Private Wars (36 page)

CHAPTER 47

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0754 Hours (GMT+5:00)

The windows on the Benz were tinted, and
Riess couldn’t see who rode inside as the minor motorcade passed them, making its way down to the bridge. He’d switched to the camera, and as soon as the last Jeep passed, put the lens back on Tara-not-Tracy, now walking slowly along the access road to the foot of the bridge. She was wearing the same clothes he’d last seen her in, right down—he suspected—to the blood-spattered boots, but with the addition of sunglasses.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Riess asked as he took another two shots, then moved his focus to the Benz, now coming to a halt perhaps ten yards from the checkpoint.

“You know what’s going on,” Tower said.

“What’s with all the code names? Who’s Bagheera?”

“He’s with Shere Khan, on the Afghan side. Take a look across the bridge.”

“And Kaa? Ikki?”

“Just take a look at the Afghan side, Chuck, tell me what you see.”

Riess panned the lens from the Benz, its doors still closed, to the foot of the bridge, then followed its line across the muddy water of the river to the Afghan side, settling his view again on the cluster of newly painted buildings there. He’d maxed the telephoto and could make out figures, but not much detail. There was a fair amount of activity, Afghan border guards at their posts, and an SUV of some sort, what he thought might be a Jeep Cherokee, parked near the gate at the far side of the bridge. A thin black-haired man in civilian clothes was speaking to one of the border guards, another man with him, Afghani from the way he was dressed. Riess could make out a smear of white around the man’s right hand, as if it was wrapped in a scarf or otherwise bandaged.

“I’ve got two men, one of them could be Ruslan if he’s gone native,” Riess said.

“It’s not Ruslan,” Tower told him. “He’s in Mazar-i, lying low.”

Riess lowered the camera slightly, puzzled. “He thinks it’s a setup?”

“He’s got a reason to be paranoid.”

“
Is
it a setup?”

“Yeah, but Ruslan’s not the target.”

“Who’s Ikki?”

Tower grinned. “Uzbek military. I was talking to an Army captain named Arkitov.”

“About?”

“Security. Eyes on the road, Chuck, c’mon. You’re supposed to be documenting this for the Ambassador.”

Riess bit back more questions, brought the camera up once more, locating Tara-not-Tracy again, still strolling toward the Uzbek checkpoint. He snapped off three pictures in quick succession.

“One for the scrapbook?” Tower asked him.

“Bite me,” Riess said. “Sir.”

Tower laughed.

Riess next moved the camera to the bridge, where the border guards had all come to attention. The soldiers in the Jeeps had already leaped down, fanning out to form a perimeter. For a second, it seemed vaguely silly to him, until Riess remembered where they were, and that to the right sniper with the right rifle, one thousand meters could be considered an easy shot to make.

An aide jumped out from the front of the Benz, running around to the passenger door and opening it, and Riess snapped another set of photographs as he watched Sevara Malikov-Ganiev emerge from the vehicle. She’d adopted a more conservative style of dress since ascending to the Presidency, wearing a tailored business suit that Riess guessed was linen, her hair up, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She took the man’s offered hand, and Riess saw that she was holding a small, plush lion in her other. Once she was out of the car, she turned back to help Stepan out of the vehicle.

The boy looked confused, Riess thought, and frightened. Stepan had been dressed in what Riess supposed were his best clothes, very Western, and for a moment he had to wonder if Sevara ordered from Baby Gap or the like. Stepan sported toddler chinos and a blue button-down shirt, and he tugged after him in one hand a backpack, made for a child at least five years older than he, with the image of a Disney character large on its outward side.

As Riess watched, Sevara crouched down on her haunches, setting her free hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking to him, and he could tell she was trying to reassure the boy. She clasped his hand and began walking him toward the bridge.

Riess moved his view back toward the Lada, trying to find Tara-not-Tracy, and saw that she was already halfway to the checkpoint. Her pace hadn’t increased. Three soldiers were heading toward her, and they intercepted her with twenty feet to go, two of the three leveling their weapons at her.

