Private Wars (17 page)

“There’s a son,” Crocker said. “Better bet than the daughter, if I recollect.”

“No, he’s a no-go,” Seale said. “Not enough support in-country. If the son tries to take over, it’ll get bloody. And since we’ve now got NATO troops on the ground in Uzstan, nobody wants to see that, either.”

Crocker considered, then nodded slightly, apparently agreeing. His cigarette had burned down to its filter, and he dropped it on the path, stepping on it with the toe of his shoe. What Seale was saying was true enough, but it raised a whole new set of questions. If the White House was backing Sevara enough that Seale knew about it, then the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister knew it, too. Which meant that either the Prime Minister was willing to oppose the White House covertly—hence his tasking Seccombe with the job of placing Ruslan in power—or Seccombe was playing him.

Correction: of course Seccombe was playing him. It meant that Seccombe was playing him in a very different way than Crocker had imagined.

He checked his watch, saw that it was already eight minutes past five. “I should get back.”

“I should, too. I’ll contact Tashkent, let them know why Chace was there, what she was doing. Maybe the COS can point her in the right direction.”

“If he can find her.”

“Oh, he can find her, Paul. Trust me. He can find her.”

Seale turned, heading away from him, back down the path, and it wasn’t until then that Crocker realized they hadn’t shaken hands upon meeting each other.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

CHAPTER 19

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—438–2 Raktaboshi,
Residence of Charles Riess

20 February, 2329 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Riess lived alone, in a semidetached house with
a private courtyard. The house had been provided by the Chancery, but not without difficulty. When Riess had arrived in Tashkent, he’d found that the Mission was in the clutches of a housing shortage. As a single FSO, his rank notwithstanding, he found himself on the bottom of the placement list. He’d spent seven weeks in residence at the Sheraton while his belongings had languished in storage somewhere in Belgium, living out of the hotel before everything got sorted out.

When it finally had been taken care of, though, Riess had been pleasantly surprised with his home. It was far more spacious than he’d imagined, a two-bedroom, one with a supplied queen, one with two twins, with a modest dining room, kitchen, and ample living room. Like all Mission housing, it was government-furnished with the standard Drexel pieces, all of them functional and all of them lacking personality. Carpeting was gratis, a vacuum cleaner helpfully supplied to keep things tidy.

It had taken another month for his belongings to arrive, at which point Riess had been desperate to personalize the space. He’d set up his desktop, placed his books on his shelves, erected what he self-mockingly referred to as the Shrine, the three pictures of Rebecca he’d had ever since she’d passed away. He’d put a few photographs and posters up on the walls, and in the end felt he had accomplished the job of making the house more than just a dormitory. Not that he would spend much time there, but it was a matter of principle; he was looking at a three-year tour in Uzbekistan, he damn well wanted to like where he was resting his head at night.

Monday
night he returned home a little before eleven from a dinner with three Representatives of the Oliy Majlis. The dinner had run long, and Riess had been forced to stay through the entire proceeding, not because the Reps in question were particularly important to the United States’ interests in Uzbekistan, but rather because leaving early would have told them very clearly that they weren’t. McColl, of course, had been dining with the DCM, entertaining a more senior group of the same.

The meal had been held at the home of one of the Reps, near the Earthquake Memorial off Abdulla Kodiry. Riess liked the memorial far more than he liked the dinner. A series of granite reliefs depicted the rebuilding of Tashkent, surrounding a central statue straddling a ragged tear in the earth. The statue was substantial, a heroic Uzbek male standing in front of an equally heroic Uzbek female, her hair flying, together shielding a not-so-heroic Uzbek child. A smaller block of granite, this one black, had the face of a clock carved on one side, the hands pointing to 5:22, the hour the earthquake had struck on April 26, 1966. It had been one hell of a quake, 7.5 on the Richter scale, and had devastated the city, leaving some three hundred thousand homeless. The Soviets had rallied, rebuilding the city, giving birth to modern Tashkent.

Riess had taken a walk through the memorial after dinner, stretching his legs and trying to clear his head. Ostensibly, the purpose of the meal had been part social, part an opportunity to discuss changes in the irrigation system around the Aral. But like Riess, the Reps knew a lost cause when they saw one, and so most of the talk had centered on other things: concerns about Islamic extremists infiltrating the country, deteriorating relations with Turkmenistan, and finally, the rumors surrounding President Malikov’s illness. Consensus at the table had been that Sevara would succeed her father.

