Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  “No. It’s not what I think.”

  Ruslan seemed surprised, tilting his head as he regarded her. “Then what do you believe I want?”

  “Whether you wish to live out your life here in peace or whether you’re planning something else, I can’t say. It doesn’t matter.”

  “No? Why does this not matter?”

  “Because there are people who believe you threaten Sevara. Unless they’re given a reason to think otherwise—and a compelling reason—they will continue to believe it.”

  Ruslan nodded thoughtfully, drank his tea, then asked, “How is your child?”

  Chace smiled. “Very well, thank you.”

  “I hear my son is well also. You saved his life.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “It is true. You saved both our lives. If you had not taken us from Tashkent, Zahidov would have killed us. Perhaps not that day, but on a day to follow it. The way he killed my Dina.”

  Chace nodded, waiting.

  “I do not want to be the President of Uzbekistan,” Ruslan said. “In truth, I never did.”

  “You told the Americans—”

  “My wife had been murdered, and my son and I were in peril.” He was studying her, as if trying to measure her understanding of his motives. “You have a daughter. Is there anything you wouldn’t do to protect her?”

  “No,” Chace said immediately. The question didn’t merit any thought.

  “If I went to the Americans and I said I would be their man, I thought perhaps they would protect me and my boy. Instead, they went to the British, and they sent you. If we had escaped Uzbekistan, I would have been content.”

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to return?”

  “Why would I?” He seemed perplexed by the question.

  “It’s your home.”

  “I would make a new home. Would it have pleased me to leave Uzbekistan forever? No. But that is a small loss to bear if measured against the loss of one’s child.”

  “You want Stepan back,” Chace said, realizing. “This is all about your son.”

  “I want Stepan,” Ruslan agreed. “And I trust you to bring him to me.”

  Chace laughed softly, pulled the ball cap from her head, ran a hand through her hair.

  “You are amused?” Ruslan asked.

  “At myself. At them.” She gestured vaguely in the direction she thought was the West. “My understanding is that Stepan has been well looked after by your sister, that Sevara takes very good care of him.”

  “That is my understanding also.”

  Chace looked at him, and for a moment saw the man as he had been when she’d found him in Tashkent. Sleeping alone in a bed made to be shared, on the side nearest his son’s room. She felt the familiar ache in her chest that came with the reminder that Tom had died never knowing they’d made a daughter, never seeing Tamsin’s face. She thought of how much she missed Tamsin at the best of times, when she wasn’t traveling, when she wasn’t away from home for days on a job. She wondered how much more it hurt to be Ruslan Malikov, unable to see his son for almost seven months now.

  And he trusts me to bring him his son, Chace thought. But we’re not in the business of reuniting families, certainly not this one. Not unless the reunion could serve not just SIS’ interests, but the Americans’ as well.

  “Is there a phone?” Chace asked, finally. “A satellite phone?”

  “Kostum has one. He does not like to use it, because the CIA, they can detect it. They send the Predator drones out, believing he is a terrorist. Kostum does not wish a missile shot into his home.”

  “No, I can see why he wouldn’t.” She leaned forward. “Could I use it? It wouldn’t take long.”

  “I can ask him.”

  Chace nodded, fell silent and into her thoughts once more. Ruslan watched, frowning, as if trying to read her thoughts.

  “Does Zahidov have another missile?” Chace asked. “Like the one I used, like the one that brought down the helicopter?”

  “I do not know. Why?”

  “There were four missiles in the set. Three have been accounted for, but the fourth is still missing. They were stolen here in Afghanistan, then sold again, probably several times. We think the last buyer was Zahidov, that’s how they came to be in Tashkent.”

  “And you want this fourth missile?”

  “We want it back.”

  Ruslan scratched his chin beneath his beard, turning away in thought. “Kostum might know something of this.”

  “Any information on the whereabouts of the last missile would be very helpful.”

  He arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes, but for whom?”

  “We want the missile. You want your son. There may be a way to get both.”

  “You will help me?” Chace saw hope flicker across Ruslan’s face.

  “If I can.”

  “Why?”

  Chace thought of the best way to answer the question, of all the things she could say, all the ways in which she could appeal to him, convince him. The plan stirring in the back of her mind was ill formed at this stage, but it had potential, she was certain. The problem was, it required not only her participation, but that of Ruslan, a two-year-old boy, and the Americans as well.

  “Because you’re not the only person that Ahtam Zahidov has stolen something from,” Chace told him.

  The name had an immediate effect on Ruslan. His expression darkened with encroaching memories. He looked at Chace again, and the realization was there, and then it was replaced with understanding.

  “He had you? Tortured you?”

  “I was fortunate,” Chace replied. “Someone came for me in time.”

  “My wife was not fortunate.”

  Chace was silent.

  “And you think there is a way to return my son to me, to appease my sister, and to punish Zahidov?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I would like to see them pay, Tracy. More than you can imagine.” Ruslan Malikov bit back a laugh, more bitter than incredulous. “All right. I will listen to what you have to say.”

