch some unrelated troublemakers in the process,” Daniel said. “You wouldn’t want actual evidence to exonerate suspects.” Daniel was testing how far he could push Jahongir. The two other police didn’t adjust their posture, and Daniel ascertained they couldn’t understand English.

  “You can’t argue with results,” Jahongir said, pushing back. “Washington D.C. suffered more murders last weekend than our whole country in the last five years.” Jahongir had caught Daniel’s verbal jab, and so Jahongir did know English exceptionally well.

  “Point taken,” Daniel conceded.

  Daniel guessed why the crime scene had been cleaned up so quickly. Government officials were keen on making the average citizen forget that such a bombing could take place in their beloved city. Cleaning it up and pretending as if it had never happened in the first place was crucial for outward appearances. They preferred the Soviet style of governing: if the government says there are no terrorists, there are no terrorists. Just as if the government says there is no poverty, then there is no poverty.

  “How many dead?” Rex asked.

  “Five,” the detective said.

  “Seems like this was a poor effort at terrorism,” Daniel observed. “They didn’t touch anything of value to the West, and I hate to say it, but they only killed five people. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.”

  Daniel had more to say to Rex, but he didn’t want Jahongir to hear.

  “Follow me, and let’s look at a few things,” Daniel said as he went to look at the shop destroyed by the bomb.

  “This is a small-fry job,” Rex said to Daniel quietly as they huddled together, pretending to look at something so that Jahongir could not hear them. “This is not the type of thing the MDF team is supposed to be involved in.”

  “We need to start small,” Daniel reminded Rex. “Besides, I need to know this guy in case I need his help in the future.”

  “Jahongir? What for?” Rex said.

  “He’s secret police,” Daniel whispered, pretending to point at a detail on the building. “Soviet-style KGB-like. He’s too young to hold his rank in the militzya, and those two others, though older, defer to him completely. He studied at Oxford, so he’s privileged.”

  “You sure?” Rex asked.

  “Any other questions I can answer?” Jahongir said while stepping closer to Daniel and Rex.

  “What can you tell us about the people who died?” Daniel said.

  “The shopkeeper was killed, a woman and her child were killed in the apartment above, a man at his car on the curb was killed, and so was another man walking by on the sidewalk.”

  “Autopsies?” Rex asked. “Can we see the bodies?”

  “Are you doctors?” the detective asked suspiciously.

  “He is,” Rex said, pointing his thumb sideways at Daniel. Of course, Daniel was not a medical doctor, but Rex was half joking.

  “Four of the five victims are Uzbek and Muslim,” the detective explained. “According to custom, they have been buried within twenty-four hours. But I can tell you, it was the bomb that killed them. The fifth man, an Uzbek citizen of Russian ethnicity, is in the morgue. Dmitri Petrov. Seventy years old. We’re still trying to get ahold of his family and find out where he should be buried. He wasn’t from Tashkent like the other victims were.”

  “Thanks for your help, Jahongir,” Daniel said. “Not that you need my opinion, but it looks like you’re doing a great job here for your country and president.”

  “Let’s let the doctor see that one body then,” Rex suggested.

  Jahongir shrugged, but a flash in his eyes made Daniel sense he had not anticipated this. They got back into the Land Cruisers for a ride to the morgue.

  They rode in silence for about thirty minutes. Daniel attempted to keep his wits about him, exhausted as he was by the travel. They parked outside a four-story, rectangular cement building that could have been anywhere in the former Soviet Union.

  “Would the doctor like to perform an autopsy?” Jahongir asked as they entered the cool building. “Aren’t you young to be a doctor?”

  “I’m thirty-one,” Daniel replied. “And I might ask the same about you.”

  Jahongir ignored Daniel’s remark and ordered the staff to pull the bomb victim’s body out of refrigeration.

  Once the traumatized and burnt corpse was before them, Daniel pretended the gore didn’t shock him. He made a show of thinking about what he saw while Rex, more accustomed to death, poked about the body.

  “I’m sure your doctors will do just fine when they get around to doing an autopsy,” Daniel announced after about a minute.