“What the hell . . . ?”

“Easy, Chuck. It’s a search, that’s all.”

Tower was right, and Riess snapped off another half-dozen shots, filling the camera’s data card, as the third soldier searched Tara-not-Tracy, hands efficiently running over her body. He swapped cards quickly, and when he brought the camera back up again, she was continuing toward President Malikov and Stepan, the soldiers following after her.

Tara-not-Tracy slowed, then stopped, leaving ten feet between herself and Stepan, President Malikov, and the foot of the bridge.

“Moment of truth,” Tower said.

CHAPTER 48

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0758 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Chace stopped, keeping her hands loose at her
sides, palms open. She could see that the boy had been crying, and she thought about how often she’d seen him cry, and she sincerely hoped that this would be the last time. He held the oversized backpack by its strap. It only made the child seem smaller, more vulnerable.

She smiled at Stepan, and, without looking away from him, said, “Madam President.”

“You’re the one taking him across?” President Malikov-Ganiev’s English was flawless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

President Malikov tilted her head, issued an order in Uzbek. One of the soldiers, an officer, stepped forward, and she spoke to him again. The officer saluted, then sprinted back to the foot of the bridge, calling out. Chace looked away from Stepan long enough to confirm what the officer was doing, watched as he was handed a set of binoculars and then climbed up onto one of the checkered cement roadblocks to get a better view of the Afghan side.

Chace put her attention back on the child, the boy still watching her warily.

“Hello, Stepan,” she said to him in English. “My name’s Tara. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Beside the boy, President Sevara Malikov-Ganiev tilted her head slightly, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. Then she looked down to Stepan and spoke in Uzbek softly, and the contrast between the voice she’d used to issue her orders to the soldier and tone she used on the boy was stark.

Stepan stared up at Chace, then spoke in response, so softly that, even if it had been in English, she doubted she’d have understood it.

President Malikov turned back to Chace, saying in English, “My nephew says he remembers you. You’re the one who tried to take Stepan and his father out of the country back in February?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re the one that Ahtam tortured.”

Chace looked at President Malikov-Ganiev, trying to read her expression behind the sunglasses, her tone. There was nothing in it one way or another to indicate approval of what had been done to her, or disapproval.

“One of the many,” Chace answered, and her voice was flat.

From the bridge, the officer came jogging back, delivering another salute and then speaking quickly. President Malikov-Ganiev frowned, and the officer stepped back.

“Where is my brother?” the President asked Chace. “Why can they not find him?”

“He’s waiting in Mazar-i-Sharif, Madam President. He was afraid of another attempt on his life.”

President Malikov-Ganiev’s frown went from annoyance to anger, and she hissed softly, cursing. Chace caught the name “Ahtam,” but nothing else.

“So you bring Stepan across, and then you two join my brother in Mazar-i-Sharif,” the President said to Chace.

“Yes, ma’am.”

For a moment, President Malikov-Ganiev didn’t move, and Chace was certain the woman was staring at her from behind her sunglasses. Then she bent back down to Stepan and spoke to him again. Stepan responded, just as quietly as he had the first time, and President Malikov-Ganiev seemed to repeat herself, her voice gaining an edge. The boy looked up at her with wide eyes, then to Chace, and then to the bridge.

The President turned to Chace. She held out the stuffed animal in her hand. “Take him and go.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” Chace said. She took the stuffed lion, and then she reached out for Stepan’s hand.

The boy hesitated, and President Malikov-Ganiev snapped at him, and the anger in her voice was unmistakable. Stepan flinched, then offered Chace his hand, and she took it, felt it small and a little cold in her own.

“It’ll be all right,” Chace told Stepan.

“Go,” President Malikov-Ganiev said. “Go, and never come back. Tell my brother, he never comes back.”

Chace turned away without answering, holding the boy’s hand. After a half-dozen steps, she stopped and took his backpack, slipping her arm through the strap, hoisting it onto her shoulder. She offered Stepan her hand once more, and this time he took it without hesitation.

