Hide and Seek (7 page)

“Do you think they’ve let him out of the freezer yet?” She cringed when she spoke.

“Not if they’re smart. They should wait for the police.” The wail of sirens clawed through the thickening air.

Jildiz straightened. “The police might be slow in coming. They have other things to deal with.”

“Riots?”

The lawyer nodded. “Yes. In 2010 it took all the police and firefighters and a good number of soldiers to restore peace.” She took a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” A sudden panic washed over Amelia. She had been so intent on escape and her own injuries she hadn’t checked Jildiz for wounds.

“I’m okay. Asthma. Exertion sometimes brings on an attack.” She conjured up a smile. “It’s why I gave up being a downhill skier and became a lawyer. An asthma attack in court is always good for a postponement.”

“I guess so. Do you use an inhaler?”

“Yes, it is in my purse, which—”

“Which is still in your car. I should have guessed.”

Jildiz shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry. No one sent the memo about the kidnapping. I could have been better prepared.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” Amelia studied Jildiz, fearful she would stop breathing.

Another grin. “I am smart. I am persistent. I am also vain. Sucking on a rescue inhaler makes me feel less attractive.”

“Nonsense. It’s all the rage these days.” Amelia patted her on the shoulder. “Jildiz . . .”

“I know. We can’t stay here. We have to keep moving.”

“Can you do that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Amelia pursed her lips. “No. If Machine Gun Mike was calling for backup then more of his kind may be crawling out from under the rocks.” She stood. “We’re miles from the nearest hospital. Maybe we can find a landline and get you out of here.”

“And you, too.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They stood. “Okay, our priority is to find a safe place with a phone.” In her haste to lead Jildiz to safety, Amelia struck a course without much thought. Instinct told her to put as much distance between her and the spot where the attempted abduction took place, a decision that landed them in a rundown part of town, the first victims of the recent depression. Most of the buildings in this section of town were empty.

Certain that no danger was close, she turned to Jildiz and looked deep into her eyes. “You need to listen to me. I’m going to get us out of this and get you back to safety, but to do that you need to do everything I say. You need to do it without question or debate. Clear?”

“Yes.”

“I also need you to be honest with me. No false bravery. If your asthma gets worse I need to know. Complete honesty. Got it?”

“Got it. The smoke’s not helping.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Amelia, complete honesty goes both directions. You’re not just a diplomat with the U.S. Embassy, are you?”

Amelia hesitated. Technically her role was not secret, but she preferred to be thought of as a civilian. “Not strictly speaking.”

“What are you? I mean, the way you handled the situation and the thing you did with the knife . . . Are you CIA?”

“No, Jildiz, I’m not. Not the CIA or any other group like that. I’m not a spy.”

“Then what?”

More hesitancy. “It doesn’t matter, Jildiz.”

“Military?”

Amelia didn’t want to waste time arguing. Since she was breaking no laws or orders, she yielded. “I used to be in the Army. Actually, I’m still in the Army but I work as a civilian. I specialize in foreign affairs. Technically, I’m an Army captain, but these days my battlefield is a conference table. I just get to keep my retirement this way.”

“Retirement? Really, retirement?”

“Let’s keep moving.”

“I’ve never seen a diplomat kill two men with a car and knock a thug to the ground.”

“We don’t know the two men are dead.”

Jildiz hiked an eyebrow. She seemed to be breathing easier. “We don’t?”

“Not officially. Let’s go.”

As they started down the alley the sound of angry mobs and police sirens clashed in the thickening air.

MEKLIS OSKONBAEVA WOULD LIKE
to have taken time to remember simpler, less stressful days, but he was too busy. When he awoke this morning he knew he would be facing difficult decisions. Such was the nature of his job as president of a country on the edge of self-immolation. By breakfast he had been briefed about rising tensions within his own government and the growing frustrations of his people. By his third cup of tea he had a sense things weren’t right.

