by Greg Rucka
“What’s this favor?”
Tara-not-Tracy tasted the coffee he’d poured for her, and he saw her expression brighten in pleasant surprise. She took a second gulp before saying, “Late yesterday afternoon, the U.K. Ambassador met with President Sevara Malikov to discuss the possibility of returning Stepan Malikov to his father’s care. The Ambassador carried a message from Stepan’s father, the details of which are largely unimportant, but the gist was this: Ruslan gets Stepan back, Sevara never has to worry about her brother again. Ruslan will stay far away from her and Uzbekistan, and that will be that.
“President Malikov, after some deliberation, agreed. The exchange is set for the day after tomorrow, early Tuesday morning, to take place at the border crossing in Termez. Sevara will make the visit ostensibly to examine the security at the border and to meet with the United Nations staff for the relief effort. Ruslan will await on the Afghan side of the bridge, and Sevara will deliver Stepan on the Uzbek side. A third party will escort the boy across the bridge to his father.”
“Sevara’s agreed to this?”
“So I’ve been told. You seem surprised.”
Riess shrugged. Nothing about Uzbekistan surprised him anymore. “So far I’m not hearing anything about a favor.”
“I’m coming to that.” Tara-not-Tracy finished her coffee, then placed the mug on the counter. She reached into an outside pocket of her coat, removing two wallets, both leather, one black, the other tan. She set them beside her empty mug. Riess noted that the tan one was spattered with dried blood, too.
“I took these off two men in Afghanistan,” she told him. “They were reluctant to part with them.”
Riess hesitated, then picked up the black wallet, flipping it open. An ID card stared back at him, printed in Uzbek, and declaring the bearer an officer of the NSS. The officer in question’s name was Tozim Stepanov. He glanced up from the wallet to her, and she inclined her head, indicating that he should examine the second one as well. He did so, reading the ID of a second NSS officer named Andrei Hamrayev.
“You got these off two men in Afghanistan?”
“About eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif, in fact.”
“What were two NSS officers doing eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif?”
“I believe they were leading a hit squad in an attempt to kill Ruslan Malikov. The hit squad consisted of four Uzbek Army soldiers in addition to these two.”
“You have proof of this?”
From the another pocket, Tara-not-Tracy removed a zip-top plastic bag. She jiggled the bag before handing it over, causing the metal contents inside to ring lightly. Riess took the bag.
Four sets of dog tags.
“The question is, of course, whether or not President Malikov authorized this hit squad or not,” she told him. “Given that this was an armed incursion by one sovereign nation upon another, I find that doubtful, especially considering Uzbekistan’s cozy relationship with your government, not to mention your government’s relationship with Afghanistan. I find it very doubtful indeed.”
“She didn’t,” Riess said. “Not in a million years, not just to kill her brother.”
“Then someone else must have initiated the action. And considering the nature of the IDs in those wallets, I think we both know who that someone would be.”
“I should bring this to the attention of my Ambassador.”
“I’m certainly not about to tell you how to do your job,” she said cheerfully. “But if you were to ask me, I’d say that was a fine and proper course of action.”
Riess considered her again, her smile, her manner. “You’re setting up Zahidov?”
“Am I?”
“At the least, President Malikov demands Zahidov’s resignation. At the most, he disappears and the body is never found.”
Something flickered behind her eyes, almost like a shadow moving from one darkness to another.
“That would be a pity,” Tara-not-Tracy said. “That would be a great pity indeed.”
Ambassador Norton was reluctant to meet with Riess on such short notice, but the mention of an Uzbek incursion into Afghanistan dispelled that reluctance quickly. They met in the Ambassador’s office at the Embassy, and while it certainly wasn’t the first time that Riess had been inside it since Norton took over for Garret, he was again surprised by how little things had seemed to change. Only the photographs on the glory wall and the desk, and even those were remarkably similar to the ones that Garret had hung.
