Kildar pos-2

by John Ringo

  Uzbekistan, however, had already entered into various agreements with the United States prior to 9/11 and many of the forces fighting the Taliban were related to the Uzbeks. When it became evident that using Pakistan was impossible, the U.S. had, instead, poured its military wealth into this flat, land-locked, country. Special operations and air force bases had been built, contracts had been let and servicemen and women had poured into the country. In short order, the number-one employer in Uzbekistan had become Uncle Sam either directly, by hiring people to work on the bases and construction contracts, or indirectly by providing goods and services to off-duty soldiers and airmen.

  And fabled Samarkand had become the target of choice for those off-duty service personnel. If for no other reason than the quality of its whores.

  Mike remembered spending one seriously drunken four-day weekend in Samarkand. Despite being a Moslem country, the influence of the Uzbeks, one of the many tribes of “Mongols” that had overrun the Middle East in ancient times, was strong. Liquor was legal and prostitution was considered just one of those things. Girls from Russia had flooded into the country to supply “services” to lonely American lads and Mike had taken full advantage. The team had just come off of nearly two months of straight combat ops and, at the time, it was all TDY. The TDY pay-out had been… sizeable. And he’d blown damned near all of it on booze and girls. At something like five bucks for a blowjob and twenty for around the world, he’d screwed himself silly. And barely been able to remember it for all the booze.

  Good weekend.

  In response to the increase in business, Hilton had, thank God, built a hotel. Mike considered that as he looked out the windows of the hotel at downtown Samarkand. The last time he’d been here he’d ended up staying in some really lousy bordello the whole four days. Literally lousy; he’d had to thoroughly de-louse when he got back to the base. In a Hilton that worry wasn’t an issue.

  The Hilton was close to the center of downtown and fairly new, which meant that something had been destroyed to put it there. Mike hoped that it was one of the horrible Soviet six-story tenements that infested the city. The decaying tenements were perfectly square, at least in design — no Soviet builder could actually make something perfectly square — and unadorned. So was Bauhaus architecture, but it used pleasing lines to create something that was only mediocre. The Soviets had managed to create buildings of oppressive ugliness without really trying. Unfortunately, they were generally ringed around the center, though, so it was more likely to be some traditional building or buildings.

  Samarkand had one notable feature that was post Soviet: the Mosque. For some reason, Islamic countries had gotten into a battle over who could build the mosque with the highest minaret and onion dome. Not to mention the most surpassing ugliness. Aesthetics definitely took a back seat. The Samarkand Mosque was a grotesque building that dominated the view. The older houses, shops and mosques that huddled near it were dwarfed by the thing. It looked as massive as the Great Pyramid, although Mike knew that was an exaggeration. Baroque in the extreme, covered in murals, most of them made of rather cheap ceramic, and “gold” that was mostly anodized aluminum, the thing was a monument to tasteless excess. It was the perfect counterpoint to the Soviet block architecture that was its antithesis in style. With each equally ugly in amazingly different ways, the circle of ill-conceived architecture was complete.

  Mike wondered what the Keldara would make of all of this. As soon as countries became “independent,” whether of Soviet domination or theological domination or Western domination, they jumped into capitalism with both feet. And their heads up their butts. They created the shape of capitalism in skyscrapers and… well, big mosques even. But they couldn’t create the social base. Uzbekistan had various positive factors that could permit it to grow and thrive. Hong Kong had done so with less, although they were anything but landlocked. But the concept of simply digging in and doing was foreign to so many cultures. The “Protestant work ethic” was a rare thing indeed. In cultures like this one, actually doing work was considered a social abasement. Management was one thing, getting your hands dirty another.

  It was the main reason, after the Islamic influence, that east Asian countries were firing away on all cylinders, with admittedly some boo-boos, but countries like Uzbekistan were stagnating. In east Asia, everyone understood the concept of working as hard as you could to make a dime. In west Asia, it was verboten. And they still had the “command economy” idea in their heads from the Soviets. As if that had worked.

