Hide and Seek (17 page)

She continued her rapid search. She had only moments. The person or persons at the back door would make a cautious entry. That would give her only a few, precious moments. First on the agenda: lead them away from Jildiz’s position. Her eyes scanned the shelves but there was so little light now. She strained her memory, trying to recall what she saw earlier.

She heard footsteps. Slow. She heard breathing. Low. Masculine. Her heart revved. Hands shook.
Calm. Focused. Wait. Advantage rests with the one hiding. Wait. Wait.

An item on one of the shelves caught her eye: small, plastic, toy-like flashlights, the kind a child might like, or a woman might keep in her purse. They rested in a display box. The flashlights were not wrapped and probably wouldn’t cost more than a buck back home. It was too light to be a weapon but she had another idea.

She positioned herself at the end of one of the shelving units closest to the front door, and stayed low as she unlocked the front door, hoping that she could hold off the intruder long enough for Jildiz to sprint to safety—if there was such a thing.

Raising her head, she peered over the counter and spied two large dark forms. Two men. Her heart sank. She had been lucky with the group of young men in the alley. There was no doubt these guys were bigger and badder, and probably trained. Most days, Amelia was glad to be a girl. At the moment, she wished she were larger and stronger. Wishing wouldn’t get the job done.

Amelia switched on the small flashlight, letting its beam paint the floor, and inched back. She unscrewed the metal cap from the plastic bottle and waited. Seconds passed like eons.

She heard one of the men snap his fingers and assumed he saw the light. Crouching, she listened to the approaching footsteps. If they were trained men, then one would follow the other, or come around the back side. She hoped for the former.

The footfalls stopped. She guessed the man was just around the corner of the shelf unit. He’d be armed. He’d be tall. He’d be on edge.

She leaped up, screaming like a banshee. A tall, thick-necked man jumped and his eyes widened, which made them better targets. Amelia squeezed the plastic bottle and a thick stream of rubbing alcohol covered the man’s face and filled his eyes.

He screamed and brought a hand to his face.

Amelia stepped closer.

She kicked hard. She kicked low.

The man doubled over. She took the can in both hands, raised it high, and brought it down on the base of the man’s skull. He teetered for a moment then crashed face-first to the floor. The fact he did nothing to break his fall told Amelia the man was unconscious the moment the can cracked his brain pan.

One.

Her head snapped back; pain blazed through her scalp. In the two seconds it took to dispatch the first man, the second came from behind and seized her hair, lifted and pulled hard, snapping her head back. More pain ran down her neck. Muscles threatened to separate from sinew. She reached for the hand, tried to turn, but it was all too late. Before she could think she was being pulled back. A second later she slammed into the glass storefront. The large panel of tempered glass rattled against its jambs. The impact forced the air from her lungs.

He pressed his body to her back, pinning her to the glass. “Where is she?” Kyrgyz. Voice rough; anger filled.

She didn’t answer. The man pulled her head back then slammed it into the glass again. She had no power to stop him.
Run, Jildiz. The back. Out the back. Run.
She tried to will her commands to her friend in the back of the pharmacy.

The man swore at her and put his face next to hers. She cut her eyes to see him. He was dark, unshaven. He grinned, revealing holes where teeth should have been. His breath smelled like fish left on a hot, sun-drenched dock. He pulled back and replaced his face with the barrel of handgun.

She heard the hammer
click
. The bullet was three inches from her temple and just a few ounces of trigger pull from being on its way.

He started the question again but never finished. Amelia heard a hallow thud, like a ripe cantaloupe hitting the floor. The man with the bad teeth was no longer behind her. Something was pressing at her heels.

She spun.

At her feet rested the limp form of a gorilla-sized man. Standing next to him was the trembling form of Jildiz holding a fire extinguisher. “I-I thought this might be more effective.”

“Wow.” Amelia looked at the red fire extinguisher. She couldn’t be certain but she thought she saw a dent in the cylinder. A thin stream of blood trickled from the man’s nose.

“Did I kill him?”

