Out of Range: A Novel (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

A
s they put a little distance between themselves and the air freight terminal, Faruz set his phone in one of the cup holders. “I got lines out to everybody I can think of. Now we gotta wait.”

“Thanks, Faruz. You know I’m going to make this worth your while.” Charlie stuffed five hundred bucks into the cup holder next to the phone.

Faruz eyed the money. “You don’t need to do that, Charlie.”

“Yeah I do,” Charlie said. “You’re taking a big risk for me.”

Faruz hesitated, then reluctantly pocketed the money—as if it was medicine prescribed by a doctor. Charlie pulled out his Nikon and scrolled through the photos he’d shot at the freight terminal. The 500-millimeter lens hadn’t let him down. Bull’s face was clear as a bell. He zoomed in a little tighter, then held the camera display out toward Faruz.

“You know this guy?”

Faruz glanced at the face briefly. “Nope. Who is he?”

“That’s what I need to find out. Is Russell Garman still around?”

“Yeah, he’s around, but frankly? That guy scare the shit out of me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Charlie conceded. “Let’s go see him.”

Faruz nodded unenthusiastically. They were reaching the outskirts of Tashkent now. Everything was drab, dusty, slapped together, ill-maintained. It felt strange to be back—that odd mixture of alienness and familiarity that you felt returning to any place that had been important to you once, but wasn’t anymore.

Charlie wondered if Julie had experienced those same conflicting emotions when she’d returned here to see Byko. Or if there was something else entirely going through her head. He still couldn’t fathom how she’d managed to pull off that kind of deception, that she’d come here to explore a romantic interlude with Byko. But in the back of his mind he kept wondering, kept hoping, that there could possibly be some other explanation.

C
harlie found Russell Garman seated in his neat office on the third floor of a nondescript building in downtown Tashkent. Charlie felt pretty sure that no one in this office had ever taught any languages to anyone, but screwed to the wall next to the door was a very small sign that read: language training international, ltd.

And Garman certainly looked the part. He had the air of a certain kind of down-at-the-heels international teacher—his thinning brown hair was longish and poorly cut, floating away from his face in soft waves. He wore a button-down shirt, wide-wale corduroy pants and a lemon yellow Gore-Tex windbreaker. His expression was genial but distant, as though his mind was still occupied with the book of poetry,
Spoon River Anthology
by Edgar Lee Masters, lying open on the desk in front of him.

To look at the man you’d never know that six years ago, Garman was one of the most dangerous men in the region. Marine recon, sniper, black belt in this or that, executive-protection trainer at Blackwater’s semisecret facility in North Carolina, almost certainly eight or ten years in the CIA’s Operations Directorate—the kind of guy who could tell you with a straight face that he couldn’t show you his resumé unless you had top-secret clearance.

As Charlie entered Garman’s lair and greeted him, the military man exuberantly popped out of his chair.

“Charlie! My goodness, how have you been?” Garman half-cooed, raising one eyebrow. His voice had a flat midwestern tinge—Missouri, Kansas, someplace like that—and the careful enunciation of a man who cared about words. “We lost track of you after your little set-to at Andijan. Sit, sit!”

Charlie quickly gave Garman the abbreviated version of the last six years of his life, but it was clear enough that he was here on business and didn’t have time to waste on pleasantries.

Sensing this, Garman gave Charlie his mild little smile. “Before we get started, may I remind you of my usual ground rules for journalists? As you may recall, I never talk on record. Anything I utter is strictly on background.”

“Understood,” Charlie said, taking out his Nikon. On the ride over here, Charlie had considered how he wanted to approach Garman. The thing about a guy like him was that you never knew whom he talked to or whom he worked for. For all Charlie knew, Bull could have been on
his
payroll. It was a risk even to go down this road with a snake like him, but Charlie didn’t have many options.

He pulled up his photograph of Bull and passed the camera across the desk. “I’m wondering if you can ID this guy for me.”

Garman’s smile faded and the first hint of some other, deeper figure behind the history teacher pose began to emerge. He looked at the camera for a moment then picked it up and scrutinized the photo on the camera’s display.

“I think he works for the CIA,” Charlie said nervously.

When Garman finally looked up, his eyes were cagey and guarded. Garman assessed Charlie for a long beat, then pushed the camera back across the desk. “You’re half right,” he said.

“Meaning what?”

“He was never a CIA operative, per se. But he
was
an independent contractor they used for a long time.”

“And now?”

“The Company gave him the boot a few years back. At which time, he came to me. Looking for work.”

Charlie watched the man closely. Was he testing him?

Garman folded his arms, leaned back in his chair. “Of course, we give all our potential hires a psych eval. Let’s just say there are reasons why he’s not working for us.”

