Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

The men awoke when the pilot announced the approaching airport. Rufet picked up the rifle again and thought he might demonstrate how the old bolt-action worked. But when he looked across the aisle, he could see that Conor was preoccupied. Troubles he imagined, House Kos, concerns about Tali, and, of course, this meeting with the President. Qurb knew that Conor was inexperienced with such things. A young man still searching, Rufet mused.

  Conor was staring out the window fretfully. There was no evidence of a city below, let alone an airport. Everything was blanketed over by the haze. Occasionally, through a break in the clouds, a country road, a pasture, or a rocky outcropping appeared, but only briefly. Conor had never been to Kars, never considered coming here, the easternmost province of Turkey. If I’m going to Turkey, I’m going to Istanbul. He was a city boy, and Kars was too bucolic, too out-of-the-way. Such emptiness made him feel detached, exposed, and anxious. Earlier in the week, when he searched the web about the region, Conor found one bright spot: the Sarikamis Ski Resort. It was only 50 km away. Both he and Tali loved skiing, but with no snow likely skiing was not an option. At that moment, he wished he had asked her to come along, but she hated the countryside more than he did. She wouldn’t even consider it, so he hadn’t asked.

  This meeting with Guliyev was a mystery. What made matters worse were that the Azerbaijan security forces had blocked all routes to and from Kars, so Conor anticipated a deserted town and a boring trip. Evidently, President Guliyev wanted to keep the meeting top secret. Then he turned Rufet and asked, “Do you know where we’re staying?”

  “At the Kars Castle in town,” The First Deputy responded. “A historic location, on a hilltop overlooking the river.”

  “Why there? It’s old, right, a relic of a bygone era? Why does Guliyev so relish monstrosities of the past?”

  “Presidential security made the call. Its walls are built of basalt masonry, five layers thick, and there are only three access points to the castle: the main gate, a side road that opens on a great fissure, and the rear gate, next to the watchtower that allows for a clear view of the surrounding topography. It’s a safe and secure post.”

  “Sounds like a prison,” replied Conor.

  “Guliyev’s job is a prison.”

  Conor thought about his most trusted confidante’s remark, and as the moments passed, he began to see Rufet in another light. How old is Rufet? he wondered. He gazed at Qurb’s ruddy face and the old scar that ran from his left ear down to his collarbone. Rufet often complained that it was itchy and sometimes painful.

  When Conor was a little boy, Rufet had told him that the Prince of Arabia had slashed him across the face with his scimitar. It was a good story, and Rufet told it well, so the youngster believed every word of it. The scar was pinkish and prominent in those days; today, it was a long brown flab of wrinkled tissue. Conor thought he saw something different in Rufet’s demeanor lately, and wondered, Not the Arabian Prince, but maybe a long-ago knife fight; or perhaps it is unfathomable melancholy… attempted suicide? Conor knew that Qurb had been tortured in Egypt. He was determined to find out the real origin of the scar, but not today. Hard air turbulence jarred him back to the present. “I want to see the ski lodge at Sarikamis,” Conor said.

  “The ski lodge?”

  “’Sarikamis Ski Resort, the best powder snow in central Asia, set in a scenic pine forest.’ That’s what the Instagram page said.”

  “The locals call it Katherina’s Mansion, after the Russian princess. But it’s been completely revitalized, very modern.”

  “Whatever it’s called, I want to see it,” Conor said. “Maybe I’ll bring Tali here for a holiday. I want to stay there instead of that dreary old castle. Can you get us a room?”

  Rufet said, “That’s where we are supposed to hook up with the hunting outfitters on the last day. Clearly, there’s no skiing now, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Perfect,” said Conor. “You can shoot that beautiful old Weatherby you brought along, maybe even bag one of those rams you’re always talking about.”

  “They are ibex, city boy, not sheep.”

  The city boy would never understand. The Bezoar Ibex was the most resplendent of all mountain goat species and had always been Turkey’s most famous attraction for international hunters. Of course, there were other prize game – wild boar, the Anatolian red stag, and the Urfa gazelle – but the grand head of the Bezoar was the trophy that most big-gamers desired.

