by Greg Rucka
The fear was still with her, but not as strong, familiar and manageable once more. It gave her comfort.
The Range Rover was where she’d left it, unmolested off the side of the road, parked by the walls of the Chagatai Cemetery. “Chagatai,” best as Chace could understand, meant “Jewish,” and she imagined that the cemetery had suffered under the Soviet regime, though it seemed to have been recently repaired and restored. At half past twelve at night, Chace was confident it was one of the quieter places in all of Tashkent.
She swung the Audi off the road, killing the one working headlamp, then backing up so that the trunk of the car faced the back of the Range Rover. She left the car in neutral, set the brake, then took the satellite phone from an inside pocket and switched it on, unfolding the antenna. She punched in her PIN, waited for six seconds that felt more like six minutes before the phone beeped reassuringly, indicating that it was working, and had a signal.
Chace brought up the text message she’d prepared earlier, STAND TO—CONFIRM? and sent it to Porter’s pager. She set the phone on the dashboard to await a reply, then began searching the interior of the Audi. In the glove box she found the manuals for the car, as well as a Glock 26, and a white plastic pill bottle. She checked the pistol, found it loaded, and dropped it on her coat, still covering the hush puppy. The bottle was labeled “Magna Rx” in English, and it took a second for her to realize what it was, squinting in the darkness, trying to read the label. Then she saw the words “yohimbe” and “male potency,” and was trying to keep from laughing aloud when the satellite phone chimed.
READY.
Chace brought up the second message she’d prepared, with the GPS coordinates she’d picked out for the rendezvous, almost eighty kilometers to the southwest of Tashkent. She checked her watch, added the words PICKUP 0500 to her previously prepared text, and sent the message.
Finished, she folded down the antenna and tucked the phone back into her pocket, this time leaving it on. She switched the dome light on and checked the manuals, not caring for the illumination, but not having any other choice. She had to be able to read. She found the fuse diagram, opened the door, and then, half inside the car, half out, removed the panel to the fuse box. Checking the manual again, she pulled the fuse for the ignition, and the engine promptly died.
She pocketed the fuse in her trousers, put on her coat, stowed the hush puppy and Glock in each of her side pockets, then hit the trunk release. She moved to the Range Rover, lifted the rear hatch, and uncovered the weapons she’d purchased at the bazaar—a box of Chinese hand grenades, a Kalashnikov, the Sarsilmaz pistol, four clips, and two additional boxes of ammunition, one in 9 mm for the pistols, the other in 7.62 X 39, for the AK. She picked up the Kalashnikov, turned back to the Audi, and lifted the trunk, then stopped short as she was about to lay the automatic rifle inside, because she’d then seen what Ahtam Zahidov carried in his trunk, and it stopped her cold.
“Fuck me,” Chace said aloud, and then bent, to give it a closer look.
It was a rectangular box, perhaps half a meter wide and thick, and long enough that it had been laid in the trunk at an angle. The markings on the box had been scuffed, as if deliberately obliterated, the paint scarred enough in places to reveal the metal shining beneath.
Chace set the Kalashnikov gently against the rear bumper, and then, with both hands, tried lifting the box. It was heavy, perhaps thirty, maybe thirty-five kilos, and it took some muscling to get the edge of it past the lip of the trunk, propped up enough for her to remove the top.
It was a missile.
If her memory of such things was to be trusted, it was a British missile, made by Thales Air Defense under contract to the MOD. A man-portable air-defense system, called Starstreak.
“Fuck me running,” Chace murmured, and then she stepped back until she could sit on the open tailgate of the Rover.
She stared up at the clear sky, and the stars above, and for almost a minute didn’t move.
Time to change the plan, Chace thought.
And then she smiled in a way she hadn’t in over two years, and if anyone had been watching, they would have become very afraid indeed.
