Private Wars (34 page)

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 heard 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.

Zahidov felt the rage boiling through him, and he thought about all the things he should have done to the British spy when he’d had the chance. All the things he would do to the cunt if the opportunity ever came to him again.

He heard her voice again in his head.

She’s found a way to make peace with her brother.

Zahidov steadied himself against the broken gun cabinet, turning slowly, then sinking to the floor, the pain in his body momentarily forgotten. What had that meant? Sevara had made peace with her brother? Would she do such a thing?

And how? Would Ruslan be returning to Tashkent? Would Sevara allow him back into the government? Why would she? It made no sense; to do so would make her vulnerable.

The brat,
Zahidov thought.
It must be the brat, she’s giving the boy back to her brother, that must be it.

Somehow, Ruslan was playing on his sister’s sentimentality, on her guilt. Somehow, Ruslan had convinced Sevara to return her nephew to him, and she had foolishly agreed.

He had to find out how.

He had to find out how, and when, and put a stop to it, once and for all. A stop to all of them, to Ruslan, and Stepan, and the British spy who had been so very, very stupid in leaving him alive.

CHAPTER 43

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.K. Chancery,
Commercial Section

28 August, 1034 Hours (GMT+5:00)

“He’s in motion?” Andrew Fincher asked Chace.

She flopped into the chair opposite his desk in the tiny office that served as the heart of Tashkent Station, then nodded. Officially, Fincher was listed as Vice Consul of Trade Development to the Mission, which would have earned him a larger office, if it had been true. Instead, he was shunted off into a ten-by-ten room that Chace suspected had initially been used as a closet. It made the Pit back at Vauxhall Cross look spacious.

For all that, though, she was surprised to find that Fincher appeared to be remarkably at ease with himself.

“You have the documentation?” she asked him.

“Everything’ll be ready by this evening, before you leave for Termez. They had some trouble finding a picture of the boy, as you might imagine.” He slid an envelope across the desk to her, thick with paper. “Tickets for the four of you.”

“Routing?”

“RAF from Mazar-i-Sharif as far as Turkey, from there commercial, Frankfurt, then London.”

“Roundabout.”

“Best we could manage on such short notice. Easier if you’re willing to fly out of Tashkent.”

“That’s not an option.”

“No, I know it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the COS here in Tashkent, a man named Tower, you may remember him.”

“Should I?”

“Tower remembers you. He’s the one who pulled you from the Interior Ministry last February.”

“Then I owe him a very large drink.”

“I suspect you owe him a case’s worth of very large drinks,” Fincher said, opening one of the drawers at his desk and producing a small radio set and wireless earpiece. “Anyway, Mr. Tower is now at speed regarding the search for the Starstreak, and he’ll be present in Termez, with support, ready to move on Zahidov if he shows up. London is officially viewing it as a joint operation.”

Fincher handed the radio and earpiece over to Chace, who took them, examining both quickly.

“Frequency’s been set. Your call sign for the operation is Shere Khan, Stepan’s is Mowgli, Tower’s is Baloo, Lankford’s is Bagheera, and the Uzbek team’s is the Ikki. You can guess who’s Kaa, and no, before you ask, I didn’t pick the names.”

Chace laughed, making note of the frequency being used so she could share it with Lankford, before tucking the set away in the pocket of her jacket. “Seems like we’re all covered, then.”

“I can come down to Termez, if you’d like.”

“I appreciate the offer, Andrew, but if it all goes to hell, I’d rather have you here.” She considered him for a moment, then added, “Head of Station seems to suit you.”

“Or I suit it,” Fincher agreed. “Took a while to warm to it, though. Hard not to view it as a demotion.”

“I understand.”

Fincher tugged his right earlobe. “I’m better here. A better fit, I think.”

“It wasn’t personal, Andrew, you know that.”

He shook his head. “Not with you, no. But I’m not looking forward to seeing Nicky or Chris come through here anytime soon.”

“They’ll behave themselves. I’ll make certain of it.”

“Yes, I know you will.” Andrew Fincher smiled. “And you? You’re doing well?”

“Well enough at the moment.”

“I still think pushing Zahidov is a mistake. You’re taking an awful risk bringing him into play like this, especially if he does have that last Starstreak.”

“There was no sign of the missile when I tossed his apartment,” Chace replied. “Which means he’s hiding it someplace else. I had to do something to force him to bring it out into the open.”

“All the same, you can’t be certain of what he’ll do next. And Ahtam Zahidov angry with a MANPAD is an extremely risky proposition.”

“I am aware.” Chace cocked her head, brushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re keeping an eye on him?”

“Until an hour ago.”

“What happened an hour ago?”