When were they? He’d been president for three of his five-year term and a day hadn’t gone by he hadn’t wished he’d traveled to the United States or England to teach history when he had the opportunity. But no. He was infected with a virus that made him feel he owed the country of his birth some help. A lot of help. It was the way of his father who taught him men who believed the world owed them a living couldn’t be trusted, but a man who believed he owed the world something could.

His daughter called earlier in the day to say she would be meeting with American representative Amelia Lennon. Lennon wasn’t the decision maker and he wondered why Jildiz would take the time. Still, the woman was bright and seemed to care about Kyrgyzstan and its people. Of course, she might just be a good actress. She did have one advantage: unlike many ambassadors, including the one operating at the U.S. Embassy on Prospect Mira Street, hers was not a position bought with political contributions. The U.S. Diplomatic Corps was composed of highly trained and dedicated people. That couldn’t be said for the ambassador. Maybe Jildiz saw more in the woman than she did in the man who spoke for the world’s most powerful country. Maybe.

The news of the riots came at lunch. First it was a call from the mayor of Osh and the mayor of Talas, both troubled cities. There were riots and ethnic conflicts there before. Like sparks from an unattended campfire, the blaze spread to Bishkek. Its quick spread made Meklis suspicious. Suspicion came with the job. The number of people he could trust diminished weekly.

Local news broadcasted the carnage on the television stations and it appeared as if the entire country had lost its mind.

“We have news that several police officers have been injured, some seriously.” The report came from Boris Gubuz, his minister of internal security. “That’s in Bishkek. Talas has four confirmed deaths, three police officers, one firefighter. Osh reports about twenty injuries. The hospital emergency rooms are filling up.”

Boris was a good man. Trustworthy, but his age and health limited his days. At seventy-two, he still projected confidence and intelligence flashed in his eyes. It occurred to Meklis he hadn’t seen the man smile in the last two years. Boris was never a drunk, but he was well acquainted with vodka, both domestic and that produced in his family’s homeland of Russia.

Meklis rubbed his chin, striking the perfect blend of dismay, shock, concern, and courage. “Ethnic?”

“Too early to tell, Mr. President, but I suspect some of that is going on. So far the protests have been aimed at government buildings. Osh has seen the worst outbreak. Talas is not far behind.”

“My officers have been able to keep the crowds from growing too large but they are overwhelmed.” Emil Abirov served as chief of police for Bishkek. Normally he would not be in Meklis’s panel of advisers but the situation demanded it. His officers would be the first point of contact with the mobs. They were the first line of defense. “On two occasions we’ve used tear gas. Our goal is to keep the groups under two hundred people in one place. After the last outbreak of violence we undertook a study on mob management and control.”

“How effective has it been so far?” Sariev Dootkasy’s words were low but pointed.

“Not as well as we hoped, Mr. Prime Minister. In the first hour it seemed to go well, but then unexpected results came about.”

“Such as?” Dootkasy pressed.

Abirov cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on the wide conference table. “The principle is this: Large groups—say groups of a thousand or more—become a danger to themselves as well as innocents nearby. A group psyche develops.”

“Mass hysteria?” Meklis asked.

“Not exactly, Mr. President, but the principle is the same. It begins with chanting and marching. Then someone starts shouting insults about the government. Others join in. Inevitably a counter-group forms to protest the protests. More insults. Someone throws a punch; another throws a rock; then come bricks and bottles. In ethnically mixed countries such as ours, a protest against the government becomes a racially or religiously charged one.”

“Our greatest fear,” Meklis said.

The police chief nodded. “One can’t help but think of Rwanda or Serbia. The list is long.”

Prime Minister Dootkasy pushed Abirov to continue. “So by keeping the mobs small you hope to remove the psychological aspect?”

“That was our hope.”

“Is it working?”

“No, Mr. Prime Minister, it is not. It has helped some but as the numbers grow the ability of my officers to divide the group declines. And now we’re seeing too many groups. I do not have enough officers to make the system work, not with a crowd so intent on violence.”

