Strike Force

by Dale Brown

  “I see,” the customs officer said. “I do not understand all this business psychology and maneuverings, but what you say makes a certain amount of sense to me.” He stamped something on the letter of introduction. “So you will be meeting with this Mr. Saparov at RuTel soon?”

  “After I complete my due diligence and business proposal, I will,” Najar said. “But I wish to be fully prepared before I ask for a meeting. That may take a few days. That is why I requested only a ten-day business visa, with no re-entry privileges.” He withdrew and opened his wallet, letting the customs officer peek inside the billfold, revealing it fat with American dollars and Turkish new lira. “I am prepared to pay the expedited visa fee, in cash—it is four times the normal fee, is it not?” Najar knew the expedited fee was only twice the normal fee—he hoped the extra “incentive” would cause this guy to back off. He undoubtedly had most of this guy’s entire annual wages in his wallet right now.

  “I see,” the customs officer intoned. He looked through the passports again, imperceptibly nodding his head. “Just so.” He got up from his chair and ordered, “Follow me.” Najar’s heart sank.

  They were taken into a very small office just behind the service counter. Najar and Saidi could see no surveillance cameras—that was good. There was a long steel table in the center of the room, along with a telephone on a rickety wooden desk and inspection devices such as flashlights and rubber gloves. “Well,” the agent said after he locked the door behind them, “I think we shall have to meet with my supervisor for some additional information. We shall undoubtedly have to speak with Mr. Saparov and someone at the ministry’s office to confirm your story.”

  “It is no story, sir—it is the truth,” Najar said, trying to remain calm. “But I will be happy to meet with the unit supervisor here, and I should like to inform the trade and commerce consul at the Turkish embassy of this exchange as well. I think he should be apprised at how unfairly one of its citizens is treated by Turkmenistan customs.”

  The customs officer’s eyes flared. “Are you threatening me, sir? I assure you, that is most unwise.”

  “Please, sir,” Azar said in crude but passable Turkmen, removing her scarf and affixing the customs officer with an imploring, desperate look, “please let my father, mother, and I come into your country.”

  “Azar, no…!”

  “Look, the China doll speaks!” the customs officer laughed.

  Najar’s mouth tightened and his fists balled, but Azar touched his hand under the counter, ordering him to be calm. “Please, sir. My father has…he has sold everything to come here and make this deal—our home, our farm, his inheritance, everything,” Azar said. “My father is very smart and has many ways to help the people of your country, but no one at the Russian phone company or in your government minister’s office will talk to him while he is in Turkey, so we came here together. My father brought us all here to Turkmenistan as a sign of his commitment to this project—this will be our home for many years if this deal is concluded. We have no place else to go and no money other than what my father carries with him. This is our last hope. Will you please help us, sir?”

  The customs officer scowled at Najar. “So, you let your female child do the pleading for you, eh, Mister Telecommunications Engineer?” he scoffed. “That is a true Turkish businessman for you. And why does she learn Turkmeni when her father does not?” Najar forced himself to lower his eyes contritely. The customs officer chuckled. “Have you declared that foreign currency yet, sir?” Najar shook his head and handed him all the money out of his wallet—he noticed how quickly the customs officer hid it from sight with his hands and with the letter of introduction. “Any more to declare?” Najar turned, and Saidi withdrew another wad of bills from a pocket inside her robes.

  “Ah, just so. As I thought. Not so delicate and feminine as to stop her from hiding foreign currency from a customs agent, eh?” The customs officer counted it all, separated all of the American dollars from the rest, slipped the greenbacks into his pants pocket, counted out a thousand dollars’ worth of Turkish new lira for the visa fees, logged the remainder, handed it over to Najar, and stamped the passports. “Five days tourist visa, no re-entry,” he said. “You must apply for a business visa before you contact the ministry of communications or anyone at RuTel—if you fail to do so, you could spend six months in jail for the violation, unless of course you have your lovely daughter talk them out of arresting you. You must check in at a hotel in the capital and surrender your passport to the manager within four hours or be in violation of the terms of your tourist visa.”