  He was wondering if the Keldara could make less of a hash of things when his moody reflections were interrupted by the buzz of the sat phone.

  “Jenkins.”

  “Mr. Jenkins, this is David Wangen from the embassy, how are you today?”

  “Fine,” Mike said, wondering why Wangen didn’t go on scrambler, then realizing he was probably using an unsecure line.

  “I’ve met with Sheik Otryad and he is willing to meet with you,” Wangen said. “This evening at his compound outside of town. Are you available?”

  “Yes,” Mike said. “I’ve seen Samarkand before so I can skip the sight-seeing trip. How do I get there?”

  “I’ll have a car sent from the embassy,” Wangen said. “They’ll know how to get here. About five?”

  “Works,” Mike said, frowning. The ways were being greased big-time and he didn’t know why. His negligible connection with the President was unlikely. Far more likely, someone wanted something.

  “I’ll make sure the car is there.”

  * * *

  At a bit before five Mike was down front in one of his new Harrowgates’ suits, a briefcase in hand containing his sat phone. Precisely at five a Cadillac limousine pulled up front and an American riding in the front passenger seat got out and opened the back door.

  “Mr. Jenkins?” the man said, nodding.

  “The same,” Mike replied, stepping into the rear of the limo. The divider was down and he could tell the driver was an American also. “Why’d I get diplo protection guys?”

  “Uzbekistan has a very limited terrorist problem,” the person riding shotgun said as he got back in the car. “Just a small security measure.”

  “Did Mr. Wangen set this up?” Mike asked, leaning back and watching the minor sights of Samarkand pass. As he did, he did a rear check and, sure enough, there was a trail car, a Chevy Suburban.

  “Actually it was at the orders of the ambassador,” the driver said.

  “The last time I was in Samarkand…” Mike said then paused. “Well, let’s just say that I handled my own security. And I’m not, as far as I know, a high profile target.”

  “There’s only so much one person can handle,” the shotgun said. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “There’s another side to it,” the driver said. “With us covering you, Otryad knows you’re connected. Being connected is a necessity in Uzbek society.”

  “This is one hell of a lot of money being spent on a personal mission,” Mike pointed out.

  “From what I’ve heard, you’ve earned it,” the shotgun replied. “Nothing specific, but when the secretary of state suggests that the ambassador roll out the red carpet, it means you’ve earned it. And I doubt it was from contributions to the presidential election campaign.”

  “Oh, I’ve done those, too,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I really really wish SecState hadn’t even heard about this particular mission. It’s… delicate.”

  “As you say, sir,” the driver replied.

  “What’s the read on this guy?” Mike asked.

  “Former Sov apparatchik,” the shotgun answered. “Used his position to snap up a couple of factories and some farmland after independence. Tight with the current president, the last two for that matter. Has a position as undersecretary of the interior, more or less permanent post rather than an appointee, that he uses to squeeze a king’s load of graft, mostly in roads contracts. Gives to all the right Islamic charities and parties l
ike there’s no tomorrow. Real taste for young womenflesh. Has a harem of about sixteen girls at present and none of them are over eighteen except the harem managers. And the harem managers are fricking gorgeous. He goes into town every weekend to party with his girls so he’s a known face around town.”

  “I take it he doesn’t go into the office much?” Mike asked.

  “No,” the shotgun said. “If you need to meet him you meet him at his house. He only goes into town for shopping and partying.”

  The drive was fast, the road getting better if anything as they got out of town. In fact, it was just about up to western standards and Mike wondered about that until he saw an F-16 take off in the distance. The road had probably been upgraded with American money and contracts. Five times the graft of doing the same road in the U.S., and still less than half the cost and time.

  Samarkand was placed on the Zarafshan River but they were headed in the opposite direction. The country around the city was flat as a pancake but in the distance there were hills and they seemed to be heading in that direction. The spec ops base Mike had been at was in the opposite direction and he’d never been in this part of Uzbekistan. As they approached the hills, though, he had to admit they looked like everything else in the desert belt that circled the globe; they were basically denuded of vegetation, and erosion had exposed the underlying rock. It seemed to be mostly red sandstone, which caught the descending sun rather prettily.