“Not Ruslan?” Riess had asked.

“Not unless you know something we don’t,” one of the Reps had responded, laughing.

So he’d walked the memorial, thinking about his last conversation with the Ambassador, thinking about Tracy Carlisle. Wondering why it was that she hadn’t lifted Ruslan and his son as yet. He didn’t know what to make of her, and he still didn’t know what to make of his night with her, and the visit from Tower that had come in its wake had only served to cloud the matter further.

The fact was, Riess felt out of his depth.

McColl
had come into the office grumpier than usual that morning, about twenty minutes after Tower’s departure, and peeved at something the Ambassador had apparently said to S. Whatever it was, it had made its way back to McColl, and McColl, having no recourse, took it out on Riess in the form of busywork. That kept Riess chained to his desk, and it was almost noon before he could manufacture a reason to speak to the Ambassador.

“I can give you three minutes,” Garret told him when Riess entered the office.

“Then I’ll make it fast. Tower knows something is going on. He knows I was at the InterContinental, that I met with Carlisle.”

Riess expected surprise, or at least concern, but Garret exhibited neither. “I figured he might. What’d you tell him?”

“That she was an old friend.” Riess hesitated, then added, “I was with her for about four hours.”

“In her room?”

Riess nodded.

“Chuck,” Garret said. “You dog.”

Riess actually thought he might blush, tried to think of something to say, and realized that everything he was coming up with would sound like a double entendre. Finally, he managed, “It wasn’t planned.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“About Tower? Not much you can do. There was always a risk of this, Charles. He’ll check your story, and when he finds the holes in it—and he will find the holes in it—he’ll want to talk to you again.”

“What do I tell him?”

Garret looked out the window of his office into the garden, not speaking for a very long time, so long that Riess began to wonder if the Ambassador had heard him or not.

“That’s your choice, Charles,” Garret said at length, softly. “This thing with Ruslan—if it doesn’t work, my career is shot. I knew that going into it. I’ve got thirty years in, and there are worse ways to leave than being forced into a quiet retirement.”

“I’m not going to betray you, sir. I won’t do that.”

Garret turned from the window, then pulled out the paternal smile. “If Tower already knows, it’s not a betrayal, Charles. And if he already knows, you’ll have to decide what’s best for yourself. I’m not going to hold that decision against you.”

Riess shook his head, confused. “Has something happened?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’ll forgive me for saying that I think this discussion is premature, sir. Carlisle hasn’t even had a chance to lift them yet.”

“Lifting them is only half the battle. Getting Ruslan back into play, with support, that’s the other half.”

“You said there was British support.”

Garret nodded. “But that doesn’t mean there
is
British support.”

“Why else would Carlisle be here?”

“Hell if I know.” The Ambassador stared at him a moment longer, then moved to his chair, settling himself behind his desk. “Go back to McColl before he finds more ways to make your life miserable.”

The confusion he was feeling became more acute, and for a second Riess didn’t move. Then, almost resigned, he left the office, making his way back through the Embassy to his desk, wondering what was best for himself, and just how long it would take Aaron Tower to find all of the holes in his story about his night with Tracy Carlisle.

As it turned out, it didn’t take Tower long at all.

Riess
had been home for twenty minutes, long enough to change out of his suit and into jeans and a Virginia Tech sweatshirt, and to brew up a cup of coffee from the beans a friend at home had sent in his last care package. He made the coffee a cup at a time, rationing the beans, and he’d just poured when there was a knock at the door.

He wasn’t surprised to find Aaron Tower waiting outside when he opened it.

“Mind if I come in?” Tower asked.

Riess shrugged, turned away, heading back into the kitchen. “You want a cup of coffee? It’s good stuff. A friend in California sends the beans to me every so often. Better than the local brew or that nightmare we get at the Embassy.”

He heard the door close. “Can’t,” Tower said. “Blood pressure, remember?”

“Right, sorry.” Riess stuck his head back out of the kitchen, saw that Tower was standing in the open living room, taking in the space. “Tea, then? I think I’ve got a peppermint.”

“Sure.”

Riess turned to the stove, set up the kettle. He was pulling a mug down when Tower entered and propped himself just inside the doorway, leaning against the side of the refrigerator, watching as Riess went about preparing the cup.

“I’ve got some cookies,” Riess said.

Tower shook his head.

Riess shrugged a second time, set the mug beside the stovetop. “So what can I do for you, sir?”