CHAPTER 21
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—182 Sulaymonova,
Penthouse of Sevara Malikov-Ganiev
21 February, 0327 Hours (GMT+ 5:00)
They liked to sleep touching, and when the telephone jarred them both from their dreams, it was Sevara pulling away that truly woke him, and not the sound at all. She rolled toward the nightstand, and Zahidov sat up in the bed, groping for his glasses, and by the time he had them on she was answering, her voice husky with sleep.
Then Sevara tensed, responding to whatever she was hearing, and Zahidov felt the change. He switched on the light, turning back to look at her, growing concerned. The phone ringing at three in the morning could not possibly bring good fortune to either of them, he was sure. His first fear was that it was news about Ruslan was quickly dismissed; even if every one of his men knew where he spent his nights, none of them valued his job so poorly that he would call Sevara directly, rather than try to reach Zahidov on his mobile.
Something else, then. Her husband, that potato-shaped coward that Sevara’s father had forced her to marry. Or maybe a problem with one of the recalcitrant DPMs, probably Urdushevich.
Sevara concluded the call and hung up the telephone. Her back was to him, and Zahidov couldn’t see her expression, and realized that he couldn’t read her posture, either. His concern turned to worry.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself, before turning to face him. Her eyes were bright, and as he watched, her lips, those lips he never tired of tasting, parted, curling into a smile of purest satisfaction.
“He’s dead,” she said. “As of two-fifty-seven this morning, my father is dead. The doctor tells me his heart finally gave out.”
It wasn’t what Zahidov had expected to hear, and it took a second for him to process the news, to move from worry to relief, and then Sevara was in his arms again. She kissed him fiercely, joyously, slipped free from his grip and out of the bed, heading for the bathroom. She left the door open, and Zahidov watched as she slid the door to the marble shower stall back, reaching in to switch on the faucet.
“I have to go to the hospital,” Sevara called back to him, over the running water. “Call Abdukhallim, tell him to convene the Oliy Majlis for an emergency session this morning, tell him to introduce the resolution to name me interim President, and to schedule the vote for early this afternoon.”
“He knows the terms?”
“He likes being Chairman, Ahtya. He wants to stay being Chairman, he’ll do what we want.”
Zahidov got out of the bed himself, began pulling on his clothes. “What about your husband and Ruslan?”
“I’ll call Denis from the hospital, ask him to join me there, so we can put on a good face for the media. He’ll need to be with me for the vote this afternoon, but after it goes through I’ll ask for his resignation and then name you to take over the Interior Ministry as his replacement.”
He had his shirt on now, tucking it into his trousers. He grabbed his necktie, draping it around his neck, then moved into the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. Sevara was beneath the water, visible behind the glass doors, wrapped in steam.
“And Ruslan?” Zahidov asked again.
“Keep your babysitters on him, Ahtya, nothing more. After the vote it’ll be too late for him to do anything.”
“I’m worried about what happens before the vote.” He managed to look away from her long enough to check that his tie was properly knotted, and when he looked back, she was shutting off the water. He took one of the white towels from the heated stand, wrapped her in it as she stepped out of the shower.
“What’s he going to do?” Sevara asked him, taking hold of the towel and passing him, heading back into the bedroom. “You’re fretting about nothing.”
The
cockiness in her voice made Zahidov frown. “I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I don’t want to find out after he’s done it.”
Sevara moved to the closet, began pulling down clothes from the hangers, a long black skirt, a black blouse, mourning colors. “You have him under surveillance. There’s not much more you can do.”
“I can bring him in, hold him at the Ministry.”
“I don’t want to antagonize the Americans,” Sevara said. She dropped her clothes on the bed, moved to the bureau, began picking out her lingerie. “I’ll have to meet with Ambassador Garret after the vote, and I don’t want the first topic of discussion to be how unhappy the White House is with the way we’ve handled things. I don’t want to start that relationship on the wrong foot, you understand?”