  They took a turnoff from the main road up into the hills and the quality of surface dropped markedly; once again Mike was being beaten by third world surfaces and it made him yearn for one drive in the U.S. Even the roads in California were better than thos in the third world. Not by much, admittedly, but better. Well, except for portions of L.A.

  The road wound into the hills and after about a half hour of that they made a sharp turn into what looked like another road. This one was a bit better paved but it wound even more sharply, climbing the side of one particular hill. As they rounded a corner Mike could see a hilltop fort and realized they were approaching their destination.

  “The sheik does himself right,” the driver said, gesturing to the fort. “Very nice place.”

  “Looks a lot like my house,” Mike said. And it did. The style of building was very similar, at least to the upper portions of the Keldara caravanserai.

  “You live in a place like that?” the shotgun asked.

  “Yep,” Mike said. “Great for seeing if anybody’s coming to call.”

  “Point,” the shotgun said, looking over his shoulder. “The sheik’s pretty particular about personal safety. If you’re carrying you’d be best to leave it with us.”

  “Worse than flying commercial,” Mike said, sighing. But he drew his .45 and set it on the seat.

  “That it?” the shotgun asked, curiously.

  “That’s it,” Mike said. “Half a dozen guns is for wankers or very special situations. By the time you need your backup you should be using the other guy’s stuff. A pistol is only good for getting a shotgun which is only good for getting a long gun.”

  The gates to the fort were open and the limo pulled to a halt in front of the main doors of the house. A houseboy, actually a man in his twenties, immediately darted forward and opened Mike’s door.

  As the former SEAL got out he glanced around professionally. The sheik certainly was serious about his security. There were guards on the walls of the fort as well as a couple of serious heavies, really heavy, they had to weigh damned near three hundred pounds and not much of it fat, carrying MP-5s by the door. On the other hand, the HKs were the wrong weapon for the situation. If the sheik was really worried about getting hit by a ground attack they should be carrying AKs or M-4s; the MP-5 had lousy range and take-down capability.

  The main door opened and Mike was escorted into an entry hallway by another heavy. If anything this one was larger than the ones by the door. Halfway down the man gestured for him to stop and waved a wand over the former SEAL, stopping at a couple of articles. He considered the folding knife for a moment and then handed it back without expression. Mike couldn’t see any security watching the procedure but there were two very small and discreet cameras in the decorations near the far door. He figured if anyone got froggy there were at least two more heavies with weapons standing by. And for the few guests who might take offense it was sufficiently private that they could ignore the implied insult.

  Security satisfied, the man opened the inner door into a foyer not unlike the one in the caravanserai with the exception of the domed ceiling. This one had high ceilings and opened directly onto an interior garden. Two men were waiting for the visitor, one of them an obvious American, blondish, balding and about fifty, and the other presumably the sheik. The sheik was a rotund guy, about five six, with black and very cold eyes. He looked a lot like the president of Georgia except for a slight epicanthic fold.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” the American said. “I’m David Wangen. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

  “Likewise,” Mike said, shaking the intel officer’s hand. “Bob Steinberg sends his regards.”

  “And this is His Excellency Sheik Abdullah Otryad,” Wangen said in Russian, gesturing to the host.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Excellency,” Mike replied in the same language, bowing slightly. “Your fame, wisdom and knowledge is renowned throughout the world.”

  “As is yours, Mr. Jenkins,” the sheik said, bowing in turn. “I welcome you to my house and invite you to take refreshment with me.”

  “I gratefully accept,” Mike replied. “The hospitality of the sheik is as famous as his wisdom.” Mike had a hard time with the latter word in the sentence and substituted what he thought was the right Arabic instead.

  “You know the language of the prophet?” Otryad asked, waving the two of them towards the garden.

  “Only a bit,” Mike replied in Arabic. “Very little.”