  “Okay, a goat then.” Later, Conor questioned the sport of killing what he thought was a domesticated animal. “How troublesome can it be to kill a goat?”

  “It is mountain hunting. It requires patience and cunning – the spot-and-stalk method – and it takes several days. The Ibex habitat is steep hills and deep gorges.” Rufet continued on, “You can’t just shoot the beast, you have to retrieve it as well, city boy.”

  The conversation was interrupted by more rough air. One of the flight attendants announced, “We are on final descent into Kars-Harakani. We should be on the ground within ten minutes. Please buckle up. It’s going to be a shaky ride.” Conor looked out the window, hoping to see the tarmac. But there was nothing but uncharted land below, and he felt he was falling dangerously fast into it.

  The Kars Castle – more a citadel than a palace – was used mainly for tourist activities these days. The inner core was a four-story structure. On the ground floor, it housed an archaeological gallery, a restaurant, and a small mosque. The gallery featured local woodcarvings, an excellent collection of coins, and distinctive kilims sold to tourists as prayer rugs. The restaurant was legendary for its first-rate Kasar yellow cheese and delightful honey. On the second floor were military lodgings and an ammunition depot, while two executive suites occupied the third. Above all that was the watchtower, which had an assembly hall that had been converted into a meeting room. That’s where President Guliyev conducted his classified business, and that’s where Conor was summoned the next day.

  Fuad was the president’s long-time personal assistant and had always traveled with him on political as well as private missions. This was both. He had been with Guliyev for a decade and knew most of the prominent members of the elite Houses. Today, he was escorting the youngest of that group to a personal meeting with the President. When they reached the top floor, the door was locked. Fuad entered the code, “The president has a private lift.” The door swung open. “He will be with you briefly. Have a seat on the divan.” Conor nodded and then watched the old man walk away. How many secrets does that man know? After four years, the Kedar Bey still didn’t remember Fuad’s family name.

  Guliyev’s meeting room was a strange mix of Turkish décor and taxidermy. Of course, there was the ubiquitous picture of the President of Turkey hanging directly opposite the entry. An Ottoman-era desk sat in front of Guliyev’s private lift, and two sofas and a coffee table were positioned perpendicular to the only window. Hanging above that window was the main feature of the room – the trophy head of the famed Bezoar Ibex. It was remarkable. Conor finally understood why Rufet was so captivated by the beast and its massive, curled horns.

  “It’s the largest trophy ever taken in the highlands,” said Rolan Guliyev, silently emerging from the lift.

  “Mr. President, I didn’t hear you,” said Conor. Guliyev walked toward Kedar, holding out his hand.

  “I’m told Minister Kaplan shot it three years ago. He’s from the region.” Osman Kaplan was Turkey’s Defense Minister and had been the focus of the allies’ summit for the past week.

  “Rufet intends to hunt the Ibex after this meeting. He wants to show me how it’s done. I, however, have no stomach for goats, dead or alive.”

  “I knew Rufet in former times,” said Guliyev. “He was once a famous mountain guide, you know.” Guliyev escorted the Kedar Bey to the window under the Ibex head.

  “I told Rufet he could do the hunt by himself, and that I woul
d be going home.”

  “Is that all you want, Azreal… to go home?”

  It was not a casual comment. Guliyev was always asking and probing at the same time.

  “One day, I wish to marry and have kids.”

  “Tali Nadirov, I am told.” He eyeballed the young man unsympathetically. “That can never happen, Azreal.”

  “I’m not sure I understand?”

  “The Kedar Bey can never marry such a relative,” Rolan replied, “the Grand Ayatollah will not allow it.”

  “With all deference, sir, I will marry the one I choose.”

  Guliyev ignored Kedar’s youthful arrogance, “Nothing more, then?”

  “I must restore the honor of my House. The Kos have been stealing from us for a decade,” he said, then added, “and my father’s reputation, of course.”

  “Your father sealed his fate when he attacked the Zebeqi Nation. You should be grateful that none vandalize his burial site.”

  “I will never allow that,” Conor reacted stubbornly.

  The president then took Kedar’s arm and escorted him to the window, “Beautiful view, wouldn’t you say?” Pressing matters of state were at hand.