Aaron Tower attended the meeting as well, which surprised Riess initially, but in retrospect he thought it really shouldn’t have. Tara-not-Tracy was SIS, he knew that, and this time the Brit was here on official business. COS Tashkent would have been notified, if not via London, possibly via Langley. It helped Riess in making his case, because Tower was able to provide some missing details—namely, about the Uzbek soldiers, where they’d been stationed, and how Zahidov most likely arranged things.
“And we’re positive that President Malikov didn’t authorize the action?” Ambassador Norton asked when Riess and Tower had each finished their respective reports. He gazed at them over the top of his glasses.
“As positive as we can be,” Tower answered. “It flies in the face of everything President Malikov’s done since winning the election, Mitch, especially the steps she’s taking to improve relations with the Afghanis. Add to that the fact that she’s been working extremely hard to stay on our good side, easing up on the religious restrictions and press issues, even reining in the NSS.”
“She still has a long way to go,” the Ambassador pointed out mildly. “But I take your point. It’d be a hell of a risk for her, sending troops into Afghanistan, at least like this.”
“I think we’re safe in assuming that it was done without her knowledge or permission.”
“Then I’ll put a call into her office at once, see if she isn’t available to discuss this potential diplomatic incident.” The Ambassador sat back in his chair, removing his glasses. He folded them closed, but held them in his hand. “Mr. Riess.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re aware the British have brokered a deal between President Malikov and her brother?”
“I am, sir.”
“Have you been to Termez before?”
“Three times, yes, sir, though not in the last eight months or so.”
“You’re about to make it four times. I want the handoff audited. Anything goes wrong, I’d like to have an American eyewitness to what transpired. Get yourself to Termez by tomorrow night. The exchange, as my colleague at the British Embassy has informed me, is set for eight o’clock Tuesday morning. I want you there.”
“How close should I get?”
“Close enough that if anything goes sour, you’ll be able to give me an accurate report, son.” The Ambassador seemed vaguely annoyed. “You know both Ruslan and the boy, or so I understand.”
Riess glanced to Tower, who shot him a grin in return. “I’ll recognize them, yes, sir,” he replied.
“That’s all I need. I’ll make sure McColl knows where you’re going and why; you won’t have to worry about him.” The Ambassador swept the hand holding his glasses across his desk, indicating the wallets and dog tags. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention so promptly.”
Riess took that as his cue to exit, said, “Thank you for your time, sir,” and started out of the office.
“Mr. Riess,” the Ambassador called after him. “One more thing.”
“Sir?”
“No cloaks and daggers for you.” It seemed to Riess that the Ambassador was rather pointedly not looking at Tower. “I’ve got enough people with those running around this country already.”
“I understand, sir.”
Tower hefted himself from his chair, saying, “I’ll walk Charles out, if you don’t mind, Mitch.”
The Ambassador grunted assent, already reaching for the phone. Tower settled a hand on Riess’ upper arm, guiding him the rest of the way o
ut of the office and through the secretarial bunker, into the hallway. They cleared the security doors, and Tower dropped the hand, walking alongside Riess silently until they reached the entry hall.
“Didn’t get a second roll in the hay?” Tower asked him.
“I don’t think she was that interested.”
Tower stopped, tucking his hands into his pockets. The CIA Chief of Station was looking toward the exit, brow creasing, apparently in memory.
“No, I don’t imagine that she was,” he said after a second, then moved his look back to Riess. “Mind if I ride down to Termez with you?”
“You need to audit the handover as well?”
“Something like that.”
“But not quite like that.”
Tower grinned by way of answer, then said, “DPM of the Interior Zahidov’s going to have a very bad day tomorrow, I think.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“If you knew half of what I know, Chuck, you’d be drinking a toast.”
“You think she’ll do it? Have him killed?”
“President Malikov? He was useful to her before she won the election, but he’s a major liability now. Her problem is, he knows too much. All of her dirty laundry. What do you think?”