  “We will continue in Russian, then, if you don’t mind,” the sheik said. “My English is much like your Arabic.”

  “I am sure you surpass me in every way,” Mike said, looking over at Wangen and rolling his eyes. He knew that the higher you got in Islamic cultures the language got more and more florid, but he was running out of buttery phrases.

  “I am told you live in Georgia,” the sheik replied, gesturing for them to take seats around a hammered brass table. Mike had seen things like it in bazaars but even in the most ornate homes they were only decorations. From the stains, it seemed the sheik used it as a regular table. There was an ashtray on the table and the sheik reached into his suit to pull out a pack of cigarettes. They weren’t the ubiquitous Marlboros, Mike noticed, but a brand he’d never heard of, Nat Shermans, American or British at a guess.

  “Do you smoke?” the sheik asked, offering the cigarettes.

  “A cigar from time to time,” Mike said. “I run too much for regular smoking.”

  “Then we must get you a cigar,” the sheik said, clapping his hands.

  There was a fourth spot at the table and as the sheik pulled out a cigarette and snugged it into a holder, a fucking vision entered the garden through a side door. The girl was in her mid-twenties and so beautiful it was scary. Long blonde hair pulled up at the back to reveal a long neckline, high cheekbones, heart-shaped face, tartar eyes, lovely legs and magnificent breasts. She was wearing a long blue dress just a shade lighter than her dark blue eyes. She was accompanied by two men who carried a tray of coffee makings.

  “Anastasia, cigars for our friends,” the man said, not looking around.

  The girl looked at one of the men and then leaned forward to light the sheik’s cigarette, taking a seat next to him. The two men laid out the coffee and then retreated as she began to serve.

  “Georgia is a lovely country, or so I’ve heard,” the sheik said.

  “Very high mountains,” Mike said, trying not to frown. In American society not introducing the lady would be the height of insult but he respected he was just su
pposed to ignore her. “Very wild in a way. Much wetter than Uzbekistan, obviously, very green. If it weren’t for the mountains it would be a breadbasket. As it is, it’s mostly small farms. A small seacost on the Black Sea. I’ve never been there but I’m told it’s pretty.”

  “Do you live in Tbilisi?” the sheik asked, picking up a small cup of coffee and sipping at it.

  Mike lifted the coffee that was offered to him by the girl and sipped at it as well. It was incredibly thick and sweet, more like a syrup than coffee.

  “No, my home is much like this,” Mike replied. “I happened on it, got lost in a snowstorm if you can believe it. Rather liked the old fort and it came with a farm so I bought it.”

  “A small farm?” the sheik asked. “They are rarely profitable.”

  “Errr,” Mike temporized. “Rather large, actually. Right at a thousand hectares. One of the larger valleys, quite fertile. There’s a small town next to it and some tenant farmers. The caravanserai is much like this house; I felt right at home as soon as I entered.” Mike noticed that the girl looked up at that and frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d said wrong.

  “There’s a serious security situation in Georgia, I’m told,” the sheik said. “I, of course, am more interested in internal matters of Uzbekistan, but I hear rumors, read the news.”

  “The Chechens are a problem,” Mike admitted. “The Ossetian problem doesn’t really touch on us; we’re on the other side of the country.”

  “The Chechens are a scourge,” the sheik said, shaking his head. “They use Islam as a shield for the most vile of crimes. Breslan was an atrocity.”

  “They’ve killed more people than that in Georgia,” Mike said. He paused as one of the servants came back in the room bearing a cigar box. Mike didn’t recognize the brand but did see the word “Cuba” on the side. The girl extracted two cigars, snipped them and started them with a lighter, then gave one to Mike and the second to Wangen. “They say they’re freedom fighters but in Georgia they’re more like bandits. I’m trying to do something about that in my area, forming a small militia from the tenants who work the farm.” Mike puffed on the cigar and found it to be incredibly strong. He caught the smoke in his mouth and let it back out carefully, unsure of exactly how you smoked something this strong. And foul. He preferred much lighter cigars.