  “Indeed,” Conor replied, and then, as he gazed across the panorama, he noticed a few buildings and a tower directly to the east. “What is that city in the distance?”

  “No city. Just a border crossing,” said Guliyev, and then, “That’s Armenia, the trophy we seek.”

  “So, your meeting with Kaplan is about Turkish support for a military campaign?”

  Guliyev walked to the Ottoman desk and removed the linen covering. It was a relief map of Azerbaijan, Armenia, and eastern Turkey. “We are planning to employ Hannibal’s master tactic, the Double Envelopment. But there will be a twist.” Conor was taken aback by the details of the display. After generations of pontificating, the Azeris finally had a president who was willing to act on Azerbaijan’s ancient grudge.

  “Twist?” Conor now understood the purpose of Fuad’s locked door.

  Guliyev opened the right-hand drawer and took out several chess pieces. “We will begin with a feigned retreat at the Black Garden, here.” He was pointing to the map. “General Aslan will mount a direct attack on the entrenched Armenians at Agdam.” He placed a white knight piece in position. “The attack will fail, of course, and Aslan will fall back, luring the Armenian army into fortified Azerbaijani territory.”

  “The feigned retreat.”

  “Exactly. Next, Aslan will split his forces into right and left flanks. The Armenians will see that as a tactical mistake.”

  Kedar thought he understood, “And commit to a full-frontal attack, hoping to destroy the whole of the Azeri Army quickly.”

  “You’ve studied military tactics, Azreal?”

  “No, sir. It just makes good sense.”

  “The idea is to hold the Armenian attack in stasis. That’s when the signal will be given, and our Turk allies will begin an advance from this very spot to that border crossing.” He walked Kedar to the eastern window, “You can see where the attack will unfold. Yerevan is less than 100 km to the southeast.”

  Conor said, “The Turks’ enmity toward the Armenians has always been formidable.”

  “Not truly Christians, you know.”

  “The Armenians?”

  “Broke from the Roman church in the third century. They hated the western Christians, and created a religious monstrosity of their own.”

  Conor replied, “I never knew that.”

  “Once the Turkish Army is within 50 km of Yerevan, General Samir will launch the Air Force on a bombing raid of Yerevan.”

  Conor looked at the president and smiled. “A brilliant plan, my Guliyev Bey.”

  “To defeat the Armenian rabble should be simple. It will take a month, maybe two at the most.” Guliyev’s eyes drifted back to the window, then he pointed, “Our prize awaits, Azreal.”

  Conor peered out the same window, saw nothing more than the barren uplands, and then said, “I have a question.”

  “Permit me to guess: How do you fit into this plan?” Guliyev gestured for the Kedar Bey to take a seat on the divan, punched the speaker on his intercom, and ordered tea. “Azreal, you and Ambassador Kazimov will be our voices at the UN Asia Conference in London, the first week of November. This is why I cannot allow you to return home. You and Kazimov will be the new faces of Azerbaijan – youthful and modern, both graduates of western universities – it will be your job to prepare the way for reconciliation. After, of course, we have subdued the Armenian forces and taken back the Black Garden, the highlands, and the Nakhichevan corridor.”

  At that moment, Fuad entered with a tea service and placed it on the table between the two men. When the servant had departed, Guliyev continued: “So you’ll need to be in London no later than October 31st to meet with Ambassador Kazimov. You will lay out a plan for Azerbaijan to be the first to sue for peace.”

  “Azerbaijan will be made whole again.”

  The president declared, “Yes, the desire of all nations.”

  Not nearly so naive as Rufet and Mira reckoned, the young Kedar Bey did not wait for the next shoe to drop. “But there’s more you expect from me?”

  “Of course,” Guliyev replied. “We will need vast financial resources ‘to keep the peace.’ Your contacts with the London bankers should do the trick.”

  Conor was a graduate of the London School of Economics and regularly returned to England on business. Because Viktor Kos had slashed the Kedar share of the oil monies over the years, House Kedar was forced to develop other revenue resources. International banking was its principal means.