  He handed back the passports, then looked at Azar, smiled evilly at Najar, pursed his lips as if giving her a kiss, and added, “What pretty eyes she has. I’ll bet she drives all the boys wild.” He grinned at Najar’s suppressed anger, laughed, then shook his head toward the exit. “Welcome to Turkmenistan.” Najar again forced himself to control his anger as he took his passports, bowed politely at the laughing customs officer, and turned to go.

  They collected their bags at the inspection station. No one said a word outside. They tried to flag down a taxi, but a private citizen stopped first and offered them a ride. After a few moments of haggling, they settled on a price and piled into the broken-down, dilapidated Russian sedan.

  The driver took them to the Tolkuchka Bazaar at the outskirts of Ashkhabad, which looked like the gaudiest Hollywood B-movie set of a bazaar they had ever seen—thousands of shoppers circulating around hundreds of merchants, some in multicolored tents but most just sitting on colorful carpets with their wares spread out before them. The sights and sounds were rich and varied, and Azar found her eyes wandering to the beautiful silks, silver, jewelry, and rugs on display.

  But they had a job to do. Job one: make sure they were not being followed. They dared not look behind them in the car or speak except in conversational Turkish, fearing the driver to be a Turkmenistan National Committee for Security agent, so they didn’t know if they were being tailed and so assumed they were. They did several switchbacks, quick dodges, and reversals to try to spot any shadows, but didn’t spot any tails. Still not satisfied they were safe, they bought some lamb kebabs and tea and sat outside a camel corral with other visitors taking a break from the crush of people in the bazaar, safe from everyone except an occasional herder or vendor peddling something.

  “Thank you for helping me at the airport, Shahdokht,” Najar said in a low voice.

  “I’m sorry if it embarrassed you, but we did not want to be confronted by a superior officer—the more eyes around, the lesser chances we’d have of bribing our way into the country,” Azar said. “Thankfully you showed him your money—he was just looking for the right opportunity to be able to take it from you. What is our situation, Major?”

  “We have just two hours before we’ll be reported for not surrendering our passports,” Najar said. “Hopefully that customs officer won’t be so efficient…”

  “We have to assume he’ll be more efficient,” Azar said.

  “Agreed, Shahdokht. Our network contact is supposed to meet us here at the bazaar, but I don’t know what he or she looks like or who it is, so they’ll have to make contact with us.”

  “We’ll wait here and finish our wonderful meal, then lose ourselves in the crowd again until nightfall,” Azar said. She was serious about the food—she was afraid that the spicy, chewy meat would be too much for her stomach, but she enjoyed every bite. She looked toward the south. “Those must be the Kopetdag Mountains. I’ve read about them and seen pictures. They are beautiful.”

  “That’s Mount Shahshah there,” Saidi said, pointing a bit to the west. “The Turkmenis claim it’s on their side of the border—based on Soviet surveyors’ claims, naturally—but it’s really in Iran. But wait until you see the Alborz Mountains north of Tehran and the volcano Mount Damavand. It’s almost twice as high as Shahshah, and it’s the largest volcano in Eurasia west of the Hindu Kush.”

  “I can’t wait to see i
t, Lieutenant,” Azar said. “I can’t wait to see the Caspian Sea—I only caught a glimpse of it from the air—and the Persian Gulf, and even the Great Salt Desert. Minnesota is nothing like my Iran.”

  Another vendor wearing colorful robes and sashes, a red turban, and white skull cap wandered over, carrying a cart full of bags of hot pistachios, and Azar’s mouth watered again. The vendor saw this immediately and smiled a crooked, yellow-toothed smile. “Peace and happiness to you, my child,” he said in Turkmeni, bowing to Najar as a way of asking permission to address the girl. “Would you like some warm, satisfying pistachios? Just six thousand manat, freshly picked this morning and roasted right here just minutes ago, the best bargain in the whole bazaar!”

