Kate pulled down on the back of her heavy ballistic vest, which was riding up uncomfortably under her arms and chafing at the neck. The helmet was too large and Kate had to cinch the chinstrap tight to hold it in place. The pistol in the black holster on her hip was bulky and it pressed up uncomfortably against her side. It was also empty. Just for show. Kate had no intention of shooting anyone.
Nogoev was circulating among his soldiers as a good commander should, exchanging a few words with one, clapping another forcefully on the shoulder. The Scythians were young, and Kate could see that they looked to Nogoev as a father figure. They fought for Boldu and for Ruslan and Kyrgyzstan, but first and foremost they fought for him. Julius Caesar had used the bonds of loyalty he had forged with his legionnaires in Gaul to bring a bloody end to the Roman Republic and set himself up as Dictator Perpetuo. President for Life. The Latin equivalent of Eraliev’s current title. Power had the gravitational pull of a thousand suns, and Kate could only hope that Nogoev would not ultimately give in to the temptations of Caesar.
He turned to Kate as though she were just another of his soldiers and put his hands on her shoulders. His eyes shone with a heady mix of confidence and eagerness. Kate could see that this was a man soldiers would gladly follow into battle. That men like Murzaev and Nogoev were ready to fight and die for Ruslan was a testament to his own qualities as a leader. Age was irrelevant. By the time he was thirty, Alexander had conquered half of the known world. Boldu’s ambitions were considerably more modest.
“Are you sure that your brother knows what to do?” Kate asked for the tenth time.
“I assure you that no one is better than Vladimir at making trouble. For the obshchak, the borders of the prison are porous. The gangs exist half inside the prison system and half outside. Vladimir and I were able to exchange messages almost in real time. He’s organized the riots for two o’clock. We’ll show up twenty minutes later as part of the riot response. And they’ll let us in through the main gate.”
“And after that?”
“The political prisoners are kept separate from the general population. Ruslan and Askar will be in Building D. This is Torquemada’s lair and it is well defended. My hope is that many of the guards on duty at Building D will be pulled in to help put down the riot elsewhere in the compound.”
“But there’s no way to know, is there?”
“Life has no guarantees.”
“If it comes to it, do we have enough firepower to fight our way in and fight our way out?”
“Let’s go find out, shall we?”
Nogoev’s confidence was infectious, no less so for Kate’s suspicion that it was entirely feigned. Soldiers on the eve of battle, a Marine Corps friend with two tours in Iraq had once told her, wanted nothing more from their commanding officers than reassurance, and lying to them was not only expedient, it was a moral imperative. Up until this moment, Kate had not really understood that position. Now she welcomed Nogoev’s blithe dismissal of the dangers ahead of them and cared little about whether his promises were true.
Kate climbed into the back of the Black Maria. Metal benches had been welded hastily to the walls. At first, the young Scythians continued their banter: light, confident, and boastful. But as the truck bounced down the potholed streets toward Prison Number One, they grew quiet and introspective.
After a thirty-minute ride, the truck stopped. The pass-through between the cargo compartment and the cab had been left open. Kate could head Nogoev’s exchange with the nervous gate guard.
“What’s the situation?” Nogoev demanded.
“I don’t know. There’s a riot. The obshchak have taken some of the guards captive. At least one of the blocks is on fire. It’s out of control.”
“Casualties?”
“I’m not sure. There have been a few reports over the radio about guards being hurt, but I don’t know how many or how bad.”
“What about weapons?”
“The prisoners had knives and clubs and at least one pistol. Now they have more, whatever they took from the guards. And if they get into the armory, god help us all.”
The guard sounded scared, and Kate had the feeling that he was right on the edge of tossing his weapon and badge into the nearest storm drain and running back to his village.
“Okay. Settle down, son. Open the gates.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re on lockdown. The gates are supposed to stay closed in lockdown.”
“Goddamn it. There’s a riot in there and I have a truck full of Special Police whose job it is to break up riots. But they can’t do that from out here. Now open the fucking gates or I will make sure that you are held personally responsible for the fate of your fellow guards being held as guests of the obshchak. And when they put you in prison, I will see to it that you end up serving your time inside this exact same fucking prison. Do you understand?”
Nogoev was so completely convincing in this role that Kate had to remind herself that it was, in fact, all an act.
There was a grinding sound of metal on stone as the massive gate slid open on its tracks. An unpleasant crawling sensation shot up Kate’s spine, the same feeling she got from a knife set to a sharpening steel. A feeling of dread.
The Scythians around her all sat up straighter at the prospect of imminent action. A few rechecked the weapons they had already checked multiple times.
The truck stopped and the rear doors swung open. The Scythians unloaded quickly and spread out in a semicircle between the truck and the prison buildings. Orange flames licked through the windows of one of the buildings and black smoke poured through a hole in the roof. Small bands of prisoners in matching blue uniforms were running across the courtyard brandishing homemade weapons. There were four buildings on the compound, but one stood out. It was made of concrete rather than crumbling brick, and the bars on the windows were polished steel rather than rusty wrought iron. The front door was massive and metal and imposing. This, Kate knew, was Building D, home to Kyrgyzstan’s Tier I political prisoners and anyone else deemed a threat to Eraliev and his family.