Ahead of them, the border guards stepped aside, watching them advance. Chace heard the clack of a switch being thrown nearby. Another guard moved to the gates, pushing them apart.

Walking alongside the railroad tracks, Chace and Stepan stepped onto the bridge and began the thousand-meter walk into Afghanistan.

CHAPTER 49

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0800 Hours (GMT+5:00)

It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than
he had hoped.

Zahidov had thought he would get Ruslan and his turd offspring, but Ruslan was nowhere to be found on the Afghan side. That had disappointed him. He’d wanted Ruslan to witness what would happen, to see it with his own eyes.

But then he’d seen the blond woman, the British spy, the woman who had given him nothing but pain, physical and more, and it drove away the disappointment, replacing it with a joy he hadn’t felt since he’d last been in Sevara’s arms. This was justice, and if he had believed in God, he would have offered a prayer of thanks.

Perhaps Ruslan wouldn’t bear witness, but the bitch would, and maybe, if everything went very well and he was very quick, he could kill her, too. For a moment, he even toyed with hitting her first, but discarded the idea. The woman meant nothing to Sevara; it was Stepan who mattered to her. So it had to be Stepan first, and that was fine with Zahidov.

From his vantage point, lying in the dirt a half-kilometer or so from the bridge, just over one and a half kilometers from Afghanistan, watching through the spotting scope mounted on its squat little tripod, he felt no fear. Through his scope he could see the vehicle on the Afghan side, could see the pale black-haired man pacing beyond the closed gate. Every so often the man would stop, then raise a set of binoculars to his eyes, never once looking Zahidov’s way, simply tracking the progress of the British bitch and Stepan across the bridge. Then he would lower the binoculars and resume pacing.

Zahidov moved off the spotting scope, sliding to his right in the dirt, to where the weapon waited for him. He brought it to his shoulder, used the line of the bridge to guide his view, settling the crosshairs between the woman and the small boy. He would wait until they crossed, until they had stepped into Afghanistan.

All he needed now was a little more patience.

Behind and below him, the Mi-24v helicopter he’d bought from Arkitov—and that was how Zahidov viewed it, he had paid a million dollars for it, after all—waited, nestled in the bowl made by this series of hillocks, its pilot behind the stick, waiting for his word. The pilot had made no sound since they’d landed, apparently understanding the seriousness of Zahidov’s undertaking. His presence, a guarantee of escape, reassured Zahidov. Once his work here was done, he would board the helicopter, order the pilot to fly low and fast to Tajikistan. And if the pilot resisted or offered protest, then Zahidov would put his gun against his neck, to end that dispute.

Once in Tajikistan and on the ground, Zahidov would kill the pilot, something that he was sure Arkitov had understood was part of their transaction. He would have to; he couldn’t risk the pilot returning to tell the Americans where he had gone, or worse, have the pilot turn the helicopter’s guns on him.

Zahidov blinked, clearing his vision, then settled again behind the sight. The morning sunlight had been heating the weapon steadily since dawn, and it was already hot to the touch, burning against his cheek, waiting to be used.

The spy was still walking with the boy, walking so slowly, and Zahidov felt an almost unbearable frustration in his chest. They weren’t even halfway to Afghanistan yet, and what patience he had left was swiftly being stripped away.

Pick him up,
he thought angrily.
Just carry him
.

But no, the spy, this bitch who had beaten him, this bitch who had hurt him, mocked him, humiliated him, she walked, letting a two-and-a-half-year-old boy’s legs set her pace. Holding his hand, and every so often her head turned to the boy, and he could tell she was speaking to him, and that infuriated him even more.

Then, to his horror, midway across the bridge, they stopped.

They stopped.

CHAPTER 50

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0802 Hours (GMT+5:00)

“Good God,” Riess muttered, “why doesn’t she just
carry him?”

Tower didn’t speak. Instead, it was the radio that squawked, as if in response, and then a voice came on, speaking in Uzbek, the same voice Riess had heard before.

“Baloo, Ikki, respond.”

