Traffic increased as he careened unsteadily through the roundabouts onto and then off of Suvarov until he found himself at Our Lady Yekaterina Hospital. He sat in the parking lot, resting his forehead against his hands on the wheel. His hands shook. His legs felt weak. But he had no time for such things. He pulled the data machine out from under the seat, shoved the Perseus door open, and stepped out into the shuddering cold. Khan stood waiting by the stairs down to the morgue. Kazakov limped over and refused Khan’s help down and inside.
The receptionist’s eyes were black sparks that took in too much of him. By the downturn of her lips, there wasn’t much she approved of.
“There are calls for you,” she said to Khan, as if to remind him he had duties beyond his troublesome companion.
Khan collected the slips and then led Kazakov down the hall to his office. Inside, Khan slid off his heavy winter coat and pulled on his white physician’s coat. He looked neat and tidy, his darker skin counterpoint to the white of the cloth.
“Care to tell me what the hell’s going on? Why are people shooting at you?”
Kazakov only slumped in a chair and winced. When he looked up, Khan was studying him.
Finally, the M.E. sighed. “Let me look at your wound.”
“Not why I’m here.” Kazakov leaned forward and placed the leather-wrapped data machine on Khan’s desk. “I need your help with this.”
Khan shook his head. “We’ll get to that. You’re gray as a hospital sheet, and believe me, gray is not your color. By the look of your coat, you’re bleeding and you’ve been bleeding for a while.”
Kazakov looked down at his side, and damnation, there was more blood seeping through the thick wool. “But I bandaged it.”
“Not good enough, it would seem. Now stand up and let me see how bad it is.”
“Most doctors would provide a me with a place to lie down,” Kazakov mumbled.
“Most doctors don’t work with living patients in the morgue.” Khan grabbed Kazakov’s arm and proved himself surprisingly strong, hauling Kazakov up out of the chair. He groaned and leaned on the desk as Khan helped him remove his coat.
“So, what has that thing on my desk got to do with you being shot?” Khan asked as he studied Kazakov’s bloody shirt and trousers. He hauled the shirt up and found the blood-soaked bandage. Tsked. When Kazakov didn’t answer, Khan met Kazakov’s gaze. “By the look of this, you need an emergency physician, not the coroner. Yet.”
“I’m not going anywhere where I might be reported. They would have finished me if they could have found me. They probably thought I bled to death in the mountains—until I kindly informed them otherwise by going into the office.” He shook his head at his stupidity.
“So instead you came to my crime scene to die? Am I supposed to be flattered?” Khan shook his head. “As if my situation isn’t already tenuous enough. There are parties in the hospital administration who do not trust a Muslim doctor—even for the dead.”
Kazakov steadied himself on the desk because the room was spinning. “I didn’t come looking for you. I was looking for Antonov and Alenin.”
He saw understanding flare in Khan’s dark eyes.
“And now she is dead and I will find them. I need your help with that.” He tilted his head at the desk. “I came for that, not the kindness of your medical help.” Yet he held still for Khan’s examination.
“And yet without medical help you are not going to be able to do anything about anything else.” Khan shook his head. “Stay here.”
He left the office and returned after ten minutes with a basin of warm water, a pail, and a stack of bandages. “Sorry I took so long. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to find bandages in the medical examiner’s office. Now sit on the desk and take the shirt off.”
Kazakov did as bid and out of the pail Khan produced a set of scissors and expertly cut free the sodden bandage. The wound was ugly in the fluorescent light, pulsing with blood with each movement and each breath.
Khan inspected it and the wound in Kazakov’s back. “A through and through gunshot.”
“Pistol.” Kazakov said through clenched teeth. Even the air’s touch hurt.
“You washed it?”
“Tried to. Used some vodka to disinfect it.”
Khan frowned. “Not too effective.”
“It was good vodka.”
Khan looked up at him and actually grinned. “Well, this is going to hurt like hell, because we don’t normally need local anesthetics in this department. I suggest you prepare yourself.”
“You’re enjoying this just a little too much.”
Khan swabbed away the worst of the blood to inspect the wound, then used a squeeze bottle to spray clear water. Pain shot through Kazakov’s side and up to the top of his head. He gripped the corner of the desk and clenched his teeth as Khan applied fiery antiseptic and then poked and prodded. He pulled strands of dark sweater wool from inside the opening.
“Better to do this now than close the wound and let it fester,” Khan said as Kazakov groaned.
“It doesn’t feel any better knowing that.”
“There. Done. Just consider yourself damned lucky that the bullet didn’t do anything but notch your love handles.” Khan threaded a circular needle and did quick, neat sutures to close the wounds on Kazakov’s front and back. Each small stitch sent a sharp blade of pain through Kazakov’s head. The wound burned as Khan smacked white bandages on and wrapped them around Kazakov’s waist to hold them. “No more gun battles and no revenge for a few days. You need to rest.”
He went around his desk and pulled out an ancient prescription pad. Grimaced. “Not too much use for such a thing here, but it comes with the coat.”