The door was guarded by two men, but they were as uncertain, anxious, and inexperienced as the gate guards. Nogoev ordered them to open the door and they obeyed unquestioningly. Thirty seconds later they were both lying facedown on the concrete with their wrists and ankles bound tightly with flex cuffs.
Following the plan, the Scythians moved in pairs through the door and began a methodical search of the building. Kate had teamed with Nogoev, who had agreed to allow her to come on the mission but only if she stayed close to him.
There were a few guards and clerical staff in the front room. One guard reached for his gun and was shot by three different Scythians almost simultaneously. The others surrendered without a fight. Nogoev ordered them into a holding room and set a pair of Scythians to stand guard.
“Come on, Daniar,” Kate said. “Basement level. I’m sure that’s where Chalibashvili is keeping them.”
“Why so sure?”
“Because rats and snakes like the dark.”
They found a stairwell and started down with a pair of Scythians following close behind to provide cover. The stairs went down deep. Building D was an iceberg, with most of its horrors lying beneath the surface.
Four stories down, a steel fire door opened up into a dark corridor lined with rough-cut stone. This level had not been excavated. It had been cut out of bedrock. The walls were damp and slightly slimy to the touch. Plain metal doors were set into the walls at irregular intervals. There were no numbers or nameplates on the doors, just a small slide at eye level that could be opened so the jailers could talk to their charges, or spy on them.
Nogoev slid the first one open.
“Ruslan?” he asked. “Are you there?”
The only sound from within was the jabbering of a madman. The next two cells were empty. It quickly became apparent t
hat there were too many cells to search one at a time.
“We need to find the Turnkey.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a who. The chief jailer. His name is Karimov and he plays Renfield to Chalibashvili’s Dracula.”
“How do we find him?”
Nogoev sniffed the air.
“It’s lunchtime.”
Kate copied Nogoev, and underneath the smell of mold she could detect garlic and chili and fried mutton. The ingredients of paloo.
“We used this same trick in Afghanistan when the Muj retreated to their caves. The smell of dal still makes me sick.”
The odor of paloo was clearly coming from the corridor on their right. They followed it to another split where the cooking smells led to the left. Kate could hear it now, the sizzling sound of frying sheep fat. There was a light coming from an open door up ahead, and Nogoev and their Scythian escorts raised their Heckler & Koch machine pistols to the ready position.
They needn’t have bothered.
The Turnkey was alone. And he was far from imposing. Karimov stood little more than five feet tall, with a prominent stoop to his shoulders. His arms were thin and bony. His hairline had receded like a spring tide. He looked up as Kate and Nogoev stepped into the room, his head turned slightly to one side, and Kate could see that his left eye was a dead milky white.
The room looked like it was used primarily as an office, with file cabinets, a desk, and a computer. But Karimov had also set up a small kitchen with a hotplate and a cast-iron skillet. The paloo looked excellent.
“What do you want, Captain?” Karimov asked, visibly annoyed and addressing Nogoev by the rank patch sewn onto the sleeve of his stolen uniform.
“Two of your prisoners,” Nogoev answered calmly as he leveled the machine pistol at Karimov’s head.
“You’re not the police, are you?”
“No.”
“Who are you then?”
“A man with a gun. But if you don’t do exactly as I ask, you can just call me Death.”
The jailer seemed unfazed by the threat.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve worked down here a long time. Death and I are old friends. He looks nothing like you. I’d ask you to lunch, but I’m afraid there’s only enough for one.”
As he spoke, the Turnkey moved his head back and forth as he trained his good eye on Nogoev and then Kate. The Scythians were visible by the doorframe, but he ignored them.
Nogoev stepped over to the hotplate and picked up the skillet with a gloved hand. He dumped the paloo on the floor and held the hot metal pan up along the side of Karimov’s face.
The jailer’s equanimity seemed to falter.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“Where is Ruslan Usenov?”
“You’re Boldu?”
“Where is he?”
“I’ve tripped the alarm. Help is coming.”
“Can they get here before I count to three?”
“They’re on their way.”
“One.”
“You don’t have time to free him and save yourselves.”
“Two.”
“The Georgian will find you. You can’t hide from him. No one can.”
“Three.”
As he said this, Nogoev grabbed the back of Karimov’s head with his free hand and pressed it against the bottom of the skillet. The jailer screamed and the smell of burnt human skin mixed sickeningly with the mutton-fat smell of the paloo.
When Nogoev released him, Kate could see the ugly red burn marks on his face and the bubbly skin where the blisters would soon form. Her stomach turned. As much as she wanted to find Ruslan and free him, this was torture, and ten minutes ago Kate believed firmly that it was never acceptable. As Murzaev had said about her kidnapping, however, it was complicated.
The Turnkey grabbed the side of his face and cursed in a mixture of Russian and Kyrgyz.
“You will die screaming,” he promised.