Zahidov didn’t answer, pulling on his coat, then taking his holster from where it lay on the nightstand at his side of the bed and clipping it onto his belt at his right hip.
“Ahtam,” Sevara said, her tone sharpening.
“I think you worry too much about the Americans,” he said. “They need us more than we need them.”
“You’re wrong.” It was declarative, and her expression now matched her tone. “It is a mutually beneficial relationship, that’s what it’s called. I won’t antagonize them, not yet. I want this to go smoothly.”
“It will go smoothly.”
“It must go smoothly.”
He nodded, trying not to appear reluctant, then turned to the telephone and dialed the number of the Chairman of the Oliy Majlis, watching Sevara continue dressing from the corner of his eye. When Abdukhallim answered, Zahidov spoke quickly, relaying Sevara’s instructions. The Chairman didn’t hesitate before swearing he would do what was asked.
Zahidov hung up. Sevara was at the makeup table now, and he watched as she quickly traced her mouth with lipstick, then studied herself in the mirror. Her expression fell into one of convincing sorrow, then lifted, and when she turned to face him once more, she was smiling again, satisfied that her mask of grief would be convincing.
“You want me to come with you?” Zahidov asked.
“No, go to the Ministry, start making your arrangements.” She stepped closer, fixed his tie, then appraised him. “Deputy Prime Minister Zahidov.”
“Madam President.”
Her smile was radiant, and he bent to kiss her. She turned her head, sparing her makeup, offering her cheek instead.
The first thing he saw was that someone had stolen his fucking car.
The second thing he saw was that someone had broken the gate to do it.
“What in the hell happened?” Sevara asked.
“Go to the hospital.” He turned, taking her arm, guiding her to the BMW. “Go to the hospital, do what you planned, everything as you planned.”
Sevara twisted, puzzled, staring at him. “Someone stole your car?”
“Yes, my car.”
She didn’t grasp the significance, he could see it on her face, and he didn’t think there was time to explain.
“Go,” he repeated. “Just as you planned, please, love.”
Sevara hesitated a moment longer, the question in her eyes, then nodded, slipping behind the wheel. “You’ll take care of it?”
“Whatever it is, yes.”
“Smooth, love. It must be smooth.”
“With everything in my power,” he promised her, then moved to the gate. He stepped back, onto the ramp, watching as the BMW passed, and Sevara didn’t turn to look at him as she drove.
As soon as the car was out of sight on the street, Zahidov went back into the garage, to the chain piled on the ground. He crouched, examining it, finding flecks of cinder block scattered nearby. He rose, peering closer at the motor and the pulleys, running a hand along the wall, until he felt the texture beneath his finger turn from rough to smooth, the scoring left by the bullet.
He stepped back, thinking quickly. Whoever had taken his car, they’d come for it specifically, he was certain, and perhaps for what it carried as well. He didn’t know why, he couldn’t even guess yet at who, but it was more than just alarming. Malikov finally dead, and someone had stolen the Audi, and worse, the missile.
He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, hit the fourth number on his speed dial, calling Ruslan’s home, waiting for one of the guards to answer. The call refused to connect, and Zahidov thought that maybe the garage was causing the interference, moved up farther along the ramp, swearing as he redialed. Again, there was no connection, nothing, just a radio silence.
Zahidov heard a car coming along the silent street, raised his head to see a Mercedes slowing as it approached. He switched the phone to his left hand, moved his right to his hip, ready to draw his pistol. The car came to a stop, its window hissing down, and Zahidov let his fingers close around the butt of his gun, then released his grip as he recognized the driver.
“Get in,” Aaron Tower said, speaking in Uzbek.
Zahidov covered his surprise with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“Ensuring an orderly transfer of power. Now get in the fucking car, Ahtam.”
“Why?”
“Because Ruslan’s being lifted,” Tower told him. “And if you don’t move fast, you’ll have a fucking coup on your hands.”