“Hayden says he went to the airport. He lost him there.”

“Zahidov shook Bobby?”

Fincher shrugged. “Bobby can’t say if it was intentional or not, but given that President Malikov has the entire NSS out looking for him, I’d suspect so.”

“Which means that if your Number Two lost Zahidov at the airport, Zahidov certainly didn’t leave from the airport,” Chace said.

“On his way to Termez, then?” Fincher asked.

“Let’s hope.” She smiled at him, then leaned forward. “Can I use your coms, Andrew? I need to contact Minder Three, tell him we’re still running.”

“By all means.” Fincher turned in his chair, reaching to the side of the desk, to the cabinet that seemed to run the length of the wall, opening the center doors. He rose, switched on the secure telephone unit inside, then edged his way between the cabinet and the desk, passing Chace. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Thank you.”

She waited until he’d left and shut the door after him before rising, moving to the cabinet. The space was cramped enough that she ended up perched on the desk to use the phone. She dialed into the Ops Room first.

“MCO.”

“Chace. I need a patch to Lankford in Mazar-i-Sharif.”

“Stand by.”

Chace waited, listening to the regular click of the secure line as Alexis Ferguson put her on hold. She imagined her at the MCO Desk, trying to connect with Lankford via satellite phone to the FSB in Afghanistan. It would take several minutes, and Chace tried to be patient, but waiting led to thinking, and right now thinking too much would lead to second-guessing, and she didn’t have time for that.

But as one minute folded into the next, and she waited for Alexis or, preferably, Lankford to come on the line, she couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t the fact that Sevara had agreed to the exchange that bothered Chace. She had been dutiful enough in following the news of Uzbekistan back in London that she had months ago noted President Malikov’s attachment to the boy; it didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that it was guilt as much as affection that kept her nephew in Sevara’s care. It wasn’t even that the Americans had agreed to allow the exchange to proceed; in the final analysis, Sevara Malikov’s decision was the only one that mattered, certainly in matters of Uzbekistan’s security.

Winding up Zahidov, though, that was the gamble, just as Fincher had pointed out. The goal had been to drive Zahidov out in the open, Starstreak in hand, by giving him a target too irresistible to ignore. But if Zahidov could actually make it to Termez with the missile, the variables increased again, because all he would need to do was wait until she, Ruslan, and Stepan were all together in the exfil vehicle, whatever it might be. As long as Zahidov had clear line of sight—and she’d seen the bridge from the air, coming across the border from the British FSB, just three days prior, and there was plenty of clear line of sight—he could park anywhere within five kilometers and easily take them out from there.

She prayed to God that Tower would find Zahidov before Zahidov found his shot.

There was a click on the telephone, and then Lankford’s voice.
“Tara?”

“I’ll make it quick, Chris,” Chace said. “Delivery is set for oh-eight-hundred in zone tomorrow morning. Father is to present himself at your side of the bridge for eyeball verification by big sister’s team, then I take the package across.”

“And where am I?”

“With the father, as planned.”

“Then we have a problem,”
Lankford said.

“What?”

“Kostum told Ruslan about the ambush. He’s afraid his sister will have someone take a shot at him if he comes to the border.”

“It’s his son, he needs to be there.”

“That’s what I told him, but he’s adamant. And he may have a point. All President Malikov needs is one warm body who knows what he’s doing with a rifle and her brother is a thing of the past. He’s planning on staying in Mazar-i-Sharif until we reach him with his son. Kostum’s supposed to ride out with me in his stead.”

Chace chewed her lower lip for a moment. “I don’t like it.”

“Didn’t think you would, but I’ve been trying to convince him to change his mind since he informed me of the decision when he got into town last night, and he won’t budge.”

“Where is he now?”

“With Kostum and some fourteen of Kostum’s men, holed up in a house about twenty minutes from the FSB. You want me to, I can bring him back here, you can try to talk to him.”

“That’ll take you an hour, at least.”

“And he may not come. He’s twitched, Tara. He’s certain Sevara has it in for him.”

Chace cursed softly, then said, “Right, can’t be helped. But he needs to be ready to move as soon as we hit town. And you’ll need to arrange transport to and from the Afghan side of the bridge.”

“Already taken care of it.”

“You’ll need a radio from the FSB as well.” Chace gave him the frequency and the call signs, and Lankford repeated the information without comment.

“I’ll contact you as soon as we’re in position.”
The line crackled slightly, whispering static into Chace’s ear as Lankford took a moment.
“And the other factor that’s now in play?”

“He’s been given a nudge in the right direction.”

“Risky.”

You don’t know the half of it,
Chace thought. “Too late to turn back now.”

“Understood. See you tomorrow.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” Chace replied.