Amelia looked into the man’s lifeless eyes. “Of course not.” She took the man’s handgun and searched his body for an additional clip. Sure enough, he had one. She didn’t recognize the weapon but it reminded her of an old Baretta 92.

A sound erupted from the first man she attacked. A squawk. A bit of static. He had a radio.

Amelia relieved him of it.

MEKLIS ASKED THE LAST
adviser to leave his office to close the door behind him. The moment the man did, Meklis brought his hands to his face and rubbed his burning eyes. When he first became president, when he and his wife first walked into the wide expanse of his office, he felt power, joy, and a sense that he could make a difference in his beleaguered country. He came to the position with his eyes wide open. He held no illusions that everyone would love him; that the populace would rise in unison and bless his name. He was in his early sixties, far too old to be so delusional.

Since his days at university he was a student of world politics. Few were the number of leaders who could maintain a satisfaction rating over 60 percent. Most were overjoyed if half of their citizenry agreed with the administration. When he first took office, his approval rating was near 80 percent. Now it hovered near the 40 percentile. He achieved the first number by promising economic reform, more jobs, better education, lower inflation, and better health care. He could have stolen speeches from the British prime minister or the American president, changed the language and context, and no one would know the difference.

He saw a difference—felt a difference. He was not political by nature. He preferred the calm and quiet of a university library to the shouts and cheers of a political rally. He entered politics a decade and a half before at the urging of friends and family. “You can make a difference. You can bring our country into the twenty-first century.”

He listened and, against his instinct, chose to believe their words. To be sure, he tried to make things better and made some progress, but progress cost money. Lots of money. Kyrgyzstan had so little of it. Government money came from only three sources: taxes, bonds, and loans from countries like Russia and China. China was rolling in cash and bought the majority of Kyrgyzstan’s bonds, just has they had with many countries including the United States. China, in Meklis’s mind, was conquering the world one loan and real estate purchase at a time. Russia lacked the wealth of China, but they provided loans for road and school improvement. None of that was cheap. Since the 1920s, the country had been a vassal of Russia. That ended in 1991. Now they were becoming an economic slave to China.

By the end of his first year as president, Meklis felt like a man swimming the Baltic while shackled with handcuffs and leg irons. He could make a little distance but the waters would swallow him soon enough.

Still he tried. He brought conflicting parties together, going so far as to appoint Sariev Dootkasy as prime minister. It drew the two largest parties together but gave Dootkasy more power in the legislature than Meklis was comfortable with. That was the trade-off. He didn’t like the man. What was the American poker phrase? “The man has an ace up his sleeve.” It didn’t take long before Meklis learned to believe half of what the man said. Aces. Dozens of aces up his sleeve.

Meklis lowered his hands and stared at the seating area where he often sipped tea and met with members of the government. It seemed so empty; so unimportant. Once he felt a sense of power, but the riots in the streets—not just in Bishkek but in three other cities—and the news about his missing daughter made him feel as helpless as a newborn.

When Dootkasy suggested Meklis abdicate—no, kings abdicated and he was no king. When Dootkasy suggested Meklis
resign
, he saw it as a power play, a way of taking advantage of a series of horrible situations, but the more he thought about it the more it made sense.

Within minutes of Dootkasy’s departure, Meklis called his head of internal security and the chief of police for Bishkek back into his office. He also summoned a few other advisers. The moment they sat, he blurted the news.

“They’ve taken my daughter.”

There was a moment of silence then a chorus of “Who?”

“I don’t know.” Every word spoken seemed to bring the hot tears and icy fear to the surface. “We have video.” He told them of Dootkasy’s visit and then showed the video. It was greeted with gasps and curses.

Emil Abirov was the first to get down to business. “When did this happen?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll find out. We can contact the reporter’s news organization. There are other ways to track the time. I know the street. I’ll send men in to search for her right now.”

“Do you have men available?” Meklis studied the man.

“I’ll pull some off crowd control. I can also pull some away from government buildings—”

“No.”

“Excuse me, Mr. President?” The police chief looked confused.