Charles Riess remembered the videotapes Dina Malikov had passed to him of the NSS interrogations, of the men and women, young and old, beaten and brutalized to coerce confessions. He remembered Dina Malikov, the photographs of her naked body, the burns, the shattered bones, the blood. He remembered the story, that Zahidov had sent for Ruslan so he could identify his wife’s body, a request that might have been interpreted as Zahidov warning Ruslan, but was in truth nothing more than pure sadism.
“I think it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he said.
CHAPTER 42
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—488 Chimkent
27 August, 2022 Hours (GMT+5:00)
He didn’t sleep at the penthouse on Sulaymonova any longer, not since Sevara had become President. She kept the penthouse, of course, and Zahidov knew she still used it on occasion, but now she lived in the Residence in Dormon, and it had taken him time to understand that she had no intention of letting him join her there. Not unless he could convince her otherwise, convince her that the love between them was still strong, and still served their nation’s best interests.
It bothered him no small amount that Ruslan’s brat slept there instead. Sevara doted on the child, inasmuch as she had the time to dote on anyone. But why she seemed to focus on her nephew, on the boy’s comfort and happiness, he didn’t understand.
So Zahidov lived alone, in his apartment on Chimkent, an apartment appropriate for a man who was both the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior and the Head of the NSS. It had everything he could want, all the finest fixtures and appliances and electronics, from a flat-panel television to a mighty stereo and a king-size waterbed. It had an eighteen-hundred-dollar secure refrigerator made especially to hold his collection of fine wines, and even a secret room with a cabinet safe, where he kept those things most important to him and his job: the documents used for blackmailing other members of the Government, his favorite handguns, some of his money—half of it in gold, the other half in American dollars.
It had everything he could want, except her, and Zahidov knew he was lovesick, and despised himself for being so weak. But he couldn’t change his heart.
He hated coming home.
And this was why he was inattentive when he parked his newly purchased Audi TT in the lot that night, returning from the Interior Ministry, where he’d spent the day, waiting for word from Tozim or Andrei. This was why he didn’t notice that the lights at the entrance to the stairwell from the car park seemed to be out, and why he wasn’t as careful as he perhaps should have been when he exited his car and then leaned back in to reach across to his briefcase, sitting on the passenger’s seat, to retrieve it.
“What is it with you and Audis?” a woman asked Zahidov softly, from behind.
He reached for the pistol at his hip, trying to straighten as he did so, but before he could even begin the move, he felt pain slicing across the backs of his legs, the Audi’s door slamming closed on him. He cried out in surprise as much as in pain. Then the door opened and slammed a second time, and this time there was only pain in his cry.
Then he was being pulled from the car, felt the cement of the garage floor on his face and a dull pain from his front teeth, and he knew he’d been pulled free, that he’d hit the ground face-first. A flower of light bloomed behind his eyes, blinding him with its intensity, and he tasted blood in his mouth and felt its warmth running over his face. Hands stripped the pistol from the holster at his hip, then his other gun from his ankle.
Nausea surged through him, rising from between his legs, and he couldn’t breathe, and the blossom of light faded to points that swirled and weaved in front of his eyes. He saw the woman then, and despite his disorientation and his suffering, he made the connection. This woman here and the British bitch spy then, the cunt that Tower had stolen from him, the one Sevara blamed him for. She had him by the throat, yanking him toward her, and he saw the flash of her hand, his pistol in it, and she struck him across the mouth with the barrel. His front teeth, already loosened from his impact with the garage floor, broke free in his mouth, and he tasted a new flood of blood.
She slammed him back against the Audi, still holding him by the throat, choking him. With her other hand, she shoved the end of his pistol against his lips, pushing hard, harder, until he had no choice but to open his mouth. The barrel cut across his raw gums, and he couldn’t keep himself from voicing his pain.