He wrote something indecipherable and then tore the page off the pad and handed it to Kazakov. “Antibiotics. I suggest you take them.” Then he let his gaze drop to the leather-wrapped rectangle on his desk. “Now, what’s this?”
Kazakov heaved himself unsteadily off the corner of the desk to pull on his blood-stained shirt and slump in the chair across from Khan.
“I’m not sure what to do with that. I figured you had more experience.” He dipped his head at the data machine console in the corner of the room. “You know how to use that far better than I do. I thought maybe you could figure out what this is.”
Kazakov reached forward, intending to uncover the machine, but the sutures pulled too tight and stopped him.
Khan waved him away and unfolded the leather. When he was done, the metal carapace of the machine gleamed dully in the middle of his desk.
“What is it?”
“Open it and see. The top is hinged at the back.”
Khan found the edge of the top and lifted it open. His brown gaze widened and he glanced at Kazakov, then bent over the machine. “Are you telling me this is a data machine?”
“You tell me. You’re the expert. I can barely key in a name in the squad room. There’s a button at the top that seems to turn it on.”
Khan gingerly pushed the button and a low hum filled the room. “Allah protect us,” he swore softly as the screen flickered on and placed a green glow on Khan’s skin.
He touched a pair of keys, and the machine beeped. Khan jerked back.
“It’s clearly a machine, but I know nothing about its workings. I can do queries on my office machine, but that’s because I was taught how. You need someone with far more skill than me. A programmer, I think they are called.”
Kazakov slumped in his chair. “Listen, that woman in the park. She gave her life to protect this evidence. I need to find out why it’s so important, and hopefully that information will lead me to whoever killed its owner and Maria. If you can’t help me, who can?”
Khan steepled his long fingers and thought for a moment. “There are men in the government…”
“No government. They may be involved. And no AngloTec either.”
“You suspect them also?” Khan said.
It was so hard to know.
Kazakov shook his head. “Them. The Chinese. The Ottomans. Any of them could have had reason to kill Collin Archer—and others.”
Khan went still, his gaze assessing. “This is still about the girl, isn’t it? That Yekaterina Weber. And the Manas boy?”
Kazakov looked away uneasily, scanning the various government policy bulletins pinned to the bulletin board by the office door.
“No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Perhaps.”
Again, the barest inkling of a smile crossed Khan’s lips. “You and your definitive answers. I think I’ve missed you, old friend. Even if you bring problems like a plague of locusts.”
Kazakov sighed. “Part of my charm. So, can you help me?”
Khan placed his hands palm down on either side of the offending machine as if he was a psychic conducting a reading. “I can make a suggestion, but you may not like it.”
He waited for Kazakov’s nod before continuing.
“A few months ago, I was at a conference and at lunch I was seated beside a fellow from the United States of America embassy. We got to talking about changes in our work and he was very excited about technology. He had worked for a time with the Anglo-Germans as a data programmer, but had since returned to his home in a place called Charleston to work with a large research firm. Apparently, the Americans are presenting themselves as a hotbed of technological development. He is here as part of the delegation making overtures to our government about building closer alliances. He may have the expertise to help you.”
An American. One of those who approved of slavery.
Kazakov sighed. It had been eight hours since Maria disappeared and probably not much less since she died and yet it felt like years. The weight of his failure weighed his shoulders down. Was agreeing to deal with such a man simply one more failure and erosion of his morals?
“How long will it take to set up a meeting?” he asked wearily.
Khan picked up his phone and dug in his top desk drawer for a card before dialing the number.
Someone must have answered almost immediately.
“This is Khalil Khan. We spoke not long ago.” He nodded. “The pleasure is mutual. It was an enjoyable meal.” His gaze met Kazakov’s and there was calculation there. “I—I have a friend here who you simply must meet. He’s brought me a toy that is, I think, unique. Interested?” He nodded and mmh-hmmed a few times. “We are at my office at the hospital. Where should we meet?”
Kazakov looked up. “The library. The tables at the back of the first floor. It is public there.” And yet quiet. The same area that Natani Bure had frequented.
Khan relayed the location “We will see you in a little while.”
He hung up and turned to Kazakov. “He will meet us there in twenty minutes.”
Kazakov looked at his watch. “There are people out there laughing because they think they have silenced everyone. I need to show them they are wrong.”
Khan steepled his fingers under his chin. “Revenge does not look good on you, friend. It is a demon that has plagued my people for a thousand years and yet we have not learned the lesson. Revenge eats you from within and leaves a living carcass behind. Is that what you want?”
“A living carcass—isn’t that all that’s left of Fergana? We all walk and talk, but really, we live in a purgatory dreaming of a great past and what might have been. We’re nothing more than a façade in this country and our enemies know it and take advantage. Hell, from what you say, even those upstart Americans come here to feed on us.”
“Or make us greater. You do not know.”
It was a bare fifteen minutes before Kazakov found himself and Khan seated at a table in a corner of the library’s first floor. They had taken Kazakov’s Perseus with Kazakov driving, though Khan had clutched the door handle the entire way. The library was busy enough on the main floor, with patrons coming and going, but at the rear, an area usually preferred by students after school, the time of day had the place largely empty. It was good because anyone paying too much attention to their impromptu meeting could easily be identified.