“But we’ve only seen a small number of injuries,” Meklis said.

“I believe that is about to increase.” Abirov sighed. “The smaller groups—let’s call them cells—simply round a city block and meet up with another group. It’s like swatting at hornets. Knock one down and another comes at you.”

“How many do you estimate are in the streets?” Meklis shifted in his seat.

“When I came in to the meeting, we were estimating three thousand.” The chief picked up his cell phone and activated it. He stared at it for a moment. “I was going to ask for an update from my leaders in the field . . . I don’t have a signal.”

As if orchestrated, the half dozen men around the table looked at their phones. No one had a signal. Meklis tapped the intercom button on the conference room phone and called for one of his assistants. “Find out if our cellular system is down.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide was a fresh-faced young man who looked like he should still be in university.

Meklis looked at the landline phone. Something that felt like a small creature gnawed at his stomach. He picked up the receiver and punched a button for an outside line. Nothing. “Phones are out.”

Seated to Meklis’s left sat General Nurbeck Saparaliev. “Excuse me for a moment, Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister.” He rose and moved to the conference room door and exited. Less than a minute later he returned. “Basic radio communications are intact, including those dependent on repeaters. Television and radio are still working. The outage seems confined to the cell system and landlines.”

“Internet?” Dootkasy asked.

“Also intact. Interesting.” Saparaliev returned to his seat.

“How so, General?” Meklis already had a suspicion.

“This may be more than a series of antigovernment protests. I can’t be sure yet, but this might be planned. It would be one thing to lose a cell tower, but to lose several sounds more like a—”

“Rebellion.” Meklis pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t follow.” Dilara Novakosa, the government press officer broke her silence.

Meklis motioned to Saparaliev. “General, if you would.”

Saparaliev turned to the middle-aged woman, a former journalism professor. “Riots are seldom planned. Protests, yes, and those can evolve into something worse. Rebellion begins with planning. Knocking out phones, landlines, and cell, hinders the ability of the military and police some; the government a great deal. Police and military have field radios and are immune to outside influence except by highly technical jamming. Jamming can be traced and neutralized.”

“So why knock out the phones if the police and military can still communicate?”

“To frustrate the populace. Imagine being injured and not able to call for help. Civil leaders communicate primarily with phone. This won’t end communications, but I have to ask why protesters would do such a thing.”

“But they couldn’t close down the Internet?” she asked.

“Or didn’t want to,” Meklis said. “Think about Arab Summer, the protests in Lybia, Egypt, Syria, and other places. The protesters used the Internet to coordinate much of their actions.”

“I still don’t understand.” Dilara looked puzzled. “They might have the Internet, but they can’t use their cell phones to broadcast video.”

“Maybe their leaders don’t want that. They don’t want the world to know.” The general made a face as if his words had a bad taste.

“Why would they care about that?” Chief Abirov looked pale as if he already knew the answer.

“We can’t know for certain, but they may have something worse in mind. Something they don’t want the world to see.”

All the faces turned to Meklis, and he once again wished he had chased the path of the academic. He was the leader and it was time for him to lead.

“I’m assuming that much of this has to do with the extension of the contract for the airfield at Manas.”

“I still think that is a bad idea, Mr. President.”

“And I am leaning in your direction, Mr. Prime Minister.” Dootkasy’s comment annoyed Meklis. He returned his attention to the others. “I have forbidden the United States from flying anything over our soil except the troop transport planes. Seeing U.S. military aircraft in our skies may incite more riots. General, you are to take over crowd control. Work with the police. I also want a contingent of police and military at our government building. I want the police in uniform and visible. I want the military nearby and ready to act but not visible. I don’t want this to become a Lybia or Syria situation in which the military kills its own citizens.” He paused and stared at General Saparaliev. “In Egypt, much of the military sided with the protesters. Will I have that problem?”