Meklis rubbed his forehead. His skin felt hot; his soul cold. “The Prime Minister is correct. I can’t allow that. If others are hurt because my daughter has taken precedence . . .”

“Has there been contact?” Boris Gubuz was the calmest man in the room, but his face seemed to have aged a decade in the last few minutes.

“No, Boris. We think she’s on the run with the one who rescued her. The car in the video was found a few blocks away from the incident.”

“Who found the car?” Gubuz asked.

“Some people the prime minister knows.”

Gubuz looked to the side as if deciding where to spit. “Did the prime minister have a suggestion?”

Meklis gave an agonizing nod. “He thinks I should transfer power to him until Jildiz is rescued or . . .” He swallowed hard. “. . . until the matter is resolved.”

“I am not surprised.” Gubuz was never a fan of the prime minister. Over the last year he tried to resign his position because of the man. Meklis called upon his loyalty to encourage him to stay. The president held no hope of keeping him after the next election.

“I’m afraid he has a point.” General Nurbeck Saparaliev spoke softly, sounding more clergyman than leader of soldiers.

“What are you saying, General?” Gubuz looked stunned.

The general stroked one of his bushy eyebrows, something he did before delivering an unpopular opinion. “Mr. Secretary, you have children. Correct?”

Gubuz stiffened. “You know I do. You do too.”

“Yes, three, all adults now. They are my greatest joy and fear.” He looked at the floor as if seeing his next few words in the carpet. “I have trained myself to create and evaluate situations I might face as a military general. I’ve created scenarios ranging from an attack from eight different countries, to a military coup. Since the uprising in 2010, I’ve been preparing for another riot. It is one reason we were able to secure Ala-Too Square so quickly.”

“So, God forbid, we have to evacuate key personnel from the White House.” Meklis spoke what everyone already knew.

“Yes, sir. My point is this: the one scenario I’ve struggled with the most is the abduction of one of my children. I can send men in dangerous situations without hesitation but . . . my children . . . my grandchildren.” He turned to Gubuz. “If it was one of your children abducted, what would you do?”

“Find them.”

“How?”

“I would find a way.”

Saparaliev looked away again. “I’ve said those very words, Mr. Secretary, but I’ve seen too much to leave it at that. The question isn’t finding, but finding them alive and unharmed. Could you do your job knowing your next decision could set up a chain of events that might lead to great harm to your child?”

Gubuz set his jaw but spoke softly. “I am not insensitive, General, but the well-being of our nation supersedes personal loss.”

“Brave words, Secretary Gubuz. Could you utter them again if three or four fingers of your child arrived in a box?”

Gubuz blanched.

Saparaliev seemed to shrink a size. “I’ve wondered what I would do. We don’t know who the abductors are but if they are religious extremists or Russian mobsters or . . .” He took a breath. “We are an ethically mixed country. We are religiously mixed as well. Sometimes those stresses turn violent. Extreme Islamics have been known to cut the nose off women caught in adultery. Imagine getting that mailed to you.” He looked at Meklis. The word and gaze made him shudder.

“That is uncalled for, General!” Gubuz shouted.

Saparaliev didn’t respond.

“No, it’s not, Mr. Secretary,” Meklis said. “He is being frank, painful as it is to hear.”

“I take no pleasure in it, my president, but I am of no use to you if I am not honest. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, friend.” Meklis gazed at the drape-clad windows. Outside, police, building security, and military prepared to meet an advancing mob. “You said you thought about what you would do should someone kidnap one of your children. What decision did you reach?”

For the first time since meeting the man a decade ago, Meklis saw tears in his eyes. Saparaliev was a career soldier, the son of a career soldier, the grandson of a decorated career soldier. He once said the general was made of granite with molten steel for blood. He never saw him blush, hesitate, or lose his temper. He certainly never saw the man weep.

In the moment it took Saparaliev to answer, the general straightened his back, stiffened his neck, and narrowed his eyes. “I would resign the moment I confirmed the abduction. I would do so, sir, to keep myself from doing something I shouldn’t.”