Promptly five minutes later, Khan stood at the approach of a man unlike anyone Kazakov had seen before. Kazakov considered what it meant that Khan could get such a quick response from this almost stranger. What did that tell him about his old friend?
The stranger was tall like Kazakov, at least six feet two, but with a ramrod straight back that made him seem taller. So did the tall, wide-brimmed hat he wore that held a layer of snow on its gently curled felt brim. A coat much like Kazakov’s minus the blood, and a pair of pointy-toed boots that had been tooled in opulent curls and leaf patterns completed the ensemble. Not exactly the sort of thing that would work well in the snow and cold of Fergana, but the man probably didn’t plan to be in the country that long.
“Eric. Welcome.” Khan held out his hand and the two men shook. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Detektiv Alexander Kazakov of the Fergana police. Kazakov, this is Eric Clinton of the American Embassy.” Kazakov lumbered to his feet and swayed. “Eric, Kazakov has brought me a little problem that I thought you might be more adept at solving.” He tapped the machine on the table beside him.
Clinton coolly looked Kazakov up and down; his blue gaze clearly registered Kazakov’s bloodied wool coat, but the expression smoothed swiftly away again. Here was a man who guarded his reaction like a lesser man might protect his gold.
“You will please pardon my condition. There are people who are less than happy with my investigations,” Kazakov said and sat down heavily again.
Eric Clinton had a ruddy, outdoorsman’s face shaved smooth—as opposed to the usual five o’clock shadow most Russian men sported. He shook Kazakov’s hand with an impressive grip, made more impressive by the rough work calluses on his fingers and palms. Then the newcomer went around the table to Khan’s side. He stopped dead when he saw the screen Khan had exposed in the data machine.
“Holy hell. What is that?” He shook his head. “No. I know what it is. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one. Where the hell did you get it?”
His Russian came out with a nasal twang that made much of what he said almost indecipherable.
Khan waved him in Kazakov’s direction and Eric Clinton looked at him expectantly.
“It was found hidden amongst a murder victim’s belongings.” Not quite true, but it gave a flavor of where it had been located.
“Do you mind?” Clinton eased into Khan’s chair and pulled the little machine closer, scanning the screen as if the chicken scratch of Chinese figures, hashtags, and numbers meant something. He leaned over the keys tentatively pecking, then picking up speed.
Kazakov heaved himself up and around the table to peer over Clinton’s shoulder. Then the dark screen cleared to light blue with a list written in another language.
“What is it?” Kazakov asked as he leaned closer to scan down the unfamiliar writing.
“A menu of records.”
“What language?” he asked.
“English,” Khan and Clinton said in unison.
Clinton whistled. “There’s a hell of a lot here.” He glanced up at Kazakov. “Who did you say this murder victim was?”
He clicked on one of the names and the screen shimmered and changed.
It held copies of letters. Clinton leaned in close and then swore. The letter was in Russian, correspondence between the small Fergana defense department and the department of agriculture regarding the lease of a large tract of prime farm land for an installation. It discussed how to go about shifting the large population of Kyrgyz farmers and referenced negotiations between Fergana’s government and the Ottomans.
“What’s an installation?” Khan asked.
Clinton sat back in his chair. “I’d say probably weapons. It sounds like someone in your government is finally choosing sides. Shit.” He shook his head. “We were hoping Fergana might be interested in forming an alliance of independent nations.”
“One department of government does not n
ecessarily speak for all Fergana,” Khan said softly.
Clinton looked back at the data machine and closed that file to open another. This one had documentation filled with Chinese characters. Clinton closed the file and looked up at Kazakov with the file menu still on screen.
“It looks like your boy’s been very busy. Ottoman information. Chinese, too. Just who was this guy?”
Kazakovstopped scanning the menu, his attention caught by one word closer to the screen bottom.
“Open that one.” He pointed.
“Bure?” Clinton tapped on the keys and suddenly the screen changed again.
An image of a newspaper article filled the screen. It was a headline article.
Tragic Accident Kills Leading Family.
Kazakov remembered the event, if not the article. It was part of the Boris Bure mystique. Bure and his family had been traveling back from a holiday in the Tian Shan mountains when their car left the road. When their vehicle was finally discovered, the driver, mother, father, and two sisters were dead. Seventeen year old Bure was gone and had apparently wandered off into the mountains.
Clinton scrolled down and a second article came up, this one screaming that Bure had been found after four long weeks in the mountains—further story to follow.
Clinton kept scrolling down through an interview with Bure talking about his miraculous winter survival in only city clothing, to the next article.
It wasn’t a headline, but the typical type of article you would find inside the paper and below the fold.
Prestigious School Student Questioned in Rape.
The article was brief and named no names, but said that a senior student at New Moscow’s premier education center was being interviewed as a suspect in the rape of an eleven-year-old female student from nearby Education Center #5. The girl was still in hospital due to emotional and physical trauma.
There was nothing else in the record but the date—approximately thirty years ago.
Clinton looked up at him again. “This means something to you.”
A statement not a question, but Kazakov nodded.
After Yekaterina Page 22