  “Thank you, sir, and peace to you and your family as well,” Azar said in her best Turkmeni. She looked at Najar, and he nodded, keeping a careful eye on the vendor’s hands and the men behind him. A few other hawkers had started to cluster around nearby, waiting to see how much money these pilgrims would pull out. “All I have is Turkish new lira, sir.”

  “Turkish lira! Even better, my child! But because that is not official currency here in Turkmenistan, I must ask for eight thousand manat, still a very great bargain for you, a pittance really if you consider the exchange rate between our currencies. I will be sure to give you more than enough of my succulent pistachios for all three of you.”

  “That is generous of you, sir, but my father says I have spent enough and can only give you one thousand manat—fifty kurus.”

  “Your father is wise and must be respected, child, but I have children of my own to feed,” the vendor said. “But in respect for your father and mother, I will sell an extra large bag to you for the original price—six thousand.”

  “I’m afraid my blessed father will disapprove of any more than two thousand manat.”

  The vendor bowed his head to Najar, who only scowled back. “I would not like to be the cause of any ill feelings whatsoever between such a powerful-looking gentleman and such a sweet child,” the pistachio seller said, “but I have a father, mother, six brothers, a wife, and four children to answer to as well—and a girlfriend or two, of course, but don’t tell my wife, please!” His chuckle subsided when he saw Najar’s scowl deepen. “I will tell you what, my child, in reward for being so good with me and for speaking our native tongue so well.” He brushed his hands together as if anticipating closing this deal immediately. “Four thousand manat for you, and not a tennesi more. The rest I shall receive when I see the pleasure in your faces as you enjoy my pistachios.”

  “You are generous and patient, sir.” She counted out coins in her hand. “I have seventy kurus here, and I dare not ask my father for more—I have been too much of a burden to him already on this trip. You will become the most generous man we have met in Turkmenistan if you accept.”

  The vendor smiled, bit his index finger, then bowed. “Done, child, and may God smile on you.” Azar gave the coins to Najar, who gave them to the vendor. He indeed did portion out a very large bag of steaming pistachios and handed them over to Najar, who gave them to Azar without taking his eyes off the vendor. “Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you, and may God continue to smile on you. Is there any other way I can serve you, child?”

  “Like how?” Najar growled in Farsi.

  “Like taking the Shahdokht and her royal bodyguards to her home,” the man replied in Farsi. He bowed slightly, taking a peek over his shoulder at the slowly growing number of vendors starting to move closer. “I’m sorry, Shahdokht, but it’s not every day you get to haggle over the price of a bag of pistachios with a member of the Persian royal family. Now, allow me to take you into the waiting arms of your loyal followers in your homeland. God be praised, our salvation is at hand! The blessed and powerful Qagev have returned!”

  “You wasted a lot of time,” Saidi said.

  “I decided that simply approaching you without at least trying to make a sale would look bad,” he said. “I’ve been here at the bazaar for three years, waiting for this blessed day for the true rulers of Persia’s return, God be praised. I know the bazaar well.”

  “The transaction attracted too much attention,” Najar said perturbedly. “Where can we meet?”

  “My truck is parked at the far northwest vendor lot, beside the bicycles,” the man replied. “I suggest…”

  But suddenly there was a commotion behind him, and moments later two Soviet-era light infantry vehicles and a sedan burst toward the corral. Three Turkmeni soldiers jumped out of the vehicle, and a man in a plain dark business suit emerged from the sedan. Najar and Saidi were on their feet faster than Azar had ever seen them move before.

  “No one move!” the sergeant in charge of the military forces shouted in Russian. “Hands where I can see them!” The other soldiers carried rusty-looking AK-47s and sidearms in worn, rotting leather holsters. Azar had no doubt that Najar and Saidi could take them out within seconds…if they had weapons or were within reach of them. Najar, Saidi, Azar, and the vendor open their hands to their sides in plain sight.