CHAPTER 22
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—14 Uzbekiston,
Malikov Family Residence
21 February, 0241 Hours (GMT+ 5:00)
Chace had the Range Rover in position by twenty of three, parked three-quarters of a kilometer from the house, with line of sight to the front doors. She’d shattered the rear lights on the car, to keep the brake and reverse lamps from giving her away, and kept the headlights off while she worked. When she was satisfied with her parking job, she twisted around in her seat until she could climb into the back, to where she’d stored the Starstreak—now unpacked—beneath the blanket. The Kalashnikov rested beside it, along with two more banana clips, all loaded.
It took her three seconds to attach the aiming unit to the tube that housed the actual missile, and then, crouched in the back of the vehicle, Chace hoisted the Starstreak onto her shoulder. She sighted the front of the house through the monocular, lining up the aiming mark. Everything on the Starstreak seemed to be functioning as it should, and again it looked like her line of sight was true.
Chace set the missile down again, re-covering it and the rifle with the blanket, then got out, checking her watch. Almost ten to three. She removed her coat, checking it a final time to make certain nothing remained in any of its pockets, and swapped it for the flak jacket. She checked the flak jacket as well, making certain everything was where she had put it. Hush puppy outside right, two spare magazines left breast pocket, two grenades left outside pocket, satellite phone right breast pocket. The Glock she wore tucked into the front of her pants, and the knife, again, rested in its sheath at the small of her back.
Assured everything was where she wanted it, where she needed it, she turned and made her way past the front of the car, heading away from the house. The night was silent and deeply cold, still enough that sound would carry. She hooked a right at the corner, leaving the block, following the route she’d mapped out during her surveillance, one that would bring her around the long way to the back of the house. She tried not to hurry, telling herself that, for the moment at least, time was on her side.
She’d picked the hour carefully. The guards both outside and inside the house rotated shifts, she’d learned that much from the surveillance. Which meant that those working these dead hours of night didn’t always work these dead hours of night, but found themselves on day shifts as well. That shot their circadian rhythms all to hell. While the rest of the world was deep in stage four sleep, beyond even REM, those poor six guards on post outside the house had to remain awake, when everything in their biology demanded otherwise. The same would be the case for however many guards were awake inside the house.
It would make the guards weak, put them off the
ir game. They would be fighting off yawns, stretching, pacing, stamping their feet. They would break protocol, meet up for five minutes to share a cigarette and conversation, anything to keep awake.
They would be sloppy.
By her watch, it was eight minutes past three when she came in sight of the house. The wall surrounding the backyard was roughly two meters tall, concrete blocks joined with cement, and certainly scalable if one were so inclined, more effective for preserving privacy than security. There were no streetlights on this side, and the ones along the front were weak, and widely spaced. After almost half an hour of working in the darkness, Chace’s night vision was nearly at full.
Parked at roughly the midpoint of the wall was one of the watch cars, a newer-model Volga that seemed an almost luminescent light blue in the darkness. Chace ducked down, moving to her right along the line of shadows growing into the lane. Low, she made her way carefully forward, to the near corner of the wall. The cover was excellent, and put her perhaps eight meters from the back of the car. Exhaust trickled from the Volga’s tailpipe, gathering on the ground like some lazy wraith that lacked motivation or energy for actual haunting. The sound of the engine resonated softly off the concrete.
Chace didn’t move, watching and waiting. From inside the Volga, she thought she saw movement, and then the flare of a lighter, flame illuminating the driver’s face as he started a cigarette. He was sitting alone, and Chace found herself gnawing on her lower lip, needing to find the second guard, the one walking post. She’d hoped he’d be taking a rest in the car as well, but clearly that wasn’t the case. He was on his rounds, then, or taking a break elsewhere, perhaps inside the house. When she’d had the house under surveillance, she’d seen all of the exterior guards go inside at one point or another, presumably to use the bathroom. If the graveyard shift used coffee to stay awake, they were probably using the bathroom a lot.