  CHAPTER 39

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room

  25 August, 1709 Hours GMT

  Crocker blew into the Ops Room, cutting off Mike Putnam before he could announce his presence on the floor.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Minder One on Sundown, sir,” Danny Beale said, turning at the Mission Control Desk. “Satellite link, duration seven seconds. Open code, says she needs to speak with you, that she’ll be calling back in . . .” He looked to the plasma wall, checking the clock there. “One minute, eighteen seconds.”

  “No idea where she is?”

  “Presumably still in Afghanistan, sir.”

  “Is it a flap?”

  “Didn’t sound like it, sir.”

  “Then what the bloody hell is she calling in for?”

  Putnam, Beale, and, at Duty Ops, William Teagle shrugged in unison.

  “You’re all useless,” Crocker told them.

  “Yes, sir,” Beale agreed cheerfully. Bill Teagle snorted.

  Crocker scowled, then moved to the coffeemaker. The coffee was foul, had probably been sitting on the burner since the shift had begun, seven hours earlier. He crossed back to Communications, took the headset Putnam offered, settling it over his ears just as the call came through.

  “Crocker.”

  “Hello, Dad,” Chace said. “There are birds in the air and they make big droppings, so I have to be brief.”

  “Understood.”

  “Long-lost brother has been found, but he’s not the big bad we’ve been led to believe. He misses his family and has been trying to get his sister’s attention enough to talk about arranging a reunion. He assures me he has no interest in moving back home. In fact, he’d like to move to a different neighborhood altogether, one much farther west.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I do, yes, I think it’s all about his little boy. And the fact is, he
’s staying with some overprotective relations. It’s limited our options.”

  “You still have company?”

  “Baby brother is with me, yes.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “The long-lost is only one part of it. The other concerns the four candles.”

  The reference was oblique enough that Crocker needed a second to translate. Then he said, “You know where the missing one is?”

  “According to our host, the set was sold intact. Which means the man who bought the first three still has the fourth.”

  “You trust your host’s information?”

  “Apparently our host was interested in buying the candles himself at one point.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m wondering if a reunion between long-lost and his son couldn’t be engineered to somehow bring that last candle out of its box.”

  “It’s no use to us if it gets lit.”

  “No, it’s a delicate situation. But I think it’s doable. Grandmother might be able to get a message across to big sister.”

  “I’m not certain our cousins are going to care for this,” Crocker said. “It’s not the definitive solution they wanted.”

  “If we can convince big sister, she can talk to the cousins. And I’m sure the cousins want all of the candles blown out as much as we do. Might be a way to make everyone happy.”

  “I’ll talk to Grandmother. If we can arrange the reunion, we’ll set it up through our house there—”

  Chace cut him off. “Long-lost has been very clear on one point, Dad. I’m to babysit. Seems he’s reluctant to trust anyone else, especially after last time.”

  “That complicates things.”

  “It does. I have your permission to proceed?”

  “All right,” Crocker said. “You’ll be traveling north?”

  “Soon as I can.”

  “I’ll contact the family in Tashkent, let them know you’re coming.”

  “Very good, sir. Have to go, I can hear the birds in the trees.”

  “Take care,” Crocker said, but the line had already gone dead. He removed the headset, handing it back to Putnam absently, thinking for several seconds before saying, “Mike? Signal Tashkent, let them know Minder One is on her way there and should arrive in the next twenty-four to forty-eight as part of Sundown. Stress to Fincher that it’s a Special Op, and that he’s to follow her instructions. I’ll want confirmation of receipt of signal.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Ask the Deputy Chief to meet me in C’s office, Bill.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Crocker headed upstairs.

  “I’m not sure I like this,” Alison Gordon-Palmer said.

  “It gives the Americans what they want, just not in the manner they requested it. And if Chace is right, it’ll bring us that missing Starstreak.”

  “Which would delight me to no end, Paul, if I felt there was the remotest chance that Kostum’s intelligence on its whereabouts was in the least bit reliable.”

  “Chace reported that Kostum had been interested in buying the Starstreaks himself. It’s plausible that he tracked their sale in the hopes of acquiring them at a later point. And if there had been four available, I can’t imagine that Zahidov would have only purchased three of them.”

  “Plausible is not proof.” She frowned, thinking. “We know that, as of February, Zahidov had three of the four missiles. Is it reasonable to think he’s been holding the fourth?”

  “Chace thinks so.”

  “I’m asking you, Paul.”

  “I trust her assessment.”

  “And all of this is contingent on whether or not Ruslan Malikov can be trusted to begin with. Simon?”

  Rayburn, seated beside Crocker, closed his eyes for several seconds before opening them once more. “I think Malikov may be on the level, ma’am.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There was never any intelligence to indicate that Ruslan had ambition to become President of Uzbekistan. It was only after the murder of his wife that he contacted the Americans to express interest. My understanding is that, prior to that time, it had been Dina Malikov who made contact with the U.S. Mission. So if he was running for President, he’d have been making a very late start, to say the least. I think Ruslan’s overtures read more as an insurance policy for himself and his son than a legitimate grab for power.”