Charlie tried not to reveal how relieved he was, but apparently it showed, because Garman laughed. “Oh my goodness, Charlie, you look like you just dodged a bullet.”

“We both know I took a chance walking in here,” Charlie said flatly.

To his credit, Garman didn’t bother denying it. “Yes, well . . . might I ask where this picture was taken?”

The affect was pleasant but Charlie knew that Garman’s generosity was reaching an end. If Charlie was going to get any more, he was going to have to give. “The cargo area at Tashkent Airport. Twenty-five minutes ago.”

“Bold, Charlie. Bold.”

“What’s his name?” Charlie asked.

“John Quinn.”

“You have a history on him? Anything I can use?”

“He’s got pretty much the standard resumé. Spent his whole career in Spec Ops. Ranger school, airborne, sniper training, all the usual tactical training. He retired under duress as a major after some kind of incident that no one ever talks about.”

“Any ideas?”

“Probably involved a bunch of dead civilians with brown skin. But that’s only a guess. After that, he worked for some contractors to contractors to the Company. He’s one of those plausible deniability type guys that the Company uses as sparely as possible for particularly hairy operations. But after a while, even at that tertiary distance, the Company couldn’t stand the stink coming off him.”

“So who does he work for now?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Karimov?”

“I wouldn’t speculate. All I can say is that he was still looking for work last year, then he dropped out of sight.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Karimov’s always been enamored with the cool professionalism and effectiveness of American intel, so yes, it’s possible. Now how about telling me what the deal is with that photo?”

Charlie was still unsure if he could trust him. But if there was anyone in the country who might to be able to help him—for a price—it was Garman.

“I’m not here on a job,” Charlie conceded.

“Oh?”

“It’s Julie. She’s been snatched.”

Charlie thought he saw a glint of surprise in the man’s eyes. “Snatched? By whom, Charlie? For what purpose?”

“By Quinn. For what purpose I don’t know.”

“But it’s not for ransom? It’s political.”

“Can you help?”

“I’ll need more information first.”

“Apparently, she came here last week to see Alisher Byko. The day after she flew back to the U.S., Quinn kidnapped her. The image I just showed you was her arriving here in a cargo container.”

“How can you be sure?”

“The guy tortured me in my goddamn basement. I tracked that container from the port in Los Angeles. All of the timing lines up.”

Garman leaned forward. “Tortured you?”

“He was looking for answers,” Charlie explained. “Answers I didn’t have. About Julie.”

“And you said Julie actually
met
with Byko?”

Charlie nodded. “I believe so.”

Garman studied Charlie for a moment, then stood and looked out the window as though scanning the street to see if Charlie had been followed.

“You haven’t been back here since Andijan, am I right?”

“Right.”

“Well, things change. Byko’s not the guy you knew.”

“How so?”

Garman sat down again, took out a knife and started cleaning his fingernails.

“He’s into all kinds of sinister things now. Drugs, guns, you name it.”

“And he’s still a threat to the regime?”

“Oh, more than ever.”

Charlie knew his history. When the English barons started giving King John grief, he couldn’t just throw the Earl of Leicester in prison. Not without consequences. In Uzbekistan, Byko was like the Earl of Leicester. Not just a rich man, he also represented a region, a clan, an ethnic group, a whole nest of interests in the Fergana Valley. As powerful as Karimov was, he still had to tread very carefully about going after someone like Byko. The fact that he’d let Byko return to his life after the uprising in Andijan was testament to that. But now, it seemed as though Karimov must have lost his patience.

“So it’s come to a tipping point,” Charlie said. “Karimov’s finally had enough.”

“The subtleties of power politics here are enough to confuse a Byzantine emperor. All I can say is that Byko more or less dropped off the map a few months ago. This is a very public man. Poof. Gone.”

“You think he’s planning a coup?”

Garman gave him a corroborative look. “You heard about Byko’s sister?”

“I know that she was arrested last year and tortured at Jaslyk.”

“She came home and hanged herself three days later. And now that I’ve heard what you’re telling me, it wouldn’t surprise me if Quinn
was
working for Karimov. That business with Byko’s sister sounds like exactly the kind of thing that would be up Quinn’s alley.”

“Of course,” Charlie added, “it’s also possible Quinn’s been subcontracted again by the CIA. That the Company’s working in conjunction with Karimov.”

“As long as American interests ally with the regime, that is always a possibility,” Garman said dryly. “You want to tell me what Julie was doing here, seeing Byko?”

Charlie shifted in his seat. “She was thinking about getting back into some of her work here. They’d been communicating by email. Byko said he might have some opportunities for her.”