At that, her face came in close to his, her hands gripping him, and he felt her hair brush his cheek. He lost track of his pain in the swell of sudden fear, certain from her expression alone that she was about to pull the trigger.
“Remember me?” she asked. “Remember what you did to me?”
Zahidov stared at her, his vision still swimming with light and, now, with tears.
“Answer me,” she said, softly.
He nodded.
“Good,” she said, sounding satisfied. “Tozim remembered me, too, just before he died. Andrei, though . . . Andrei never had the chance before I killed him.”
She paused, to let her words sink in. The barrel of the gun was cutting into the roof of Zahidov’s mouth, and he felt his gag reflex trembling, and he was afraid what would happen if he couldn’t control it.
“Ruslan’s alive,” she whispered. “He wasn’t even in the convoy, you dumb fuck. You blew it, and anytime now, sweet little Sevya’s going to know you blew it, too. The President’s going to know you sent soldiers into Afghanistan to murder her brother, and that you did it without her permission. And what do you think she’s going to do?”
The urge to gag was unbearable, and Zahidov’s head came off the roof of the car involuntarily, and she slammed him back down with the gun. He couldn’t breathe, her figure blurring from the tears in his eyes.
“What do you think she’s going to do with an embarrassment like you, Ahtam? With someone as crude and stupid as you? You’re way past your expiration date, mate. What do you think she’s going to do now that she’s found a way to make peace with her brother?”
The spy, the British cunt spy, smiled at him then. She smiled.
Then she pulled the gun from his mouth, and at the same time, drove her right knee into his crotch.
Zahidov crumpled, pitching forward to the floor once more. This time he managed to get an arm in front of himself to cushion the fall.
“I don’t need to kill you, Ahtam. Do you know why?” The woman’s slightly husky voice came from above him. “Because your little Sevya’s going to do it for me. You’re already dead, Zahidov. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”
Then he felt his ribs threatening to break, and the little air he’d recovered fled, and the bright light consumed his vision a second time. This time it grew, and he hear
d the roar of a river, deafening in his ears.
When he came back to himself, he was on his side beside his car, still in the garage, still in darkness. He didn’t know how much time he’d lost, and, for a moment, he didn’t know how he’d come to be there, like this.
Then it came back to him, the pieces falling together, and he remembered the woman. He remembered the pain she’d given him. He remembered what she’d said, and he knew it had been true. Tozim and Andrei had failed, and Sevara did not abide failure.
Instead of proving Sevara wrong, he’d proven her correct. Worse—he wasn’t merely a thug. Now she had no choice but to see him as a dangerous and out-of-control one as well.
He pulled himself to the side of his car, then used the open door to struggle to his feet. Halfway up he had to stop, doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor and his shoes.
Zahidov caught his breath, ran the back of one arm across his eyes. He’d lost his glasses, he had no idea where they were. He wiped the tears and blood from his face, touched his leaking gums with the tip of his tongue. He hurt more than he’d ever before, not just his body, but his heart.
It was over between Sevara and him. Everything else crashing down, and the finality of that, more than anything, took root and sparked his rage. He could surrender to her and face what would happen next, or he could run.
He fumbled around inside the Audi, found his keys and his briefcase. He shut the door, staggering toward the stairs.
He would run. Leave the country, go far away. He had connections, he could disappear. Moscow first, Paris after. He would leave and recover and then, when he had the strength and the people, he would repay this British spy. He would repay her in kind, and he would make her wish with all her soul that she had pulled the trigger on him, and he would make her know what he’d done to her in the interrogation room at the Ministry had been a mercy.
He reached his apartment, moved to unlock the door, then realized the lock was broken and the door itself ajar. He pushed inside, then stopped cold, staring at the wreckage. His apartment had been tossed, as viciously and thoroughly as any search he himself had ever performed. The lock on his wine refrigerator had been smashed, the bottles shattered, and even the cabinet in the secret room had been opened, his weapons strewn across the floor, his money gone.