  C frowned at him, then at Crocker, weighing the decision. “And you want me to contact the Foreign Office, have them communicate with our Ambassador and pass along the message to Sevara Malikov?”

  “It seems the best way to arrange things,” Crocker said.

  She nodded, reached for her phone, tapping the intercom to her outer office. “Danny?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Contact PUS at the FCO, ask if he’s available for a meeting soonest. I’ll come to him.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  She tapped the intercom again, then looked back to Crocker. “What’s Chace going to do in the meanwhile?”

  “She’ll proceed to Tashkent, then stand by for word as to where and how to collect the boy. Assuming it all goes through, she’ll deliver Stepan to his father, then she’ll arrange transport for both of them out of Central Asia to the West.”

  “Here?”

  “It’s unclear. But Ruslan’s informed Chace that he has no desire to remain in the region.”

  “Have you spoken to Seale?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rayburn nodded, already ahead of the conversation, and apparently in agreement with what C was about to say. “Probably best you let the CIA know Chace will be in Tashkent, and our suspicions about the fourth Starstreak. You don’t want their COS getting jumpy.”

  “I’ll speak to Seale right away,” Crocker said.

  The phone on C’s desk rang, and she answered it swiftly, listened, then said, “Have my car brought around, please, Danny.” Finished with the call, she rose, and Crocker and Rayburn followed suit.

  “Seccombe will see me if I head over now,” C said. “If he likes the sound of it, he and I will bring it to the Foreign Secretary.”

  “You’ll sell him on it?” Crocker asked.

  “The way you’ve sold it to me,” she answered. “Paul, this’ll be the second time Chace has tried to get Ruslan and his son out of the region.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s hope she gets it right this time.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Afghanistan—Hindu Kush Mountains—

  Samangan Region

  26 August, 0623 Hours (GMT+4:30)

  They were ambushed before they came out of the mountains.

  The fact of the ambush didn’t surprise Chace. What surprised Chace was who was doing the ambushing.

  They’d departed Kostum’s stronghold before dawn, the sky just beginning to lighten enough to show the blue behind the black, and the last hard stars starting to vanish above. Kostum had insisted on guiding them back to Mazar-i-Sharif himself, leading the convoy, and leaving Ruslan behind in the stronghold, to limit his exposure. Lankford would wait in Mazar-i, and Chace would continue on to Tashkent. Once everything had been confirmed, Ruslan would join Lankford and proceed to the exchange, to be reunited with the boy.

  Kostum assembled a convoy for them of guards and vehicles, three of the seven automobiles that he kept in a substantial garage. Chace and Lankford traveled in the middle vehicle of the convoy. The car was a four-wheel-drive Jeep SUV, like Fariq’s had been, but unlike Fariq’s it was in much better condition. Kostum drove, with Lankford beside him, Chace seated in the back. In the bed of the SUV, the graybeard who had escorted them to Kostum’s rode with them, Kalashnikov cradled in his lap.

  They drove out along the base of the canyon for just over a kilometer before turning uphill, the vehicles following one another in a weaving incline that, to Chace, seemed impossibly steep. In the moments before they crested onto the road, she was certain their vehicle would t
opple over backward, and she envisioned herself being bounced around the interior of the car like a pinball as it fell, end over end, back to the canyon floor. It didn’t happen, and after a moment spent to allow the follow car to catch up, the convoy resumed its journey, wending along the mountainside, descending again.

  Then they were hit.

  The explosion came first, just as the lead car began around a bend. Dirt and stone rained upward from the road, and the lead SUV veered wildly, fishtailing, then falling sideways, skidding to a halt, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air. Kostum slammed on the brakes, cursing. Chace didn’t have to turn around to know that the same thing was going on in the car behind them; it was why the lead vehicle had been hit first, to stop the convoy dead in its tracks.

  She lunged for the passenger-side door, shouting, “Out! Get out!”

  An RPG streaked down from above, fired from higher along the mountainside, and as Chace tumbled out of the car she heard the lead vehicle exploding, and she thought she heard the screams, too. Then the chattering of weapons fire began, the sounds of glass breaking and metal tearing, Kostum’s men desperate to exit their vehicles to return fire. Chace had been riding behind Lankford, and both had exited the Jeep along the downslope side, and she figured the drop had to be nasty, but it couldn’t be nastier than staying on the trail, exposed. She leaped over the edge just as she heard another explosion, quieter than the RPG blast, what she thought was a grenade.

  It was a good drop, almost fifteen feet on the vertical, just enough of an incline that she could get her feet down and lie back, sliding on the rough terrain, feeling the rocks and earth tear at her clothes. When she came to a stop beside Lankford, he was already up, with his Browning in hand. Chace struggled to her feet, reaching around for her gun, and discovered it was missing. She looked up, saw the Walther snagged on the rocks above her, where it had been stripped from her back during the slide. She started to curse, then heard a third explosion, and above, on the road, another blossom of flame rolled skyward as the follow car took another RPG.

  “Well, this isn’t good,” Lankford remarked.