Enemy of the Good

by Matthew Palmer

  She dialed Mrs. Larson’s number at the school.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Larson, it’s Kate. I need a quick favor.”

  “Anything, dear.”

  “Valentina’s brother. Do you remember his first name?”

  “Of course. It was Zhyrgal, dear. Zhyrgal Aitmatov.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Larson.”

  —

  Half an hour later, Kate had the answer she was after. One of the private clinics had a resident patient named Zhyrgal Dobrynin. The clinic had no set visiting hours, but the nurse who ran the unit said Kate was welcome to visit anytime.

  The next morning at nine o’clock, Kate pulled up in front of the NeoMed Clinic and parked her Touareg in the shade of an enormous walnut tree. The clinic was a converted stone villa in a residential part of Bishkek. From the outside it seemed pleasant enough, albeit in need of a little upkeep. Kate walked in through the glass doors carrying a shiny red gift bag she had picked up in the embassy commissary.

  The nurse at the front desk was petite, brunette, and pretty, with features that could have been either Slavic or Kyrgyz, a product of the great Central Asian melting pot of cultures. The reception area was not fancy, but it was clean and there was a faint odor of antiseptic. This was a private clinic and Kate knew that it was considerably nicer than the state-run hospitals. Bishkek central hospital was a grimy, gray, cinder-block monolith where underpaid doctors and nurses treated patients like marks, shaking the families down for petty bribes for everything from appointment times to prescriptions.

  “Welcome to NeoMed,” the nurse said pleasantly. She spoke in Kyrgyz. “How can I help you?”

  The concept of customer service was just one more indicator that this was a private clinic.

  “I’m here to see Zhyrgal Dobrynin,” Kate said.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Friend of the family.”

  “Can you please sign the log?”

  The nurse pulled a bulky three-ring notebook off a shelf behind her and flipped through it quickly until she found the page she was looking for. She set it down in front of Kate.

  Each resident evidently had an individual page in the log book. At the top of the page was the patient’s name—Zhyrgal Dobrynin—and a room number. Beneath that was a list of visitors with arrival and departure times. There were almost twenty visitor entries on Zhyrgal’s page, but all from the same person, a woman named Natasa Semirova. She visited Zhyrgal every Thursday in the early afternoon between two and three o’clock, as regular and dutiful as only family could be.

  Zhyrgal’s room was on the second floor. Kate knocked softly on the door.

  “Come in.” The voice was high-pitched and the words were slurred.

  Zhyrgal was sitting in a padded wheelchair at the window looking out over the courtyard and gardens. His body was twisted and his limbs bent at unnatural angles. His face looked as though it had been crumpled in an accident, and a thin strand of saliva dangled from a corner of his mouth. His black hair was greasy. But there was a spark of intelligence and curiosity in his eyes that was unmistakable and instantly appealing.

  “Hello, Zhyrgal.”

  “Who are you?” The question was open and natural and not colored by suspicion. Kate could see that he had to strain to speak clearly.

  “My name is Katarina. I’m a friend of your sister’s.”

  Zhyrgal’s face tightened in what looked at first like a grimace. It took Kate a moment to realize that it was, in fact, a smile.

  “A friend of Natasa,” he said, almost as though he were reminding himself of his sister’s name.

  “Yes,” Kate agreed. “Natasa.”

  She looked quickly around the room. The walls were a cheery yellow, but the paint was chipped and sun-faded in places. A hospital bed with a frame made from chunky aluminum tubing stood against one wall. There was a poster tacked over the bed featuring FC Dordoi, one of the big Bishkek football clubs. Football loyalty in Kyrgyzstan was a family affair and Val’s family had been Dordoi supporters.

  Kate held up the bag she carried.

  “I brought you a present.”

  “I like presents,” Zhyrgal said.

  “Who doesn’t?”

  She pulled a white baseball cap with FC Dordoi’s blue-and-yellow soccer ball logo out of the bag.

  Zhyrgal beamed.

  “Would you like to try it on?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Kate put the cap on Zhyrgal’s head, adjusting it so that the bill would not block his view of the garden.

  “You look great in it,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Zhyrgal’s laugh was more like a bark. His enthusiasm was evident and infectious.

  “Do you mind if I visit with you a while?” Kate asked.

  “I don’t know. I had plans.” He laughed again. Louder.

  They talked for twenty minutes about football and the weather and the food in the clinic. It took a little practice to follow his slurred speech, but Kate realized quickly that the mind trapped inside his broken body was strong. She could not bring herself to ask directly about Valentina, to confront the fact that she was using Zhyrgal. Lying to him, in essence.

  “Will I see you again?” Zhyrgal asked when Kate rose to leave.

  “Most definitely.”

  “When?” he demanded.

  “On Thursday, Zhyrgal. I’ll be back on Thursday.”