  “There is not going to be an autopsy,” the detective replied. “We can’t afford to pay doctors to cut open bodies that were obviously killed by a bomb.”

  “Thank you again, Detective,” Daniel said. “I think Rex and I will get some rest, then we can meet again tomorrow to figure out what to do next.”

  As Daniel and Rex rode away in their black Land Cruiser towards their hotel, Rex leaned over to whisper to Daniel.

  “That Russian guy killed by the bomb blast,” Rex said. “I don’t think the bomb killed him. He was stabbed by a knife. If I were to kill somebody, the stabs were exactly where I would’ve done it. The burnt flesh made it harder to see, but to me, it was clear as day.”

  “We’ll need to think that over,” Daniel said as they got out at their hotel. “You think Jahongir knows? If so, what could Jahongir be hiding? But I’m so tired, I need some rest first.”

  “We’ve got a poorly executed terrorist bombing and a cagey secret police cover-up of a knifing murder,” Rex announced before agreeing they needed rest. “God, I hope we wrap this up soon so that we can get back to catching real bad guys.”

  As Daniel thought about it in his room while trying to go to sleep, he remembered that he was supposed to meet Tina for dinner. It was Saturday. He hoped she would understand as he finally drifted off to sleep alone in his hotel room.

  But the ringing phone woke him moments later.

  “I just learned that Dmitri Petrov’s widow will be coming up from Shahrisabz after a few days of mourning,” Jahongir said over the phone after the customary exchange of greetings. “You could question her then if you would like.”

  Daniel hung up with a grunt.

  Early the next morning, Daniel and Rex drove southwest through Uzbekistan’s countryside towards Shahrisabz. After two hours, they would reach the ancient city of Samarkand, and then they would turn south for the remaining three hours that would take them over a mountain pass.

  “You think Jahongir’s going to be pissed we went down to Shahrisabz to interview the widow without telling him?” Rex asked Daniel as their Land Cruiser left behind a trail of dust.

  “He called me late last night just to mess up my sleep,” Daniel retorted as he took a swig of Nescafe, the best coffee available
from the hotel. “I’m not going to play by his rules.”

  “This will show him who’s in charge,” Rex said with a grin. “What’s the skinny on Shahri-whatever? I’ll call it Shock-town.”

  Daniel explained that Shahrisabz means “Green City” in languages with Persian roots. Ironically, the city is considered the cradle of Uzbek civilization, whose language is not Persian, but Turkic. The same Tamerlane commemorated by a statue in Tashkent was born hundreds of years ago in the old city of Shahrisabz. The gates of his palace still stand in Shahrisabz, one of the few ancient sites not “restored” by the Soviets but left mostly in its original condition. Nestled among mountains on several sides, the city served the Soviet Union a specific purpose in the twentieth century.

  During WWII, the Soviet Union realized they had to keep their industry safe from German bombers. Accordingly, some of it was moved to their Central Asian republics, far out of the reach of the invading Nazis. The city of Shahrisabz became the proud host of a giant silk factory. This silk factory had a sole purpose: produce silk for parachutes for Russian paratroopers. It served its purpose well during the war, and after the war, it continued to function. After the Cold War, Uzbekistan was loath to lose assets from the Soviet times, and so the silk factory continued to operate in a reduced capacity.

  Daniel finished the explanation as he veered the Land Cruiser south along the outer edge of Samarkand. The two rode in silence as they wound up and down a mountain pass before descending into the historic Green City. Daniel didn’t have to ask around much to find the home of Dmitri Petrov. It seemed he was the lone remaining Russian in town, and the townspeople were eager to help Americans driving in a Land Cruiser.

  By lunchtime, Daniel and Rex sat across from Dmitri’s widow. They sat on the floor, and the woman waited for a younger relative to serve tea on the short table between them. Zuhro wore black, as did the other female relatives gathered to mourn with her. She was probably in her mid-forties, much younger than the Russian victim. Stricken by grief, she was also confused by the American visitors, one of whom spoke with her in Uzbek.