  Next, Guliyev surprised Conor with an offer. “About the honor of your House,” he said. “I’ve been considering you as my next vice president – you or Viktor Kos. If you complete this task, you will not only have great power and wealth, but your family’s name will also be restored.”

  Conor wasn’t used to playing mind games with the President, but he recognized that he had to stay one step ahead in this fast-moving situation. “So, the rumors are true?” he hesitated, “That the oil monies are running out?”

  “You know, then?”

  “Over the years, Mira Nadirov has followed the diminishing oil returns closely, searching for the underlying cause.”

  Rolan Guliyev moaned, “Basically, it’s already gone. Viktor Kos is just playing with the money. Don’t worry about the Dark Triad. I will take care of that clan.”

  Conor wasn’t sure what Guliyev meant by the last remark, but he followed up with an assumption about the upcoming war. “As a result, if the UN wants to keep the peace in central Asia, it will have to pay up.”

  “Exactly.”

  “The 21 families have taken up sides,” said Conor. “The no-confidence vote you faced recently was the result.”

  “That’s why I need you and your allies with me in the fight.”

  Conor began making mental notes about the people he would have to contact. Then his mind turned to a pleasant thought, ten days before I have to be in London; Tali and I could spend a little time together.

  Later that day, Conor met with Rufet. “You’re free to hunt your Ibex,” he said, “but be sure to meet me in London on the 31st of October.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “On holiday.”

  Then Conor sent a text to Tali: “Meet me in Istanbul tomorrow.”

  6

  Away from Baku,

  Away from Home

  The man who relishes the hunt is a most righteous man. Alive in the moment, he senses a kinship with ancient spirits and feels a purity of purpose. No matter the circumstances that have befallen him in recent times, the frustrations, the obstructions, the betrayals, they are ignored on the mountainside. Such a man enjoys the hardness of pursuit: the aching muscles,
the stiff hands and numb feet, the frozen air. In the evening, when he returns to camp, he wonders not about the capriciousness of civilization, but about the cunningness of his prey, and finding the ruse that will bag him. Sleep comes swiftly to the hunter. The genuine joy of being in the wilderness is the surety that tomorrow will bring symmetry to one’s life and maybe even a trophy.

  When Conor told Rufet that he wasn’t needed until the end of the month, the First Deputy was surprised and delighted. He had a business meeting with Mira the following week, but it would not interfere with his plans. He had plenty of time – three days, maybe four if necessary – to seek his Ibex trophy. Rufet was satisfied and relaxed; he would hunt again. Fifty-inch horns; nothing less will do.

  Qurb often dreamed of his hunting trips on Mount Sheki. He wanted to hunt alone as he did in his youth, and that thought brought a smile to his face. He enjoyed the solitude of the quest. In Baku, there was no time for solitude, just galling mendacity.

  But this hunt would require planning. Launching a hasty trek into the mountains was unsettling to the 60-year-old. Rufet knew that his physical capabilities were not what they once were, so he decided to hire a guide. A local outfitter could arrange for provisions and horses, recommend a hunting range, and then escort him to a base camp and spike out his tent. I’ll take my satellite phone in case of trouble, or I need help to retrieve the carcass.

  So, the next morning, Rufet went to the concierge desk to ask about a guide. “I have one good man still available,” the clerk said. “A young fellow named Ali. He lives close by. I can call him if you like.”

  “My time here is short, so I would like to go as soon as possible. Please make the call.”

  The concierge nodded, thumbed through his iPhone, and then sent a text to a man named Ali Tabak. “He should respond shortly.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  To occupy his time, Rufet began rummaging through the hunting brochures on display next to the registration counter. He thumbed through several until he found one about the Ibex. He then walked to a nearby couch, sat down, and began reading: “The rutting period is best for bagging your trophy Bezoar Ibex. Typically, the rut begins in late October and lasts through December. In parts of Eastern Anatolia and the Lesser Caucasus mountain range, elevations on the Kars plateau can exceed 1,900 meters. Summers are brief and generally warm, while winters are especially cold. The average January low is −16 °C. However, temperatures can sometimes plummet to −35 °C. Kars has a wealth of wildlife….”