Riess came off the binoculars, watched Tower grab the radio, then glare at him. Tower stabbed his free hand out the front of the van, in the direction of the bridge.

“Keep your eyes on them, dammit! I need to know if anything changes.”

“What’s going on?”

“Watch the fucking bridge, Chuck!”

Riess went back to looking through the binoculars, finding Tara-not-Tracy once again, still gripping the boy’s hand, still walking steadily along with him. Their progress was painfully slow, governed by the little boy’s inadequate stride.

“Baloo, this is Ikki, please respond.”

“Go ahead, Ikki.”

“We are in position and holding. Status?”

“Shere Khan and Mowgli are making the crossing, stand by.” Riess heard Tower move slightly. “Where are they?”

“Halfway,” Riess said. “They’re halfway—Shit!”

“What?”

“They’ve stopped!” Riess came off the binoculars again, looking to Tower. “They’ve fucking stopped!”

Tower raised the radio. “Ikki, Baloo. Direct me.”

“North point two kilometers, then east. We will meet you.”

With his free hand, and much to Riess’ distress, Tower turned the key in the ignition, starting up the van. “En route. Out.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Riess demanded.

“What we came here to do, Chuck.”

Tower pulled the gearshift, dropping the van into drive, and they lurched forward, accelerating and turning all at once. Riess felt himself pulled to the left, twisted around against his seatbelt, trying to keep an eye on the bridge.

“We can’t just—”

“Sure we can,” Tower cut in. “What are we going to do—drive out onto the bridge and pick them up?”

“They’re out there, they’re just
hanging
out there!”

“Relax, it’s in hand.”

Riess fell back into his seat, started to open his mouth again, then shut it. She wasn’t moving. Tara-not-Tracy wasn’t moving, and Tower hadn’t at all been surprised she wasn’t.

“It was a signal. Between you and her, it was a signal.”

Tower hit the brakes, hard, and the van slid into a turn, then hopped off the road onto a thread of dirt trail. The road and the van weren’t a good pairing, and Riess grabbed at the dash, trying to keep himself stable in his seat.

“You’re learning,” Tower told him.

Then the van hit a slope that came out of nowhere, and the vehicle pitched forward, and suddenly Riess was looking at two Uzbek Army APCs, and Tower was slamming on the brakes again, slowing them. Even as he did, the APCs started up, and the radio spoke once more.

“Ikki, Baloo. Standing by.”

“Let’s do it,” Tower told the radio.

The APCs rolled forward, accelerating, and Tower slid in behind them, and Riess’ mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together, and then suddenly he saw it, understood why Tower had come. Stepan, Tara-not-Tracy, Sevara . . . none of them had anything to do with it.

“Zahidov,” he said. “Zahidov is Kaa.”

“Bingo.”

“Why’s he here, what’s that bastard doing here?”

“Unless I’m wrong, he’s going to fire a missile into Afghanistan.”

“He’ll start a fucking war!”

“Nah, it’ll just be a messy diplomatic incident. Don’t overstate it, Chuck.”

Riess shook his head, half to clear it, half to try to dispel his disbelief. “Where’d he get the fucking missile?”

Tower, still concentrating on driving the van over the rough terrain, started to answer, but then the van burst over the crest of the hill. Riess saw the helicopter, an Uzbek Army bird, covered with camouflage netting, and past it, the man sprawled on the ground, looking down at the river and the bridge and Afghanistan.

Zahidov turned at the sound of their approach, his expression empty in its confusion. The van came down and skidded to a stop, and Riess was thrown against his door, but he didn’t feel it, because his whole world had become one man, what that man held in his hands.

Zahidov was twisting about, back to face the bridge, and from the APCs, Uzbek soldiers were pouring forth, and there was gunfire, all of it together, and everything happening together. Zahidov flopped and flailed, hit by several bursts at once, his body trying to follow each bullet and instead able to follow none. He fell, and the weapon he’d held in his hands tumbled free.

“Motherfucker,” Tower said, reaching for his radio.