  7

  Three days later, Kate was back at the NeoMed clinic. It had been a frustrating seventy-two hours. Kate had had little luck finding any other leads on Boldu and even less in getting cooperation from the CIA. Even her own boss in the political section seemed largely uninterested in Kate’s efforts to establish contact with Ruslan and the democrats. Nor had Kate seen much of her uncle since their dinner at the residence. He had been wrapped up in the base negotiations. The few times she had bumped into him in the embassy, he had been encouraging but vague and distracted, and Kate was left to wonder how much importance he really placed on the issue of Boldu. But why then had he pulled strings to get her transferred from Havana to Bishkek? Maybe it wasn’t because he really cared about a fringe democracy movement in a small country most Americans had never heard of. Maybe he was just looking out for his brother’s little girl. The poor little orphan. Kate hated that idea. She did not want to be condescended to. Under the best of circumstances, it would be hard enough in her field for people to see past her family name.

  So it was with an edge of nervous tension that Kate approached the clinic. If Valentina did not show or if Natasa Semirova turned out to be someone else entirely, she would be back at the beginning.

  At least she no longer felt like the bride of Frankenstein. The embassy doctor had cut her stitches out yesterday, and a little concealer and foundation helped make the angry red laceration at her temple much less noticeable. She would have a scar, but it was one that she would bear with pride.

  The nurse at the reception desk seemed surprised to see her again so soon. Kate was disappointed to note that Semirova had not yet arrived. It meant little, however. She had timed her arrival at the clinic to coincide with the front end of the window in which Semirova had signed in on Zhyrgal’s page in the visitor book. There was no reason to be nervous, at least not yet. But Kate’s palms were damp and she wiped them surreptitiously on the cool metal desktop.

  She made her way up to Zhyrgal’s room. He was happy to see Kate and he seemed to appreciate the bag with fruit, nuts, and chocolate that she had brought to share.

  She peeled an orange for him. Watching him struggle to eat the fruit without making too much of a mess tugged at her heart. Kate had been struck in their earlier conversation by Zhyrgal’s positive attitude, his sense of humor, and his generous spirit. It was painful to see that potential trapped in a broken vessel. They talke
d about football and music. Zhyrgal was a big fan of Michael Jackson.

  Half an hour later, Zhyrgal’s sister arrived. She stood in the open doorway, leaning against the frame with a look on her face that seemed to combine amusement, irritation, and uncertainty. It was an eloquent expression.

  “Hello, Kate,” she said in English.

  “Hello, Val,” Kate replied in the same language.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “You look good. “

  This was a lie. Valentina Aitmatova was not an attractive woman. She was tall, almost six feet, and anorexically thin. Her face was so long that one of the boys at school had suggested cruelly that she had modeled for one of the giant heads on Easter Island. Val had laughed it off, but Kate had found ways to make the boy’s life miserable until he had apologized.

  Many people grow out of their awkward teenage bodies. A few lucky ones transform into swans. Valentina was not one of them. Her features all seemed one size too big for her face. Her nose was both prominent and slightly off center. And her ears seemed set on her head at slightly different heights. But Val carried herself with confidence and style. She was wearing tight black jeans tucked into square-toed boots and a bright yellow silk blouse open at the throat. Her only makeup was a hot pink lip gloss.

  Val walked over to her brother and kissed him softly on the cheek. She pulled a book out of her purse and set it on the table next to his wheelchair. It was a coffee-table book about football teams in England’s Premier League.

  “Brother,” she said switching to Kyrgyz. “Kate and I need to talk. I’ll be back soon to see you. I promise.”

  “Okay. Don’t be too long.”

  Val turned to Kate and gave her an appraising look.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “That would be lovely.”

  Val led Kate to a coffee shop across the street from the NeoMed clinic. It looked like a student hangout with an eclectic mix of mismatched tables and chairs and trendy young people serving espressos and cappuccinos to other trendy young people.

  “How have you been, Val?” Kate asked in Kyrgyz after a short woman in a shorter skirt had brought them their coffees and a small plate of biscotti that smelled like ginger and nutmeg. Bishkek had certainly become a more worldly city in the years Kate had been away. It was a little like seeing a beloved niece or nephew after some time apart and realizing with a shock that someone still fixed in your mind as a small child was now all grown up.

  Val offered her a wisp of a smile.

  “It’s complicated.” She spooned some sugar into her coffee. “What were you doing in Zhyrgal’s room?” Val asked, and there was an edge to her voice that Kate understood reflected a mix of anger and fear.

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t have any other way of getting in touch with you.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I wouldn’t have done it, if it wasn’t important.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I went to see Mrs. Larson. She reminded me about Zhyrgal. The rest wasn’t difficult.”

  Valentina pursed her lips, her concern evident.

  “If you did it, then others can too.”

  “Only if they know to look for you.”

  “Which begs the question, why are you looking for me? Did I forget to sign your yearbook?”

  “I’m back with the embassy, Val. Only now I’m a diplomat rather than a dependent.”

  “Your father would have liked that.” Valentina covered Kate’s hand with her own. She had been at the funeral.

  “I heard about your mother from Mrs. Larson. I’m sorry.”

  Val withdrew her hand.

  “She was sick. It’s better for her.”

  “How’s your father?”

  “Not well.”

  “It must be hard on Zhyrgal.”