“Where is Ruslan Usenov?” Nogoev repeated. He held up the skillet in front of Karimov’s good eye and moved it slowly toward the unburned side of his face.
“Not far,” Karimov squeaked.
“Show me.”
The jailer led them through the subterranean maze, stopping before one of the doors, no different than any other.
“You’re sure this is it?” Nogoev asked. “Because if it’s not, I don’t see any reason you should keep that one good eye.”
“I know where they all are,” Karimov replied, and Kate could hear in his voice how much pain he was in.
Kate opened the slide in the door. The room was pitch black.
“Ruslan? Are you there?”
“Katie?”
“Are you all right?”
“Thirsty. How long have I been in here?”
“Two days. Open the damn door.” This last she addressed to the jailer.
Karimov fumbled with the keys at his belt before finding the one he was after. With the muzzle of Nogoev’s machine pistol pressed up against his neck, he opened the door.
Ruslan stumbled out, blinking in the unaccustomed light. He looked worn and pale and he staggered slightly. Kate undid her chin strap and dropped her helmet to the ground. Then she hugged Ruslan hard and kissed him on the mouth.
When she finally released him, Ruslan grabbed Nogoev in a bear hug.
“Thank you, Daniar. I knew you would come.”
“One more, dwarf,” Nogoev said to Karimov. “Where’s Askar Murzaev?”
“The Georgian took him for questioning,” Karimov protested. “I don’t know where he is.”
Nogoev pushed the muzzle of the machine pistol up against the Turnkey’s one good eye.
“Think harder.”
Appropriately incentivized, Karimov acknowledged that he may, in fact, have at least a good idea as to Murzaev’s whereabouts. He led them upstairs one level. The third sub-basement looked more like an ordinary jail than a castle dungeon, with whitewashed concrete walls and numbered cells.
“I want you to understand,” Karimov said when they stopped in front of the door to the room where Murzaev was being kept. “I had nothing to do with the interrogation. Not my department. That’s the Georgian. I’m just the innkeeper.” His one good eye blinked rapidly and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down nervously.
“Open the goddamn door.”
Murzaev was not in good shape. He was lying naked on a thin rubberized mattress on a metal bed. A single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling cast a harsh light. The old spymaster was badly bruised. His face was swollen and there were burn marks on his chest where, Kate suspected, Chalibashvili had hooked electrodes to his flesh.
Nogoev helped his friend to his feet with a surprising gentleness. Murzaev stirred groggily. When he tried to speak, Kate saw that his front teeth were broken. Torquemada had worked him over hard.
“Don’t try to talk,” Nogoev said. “And don’t worry about identifying the man who did this. We know who it was.”
As he said this, Nogoev leveled his machine pistol at Karimov’s chest. The Turnkey squealed in fear.
“It wasn’t me. I’m not involved in the questioning.”
“I don’t really care.” The muscles in Nogoev’s right arm tensed and the gun shifted up slightly to point straight at Karimov’s forehead.
“Don’t do it, Daniar.” The tone of command in Ruslan’s voice was unmistakable. This was not a suggestion.
Nogoev looked at him, but the gun did not waver.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because we’re better than that. Better than him. He’ll get what’s coming to him, I promise you. But in a court, representing the will of the people. Not like this.”
The muzzle shifted back and forth just a little but did not drop.
“No, Daniar,” Kate said. “I still need him.”
“We have Ruslan. That’s what we came for. We have to go. Now.”
“I’m not going to get another chance like this.” She turned to the jailer. “Zamira Ishenbaev. Where is she? You know where they all are. You said so yourself.”
There was a flicker of recognition on the jailer’s face, maybe as he connected Kate with the aunt she so resembled.
Gunfire in the corridor cut short any answer he might have given.
“The Special Police are here,” one of the Scythians shouted from the hall. “The real ones.”
“We need to get out of here,” Nogoev said.
Karimov, evidently still uncertain about Nogoev’s ultimate intentions, seized the moment of distraction to break for the door and step out into the hall, running in the direction of his putative rescuers and waving his arms wildly. They shot him before he had covered five feet, and the Turnkey’s last few moments of life were spent twitching like a fish in a pool of his own blood. Kate knew that her best chance for finding her aunt alive had died with him.
With the young Scythians providing cover, they hurried down the hall, running away from the gunfire and in the opposite direction of the stairwell. They moved as quickly as they could with the barely conscious Murzaev in tow. At the far end of the corridor, there was another stairwell, but this led up only one level. One of the Scythians took the point while his partner brought up the rear. Ruslan helped Nogoev lift Murzaev bodily up the stairs.
The next floor up was another maze of cells. They ran down the widest corridor, ignoring the poorly lit branches that seemed to lead off into darkness and nightmares. An oversize red button set at eye level was labeled LOCK DOWN. Kate was afraid that button might seal the doors, but there was no time to stop and examine it.
The Special Police were not far behind. Kate could hear the heavy thud of their boots on the stairs. At the end of the corridor was a metal door. The words EMERGENCY EXIT were stenciled on the door in both Russian and Kyrgyz.
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