  The man in the suit approached them, smiling—and then, to everyone’s surprise, bowed. “Salam aleikom, Miss Qagev,” he said in Farsi. “Welcome to Turkmenistan. I am Colonel Jamal Fattah, deputy chief of mission and chief political officer of the Iranian embassy in Ashkhabad.” He looked at Najar and Saidi. “You must be Miss Qagev’s bodyguards…Richard and Linda VanWie, or is it Major Najar and Lieutenant Saidi now?”

  “Salam aleikom, sir,” Azar replied, bowing slightly in return. Fattah was obviously pleased at that response, though he kept his eye carefully on Najar and Saidi. “What brings the Iranian deputy consul here?”

  “Why, a member of the Qagev royal family, here, in Turkmenistan—it’s practically a cause for yet another national week of celebration, just like the Turkmenis award themselves just about every other week of the year for some reason or another,” Fattah said.

  “How did you know we were here?”

  “I would be revealing important state secrets if I…”

  “The Russian embassy intercepted communications between Canada and the United States about the arrest and deportment of three persons who were under protective custody of the U.S. State Department, Shahdokht,” Saidi said. “They obviously passed the information to their friends the Iranians.”

  Fattah nodded and smiled. “Lieutenant Saidi is as smart as she is beautiful,” he said. “Rumor had it that you actually stole the plane sent to evacuate you to a safe place? Extraordinary. Anyway, the report said the trio was in quite a rush and headed to Istanbul via Frankfurt. A message was put out to all embassies to watch for you. After you left Istanbul, a very resourceful researcher at the Federal Security Service in Moscow guessed who you might be, based on recent events in Iran, and the word was put out to be on the lookout for you and your parents…”

  “What of my parents?” Azar interjected.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Miss Qagev,” the Iranian said. “Once the word was out it was not difficult tracking down two adults and a female teenager traveling together through eastern and central Asia. We made positive identification shortly thereafter, pulled up your files, and then put all known pro-monarchy individuals and Iranian expatriates in Turkmenistan under surveillance, knowing you’d make contact with your underground network.”

  “We do not have any quarrel with the Turkmeni government,” Azar said, “and we have broken no laws here…”

  “I am sure you entered the country using false papers…”

  “We were legally admitted into this country and we have valid visas…”

  “That will be thoroughly investigated,” Fattah said. “While that investigation is underway, Iran will file extradition papers with the Turkmeni courts, and I have no doubt you will be turned over to us in a very short time.”

  “On what charges?”

  “Sedition, conspiracy, terrorism, murder—the list is very long and horrible,” Fattah said. “I
am sure the Turkmeni government will be anxious to cooperate. These soldiers will take you into custody and take you to the Niyazov jail in Ashkhabad, where you’ll stay awaiting extradition to Iran. The wheels of justice move slowly in Turkmenistan, but you will eventually return home…as the guest of the ayatollah.” He lowered his voice, turning his back to the Turkmeni soldiers, and went on: “Now, you don’t want to die in a hail of gunfire outside a filthy camel corral in Ashkhabad at the hands of those mostly bored-looking, under-trained, and underpaid soldiers over there, so I’m asking you to come along quietly. I know your bodyguards are well trained and could probably twist those soldiers’ heads right off their shoulders, and mine as well, but I’d hate for anyone to die out here like common criminals, especially a royal princess. If you resist, I can’t be responsible for what happens next.” He motioned to his sedan. “Shall we, Miss Qagev?”

  Najar stepped forward, the menace clear in his eyes and body—so palpable was it that the Turkmeni soldiers sensed it immediately and stiffened. Azar scanned the growing crowd around them, but she didn’t see any sympathetic faces. They might scatter and confuse the crowd if her bodyguards could get their hands on those rifles, and they could probably lose themselves in the bazaar easily…

  …but then Azar noticed other men in the crowd…and they didn’t look like Turkmeni vendors or shoppers. They looked military but wore civilian clothes, they were less Central Asian–looking, their gazes were sure and steady, and their hands were free, hovering near open coats. They were Iranians, Azar thought, surely Pasdaran—she was positive of it. She turned to Saidi and motioned toward the men she spotted, and Saidi saw him right away too.