Garman’s eyes pierced through Charlie. “And they used to go together. Back in the day.”

“There is that, yes.”

Garman raised his eyebrow just enough to irk Charlie, but this was no time to worry about looking like a cuckold. Instead, he dipped
into his money belt and tossed five thousand dollars on the desk.

“I need your help. And if we can locate her, I’ll need men.”

Garman cautiously eyed the stack of cash on the desk.

“I know it’s not much,” Charlie conceded, “but I can get you more later.”

“Look, Charlie,” Garman sighed, his face suddenly relaxing into professorial softness. “I knew Julie, and I thought she . . . she lit up a room, you know? I wouldn’t want any harm coming to her. But here’s the thing. What I do now is mostly petty stuff. Basic security detail for VIPs. The big game? Not my scene anymore. And I’m afraid this sounds an awful lot like the big game.”

Charlie suspected this was total bullshit. But he didn’t know for sure. And one glance at Garman’s empty eyes convinced him that the mercenary was unlikely to change his story.

“Then at least ask around for me. Find out who Quinn works for.”

Garman picked up the stack of money and tossed it into Charlie’s lap. “People get shot for asking around in this country.”

Charlie’s eyes bored into the man. “So that’s it? Good-bye and good luck?”

Garman picked up the book of poems on his desk and glanced at the page he’d been reading. “You know I write a few verses from time to time,” he mused. “Kind of my dirty little secret. Julie said some very kind things about something I wrote once. Not just,
Hey, good job, pal.
Thoughtful, you know? She actually read the damn poem and thought about it, and maybe felt something.” He slipped his finger between the pages of the book, then looked up again. “You’re going to need that money down the line.”

So Garman
would
ask around. And he would forsake even the smallest of fees for his services. Charlie searched the man’s eyes. Julie clearly had her charms but was it possible she’d made that much of an impression on him?

“Go do whatever else you have to do,” Garman said. “I’ll be in touch.”

C
harlie exited the building, head still swirling as he tried to determine whether or not he could trust Garman. At this point, he figured he had almost no choice. He approached Faruz, who was waiting at the curb, engine idling.

“Good news,” the Uzbek said. “My cousin Nirmal used to know this guy who was a falconer for this rich Tajik guy. The Tajik guy was in a sort of hunting club with this other joker who—”

“I don’t need all the details,” Charlie said as he got into the car. “Did you find Byko?”

Faruz looked at him resentfully. “Why gotta trample all over my story?”

“Because every minute that goes by is a minute closer to some asshole throwing my wife’s dead body in a ditch.”

“Fair enough,” Faruz said. Then he put the BMW in gear and peeled out.

“So you found him?”

Faruz smiled triumphantly. “I found him. And he wants to talk.”

Chapter Twenty-one

T
he container sat in the middle of a bare field next to a cluster of large stone buildings. The buildings had the stolid, grim look of an old Soviet military encampment—which, in fact, was what they were.

Quinn threw open the door of the container. Attempting to ignore the smell of unwashed bodies, turmeric, and cigarettes, he walked past the guard and the medic and knelt next to the cot where Julie Davis lay motionless, hair splayed out on the pillow, an IV drip connected to her arm. He checked the pulse in her neck. Nice and strong.

“Wake her up,” Quinn said to the medic.

“We do like you say, Mr. Quinn,” the guard said, his voice high and urgent. “Everything perfect. Lady in perfect shape.”

“Wake her up!” Quinn barked. It put him in a bad mood, people explaining instead of doing.

The medic came over and injected a mild stimulant into the IV bag then squeezed it, pushing the fluids. Julie immediately reacted, sitting up and looking around with a confused expression on her face.

“Good work,” Quinn said to the guard and the medic. “Go out and talk to the guy in the blue hat. He’ll take care of your pay.”

“Thank you, sir! Thank you, sir!”

And the two men, apparently relieved that it was all over, scurried out of the container.

Quinn leaned toward Julie to see how cognizant she was. She blinked at him in a half daze. “Where am I?” she asked.

Quinn stepped forward and backhanded her across the face. “You’re in Shut-the-fuck-up. Any more questions?”

Julie held her face, staring at him in shock.

Quinn heard a gunshot from outside the container, then a scream of fear. “We do like Mr. Quinn say! Please! Lady in perfect—”

A second gunshot cut off the guard’s plaintive cries.

Quinn walked out of the container, stepping over the bodies of the two dead men. “Get her inside the compound,” he said to Mikael, a monster of a man wearing a red baseball cap with a Nike swoosh on the front.

Mikael was just holstering his SIG. “Right away, sir,” he said.

Quinn began striding away. He was feeling so much better now that the woman was on the ground.