  “Yes. Why did you want to find me so badly? Especially after it must have become obvious that I did not want to be found.”

  This was the kind of conversation Kate had had scores of times in Havana with skittish Cuban dissidents. She knew how to navigate this sort of exchange, with its subtext of suspicion and its abrupt shift in subject matter, even with a woman she considered a friend.

  “I’d like to talk to you about the reasons you’ve tried to stay off the grid, at least inasmuch as that’s possible to do.”

  “As an old friend or as an American diplomat?”

  “Both. Either. Neither. Does it matter?”

  Val was thoughtful.

  “I don’t know yet,” she acknowledged.

  Kate took this as an opening.

  “We can help you, Val. I can help you. We know about Boldu and your role in it, you and some of the others from ISB who are close to Seitek. Some of our analyst types don’t think there is such a person, that he’s a symbol rather than a man. Others disagree. I happen to be among those who thinks Seitek is real.”

  For a brief moment, Kate thought Val was going to laugh as though at a private joke.

  “Why would you think that I’m involved with this group to begin with?”

  “Some others have spoken about you,” Kate said, and regretted her choice of words almost as soon as they were out of her mouth.

  “Spies,” Val said bitterly, shaking her head. “You remember that in the stories Seitek struggled primarily against the internal enemies of the Kyrgyz tribes. The betrayers and the turncoats.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Kate hastened to reassure her old classmate. “The information is from something else.”

  “From phone calls then. The NSA.”

  Kate didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

  “What do you want from me?” Valentina asked.

  “I’d like you to vouch for me. I’d like to meet Seitek.”

  There was that smile again, as enigmatic and knowing as anything Mona Lisa had managed.

  “Even assuming for a moment, for the sake of argument, that I could do this thing, why would I? You were a friend, Kate. I like you. But high school was a long time ago. I don’t really know you.”

  “No,” Kate admitted. “I suppose not. But you know my family. Where they stand. What my mother tried to do for democracy in this country. What her sister sacrificed. What the Eraliev clique did to my family and why. How could I be anything but loyal to what they fought for? What they, in fact, died for.”

  Val’s eyes were moist and soft.

  “I loved your mother. She had so much to give and they took it all, the bastards.”

  “And I want them to pay,” Kate said. “I want an accounting.”

  “I understand that. And I would never doubt your sincerity. But you aren’t here as Katarina Hollister, daughter of Kyrgyzstan. You’re here as a representative of the global hyper-power, the world’s policeman. And your track record in this part of the world is not especially inspiring.”

  Kate knew what Valentina was talking about. The United States paid lip service to the importance of democracy and human rights in Central Asia but turned a blind eye to the Uzbek president stealing an election, the entrenched elite rigging the vote in oil-rich Kazakhstan, or the ruling party in Tajikistan crushing the opposition and locking it out of the assembly.

  There was always a good reason: overland access for military equipment to supply front-line troops in Afghanistan or a crackdown on Islamic extremists that the United States did not want to endorse but did want to succeed. It was Uncle Harry’s value complexity in action.

  Just a little further afield, Washington was ready to broker a power-sharing deal with the Taliban and continued to engage in the summary execution by drone strike of suspected militants in Pakistan’s largely ungoverned tribal belt. It was easy to see how Valentina could harbor doubts about America’s ultimate reliability as a partner in the long struggle for democratic chan
ge.

  “It’s a complicated part of the world,” Kate said with hesitation.

  “Not for those of us who live here.” Valentina’s response was passionate, bordering on angry. “Freedom. Dignity. These are the only things that matter. And they are not especially complex ideas.”

  “Val, you can’t do this alone. I’ve seen it up close. I’ve lost family to it. We can help you. I can help you. I did it in Cuba.” Kate made the argument with force and conviction, but the still fresh memories of losing the fight with the chargé d’affaires and the RSO in the embassy’s Tank weighed on her. When it all hit the fan, could she really count on her own government with its infuriating inclination to hesitate, vacillate, and hedge its bets? Unconsciously, she ran a finger along the now largely healed laceration at her temple.

  “What are you offering?” Val asked.

  “First and foremost is validation. If the United States and other governments start highlighting Boldu as a legitimate expression of democratic ideals rather than anarchists or just a bunch of disaffected kids, it would strengthen your hand. You’d get attention to the cause, converts, allies. You’d raise the costs for the regime of simply quashing you under the boot of the GKNB and the Special Police. There would be more positive media attention, not only in the West but here at home as well. We could train your supporters in grassroots organization, poll watching, and public relations. The nuts-and-bolts stuff of a democracy movement. And, if you need it and want it . . . but only if you need it and want it . . . we could help you with money.”

  Val sipped her coffee and seemed to be thinking over carefully what Kate had said.

  “Do you remember Dr. Geisler?” she asked finally.

  “How could I forget? Eleventh-grade honors literature. It was a requirement for the IB diploma.” Both Kate and Valentina had been part of the international baccalaureate program at ISB, an intense standardized curriculum that made it easier for globe-hopping third-culture kids to move from school to school.