Tower didn’t speak and didn’t move, fixing him with a vaguely expectant stare. Riess understood the reason for it, and that, more than anything, made the purpose of Tower’s visit crystal clear. He turned away, putting his attention back on the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

The water took a very long time to come to a boil.

Tower didn’t say a word.

Riess took the kettle off the heat, filled the mug, watching as the steam rippled off the water, rising toward him, and thinking about the Ambassador, what he had said. He understood now more than he had then, and the feeling of betrayal, of guilt that now settled in his breast was achingly heavy. He hadn’t said anything, and he knew that by staying silent, he’d already said far too much. Standing in the kitchen, six and a half thousand miles from home, he felt very much alone.

He handed the mug to Tower, who took it, then said, “She didn’t go to Virginia Tech.”

Riess picked up his coffee, tasted it. It had gone tepid.

“She’s not a friend from college. She’s not here working for some agro firm interested in cotton production. She’s not a tourist. And her name isn’t Tracy Carlisle.” Tower toyed with the tea bag, feigning interest in its buoyancy. “You remember who you work for, don’t you, Chuck?”

“Of course I remember who I fucking work for.” Riess dumped the remainder of his coffee into the sink, suddenly angry. The liquid splashed against the side, slopped out onto the counter. He put his cup down hard, hard enough that he was afraid it might shatter. It didn’t.

“I don’t think you do,” Tower said, quietly. “I think that
you
think you work for the Ambassador. And you don’t. You work for the Secretary of State, who works for the President, who works for the American People. So you work for the American People, and those people have elected a leader they believe will make the right decisions for them. And that leader has selected a Secretary of State who will pursue his agenda. And your job is to support that agenda, regardless of whether or not you agree with it.”

“Sevara is as bad as her father. If not worse.”

“Grow the fuck up. Of course she’s worse. I can think of half a dozen ways that she’s worse. That’s not the fucking point. You think anyone back in Washington likes the way she—or her father—goes about running a country? You think anyone’s
happy
that we’re in bed with a kleptocrat despot who thinks the words ‘secret police’ and ‘freedom’ aren’t mutually exclusive? But we need Uzbekistan, and right now, we have to take what we can get.”

“I’m so fucking sick and tired of the Kissinger Doctrine!” Riess kicked the cabinet beneath the sink, splintering the door. “I’m fucking sick and tired of expediency instead of doing the right thing! Fucking Dar es Salaam was expedient, and people
died,
dammit!”

“But you, you know what the right thing is, is that it? You and the Ambassador?”

“Maybe not, but it sure as hell isn’t a monster like Sevara.”

Tower set his mug down on the counter, the tea untasted. “So you and the Ambassador plan a coup to put Ruslan in power instead?”

Riess didn’t answer.

“You even think about that? How the fuck is that going to come off, Chuck? We’ve got
troops
in this country, they’re
stationed
here. Ruslan gets himself some guns, tries to seize the Presidential Palace, you think that’s going to solve your fucking problem? It’s not going to solve the problem. It’s going to destabilize the whole fucking country!”

“Not if we support him!”

“We’re not
going
to support him, dammit! Don’t you get it? Sevara is anointed, she’s got the blessing, she’s kissed the ring! It’s hers for the taking. As soon as Malikov kicks it, she gets the crown. It’s a done fucking deal.”

Riess stopped himself from kicking the cabinet again, his hands in fists so tight he could feel his fingernails biting into his palms. He wanted to spit, to scream about right and wrong, to say it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.

He didn’t want to grow the fuck up.

“Somewhere in Tashkent, right now, there’s an SIS Officer on an unsanctioned mission,” Tower said, evenly. “The girl you banged, she’s here on a job, and you know what it is, you know the why and the where and maybe the how.”

“I didn’t—”

“No.” Tower cut him off. “We’re past that now, Chuck. You’ve got only a couple moves left here, and you need to choose them real carefully. Telling me what you know will go a long way to making sure the skin is still on your career when the dust settles.”

Riess closed his eyes, thinking of Dina Malikov and the way her body had been desecrated, then destroyed. The words, when they came, were the betrayal, and the defeat was bitter. “We just wanted to make things better.”

If he had hoped for sympathy, Tower’s tone dashed it. “This wasn’t the way to do it. And I’m still waiting for my answers.”

And Charles Riess, standing in the kitchen in his semidetached home in Tashkent, sighed heavily, then gave Tower all the answers he could.