Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

  “Don’t be a fool, old man,” Vanya shouted. “She’s insurance. Besides, once she’s found by Guliyev’s forces, they will know our location.”

  “I’m still in charge, boy,” Viktor retorted, then struck out a fist at his elder son’s cynical face.

  Vanya reacted violently, catching the old man’s hand in mid-air, and twisting it sadistically until Viktor cried out. Next, he forced his father to the floor, showing the old man who was really in charge.

  Serge broke in, “We have three Honda TRXs in the back. She’s on foot, and we can catch her if we hurry.”

  “But how do you know where she’s headed?”

  “Karun knows the forest. She will find her.”

  “Get the guns out of the car, Serge,” said Vlad. “If we cannot catch her, I’ll kill the bitch, so no one will know where we’re headed.”

  “Okay,” Vanya replied, “We’ll wait here, and try to contact the Armenians. They should be here within the hour.”

  Tali’s breathing rose and fell in short spurts, red-hot and edgy; her heart beat madly, in and out of rhythm. Besides the roar of the ATVs, she could now hear the splash of the deep-treaded tires navigating through the mud puddles and root covered terrain. Then,

  Blue sky!

  Tali unexpectedly stopped to stare at an opening in the forest canopy ahead. Next, she heard what she thought was a car engine coming up from somewhere below. A few minutes later, Tali burst into a clearing, and then glanced over the edge at a 20-foot precipice overlooking a large lake.

  Trapped! Goddamnit!

  Iza yelled, “Stop the car, Ali!” As the Turk patrol car screeched to a halt, Iza grabbed Tabak’s binoculars and stepped outside. As she did, two Azeri military helicopters shrieked overhead.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Just above and to the right about 200 yards, someone is running.”

  Ali jumped out of the patrol car, opened the liftgate, and retrieved Rufet’s old Weatherby rifle. It had an excellent Swarovski scope that he could use to identify the person on the side of the hill. “It is a woman, and she has pursuers.”

  Iza raced over to Ali. “Let me look,” she screamed. Ali held the rifle steady against the roof of the ZPT. “Tali,” Iza said in a hushed tone.

  “Al Hamdallah!”

  “Thank God, indeed.”

  Without warning, there was the report of small arms fire on the hill. Iza saw Tali quickly duck behind a rocky mound.

  “I can see them, Ali. Two… now three ATV chasing after Tali. What can we do?”

  “Iza, give me the rifle. You run to the edge of the lake. See if you can get Tali’s attention. I’ll distract the pursuers.”

  The roof of ZPT provided a perfect mount for Ali to steady the Weatherby. He fired three times in rapid succession, and the ATV riders came to a screeching halt, hopped off, and began searching for the unanticipated sniper. It was a lapse in judgment more experienced thugs would not have made.

  Next, Ali began a detailed scan of the three targets on the ridge. There was one who seemed to be in charge. Tabak, a marksman of the highest order, had decided to target him first. Because he was kneeling beside his four-tracker, he made for a small target. But Ali was determined, so he steadied his breathing, took careful aim at the pursuer’s contorted upper body and fired.

  After a two-count, the cartridge struck the man a little right and a little high on the chest, missing the heart altogether. It was a severe wound and put the man down for the time being. Another man raced to his side.

  In the meantime, Iza had reached the edge of the water, and began shouting, “Tali! Tali! Over here.”

  Because the small arms fire had stopped momentarily, Tali was able to hear the frantic calls from below. She peered over the edge of the cliff at the water. It was crystal clear and deep – her final escape from Serge, Karun, and that forest prison. So, Tali took a half dozen quick steps to the edge and then jumped as far as she could, hoping to get away from the sharp edges of the rock face.

  At that same moment, a second shot rang out from the direction of the ZPT. Ali had made the compensation for the old Weatherby’s pull to the right, and the bullet struck the second man dead center. He was a brutish looking man and died without making a sound.

  Tali’s punch into waters of Lake Goygol was like the crack of thunder, and it took her down far lower than she had thought possible. It seemed like a lifetime of plunging into the cold depths of the lake. Would she ever slow down, stop? she wondered.

  Then she did, and afterward, for some odd reason, she began counting the seconds to the surface: one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, upward and struggling for a few last bits of breath. After what seemed like an age, Tali roared through the surface, gulping great buckets of air.

  Water! This was her element. Refreshed and invigorated, Tali dipped under the surface, and Dolphin kicked away from the direction she thought bullets might come. Another twenty yards and she surfaced again. That’s when she heard the voice from the shore crying out, “Tali, Tali.” She stopped swimming for a moment to look. That’s when she recognized her friend Iza and waved exuberantly at the most welcomed sight.

  While Iza was helping Tali out of the water, Ali was driving the ZPT toward the shore. Within a few minutes, all were on board. Iza said, “Tali, this is Ali Tabak, our friend from Kars, Turkey.”

  “I’d kiss you Ali Tabak, but I haven’t brushed my teeth in two days.”

  “Well,” Ali mused. “At least you’ve bathed.” It was a relief to laugh, if only briefly.

  A moment later, there was earsplitting explosion up-range. “Chinske and the airships attacking the Armenians.”

  “Listen,” Ali whispered, “rocket launcher.” A second afterward, there were two additional explosions. “Air-to-surface weapons; they’re called Mighty Mouse rockets.”

  A distracted Tali was not paying any attention to the distant battle. “Did you kill Kos?” she asked. “I heard you shooting. Did you kill Kos?”

  Ali replied, “One is dead for sure, and the other is wounded. But I don’t know how badly.”

  Tali insisted they check, and after a ten-minute ride up the mountain and another few minutes off-road they found the ATVs. There were three, parked in a protective triangle at the edge of the woods. Suddenly – ping, ping, ping… ping, ping – a round of cartridges splattered against the front window of Ali’s ZPT. “There’s your answer, Tali, still alive,” shouted Ali. At least someone is still alive.”

  “Thank God for the armored vehicle.”

  “Iza, see if you can determine how many are shooting.” Then Tabak jumped out the door and retrieved the Weatherby.

  “Just one. It’s a woman behind the first ATV.”

  “That would be Karun, my kidnapper. Give me a gun,” Tali insisted. “I’ll keep her busy while you circle around.”

  Iza was surprised. “I didn’t know you could handle a gun.”

  “Sixty days in hell changes a lot of things,” Tali said. “I’m never again going to stand by and allow others to run my life.” Iza was impressed by this new Tali Nadirov.

  Two minutes into the firefight, Iza and Tali heard a single shot from a high-powered rifle ring out, and all went quiet. Then they saw Tabak cautiously approaching the small fortress in the woods. Everything was secured, so he stood up and signaled for the women to advance.

  As the two women neared, Tali shouted out, “Is he dead?”

  Vladimir Kos was lying with his back against the ATV engine. “No, Nadirov cunt,” he said, dripping with sarcasm, “I am not dead. This Kos is planning to live forever.”

  Eyes glowering, brows knitted, jaw clenched, Tali countered, “Not likely.”

  “I’ve just got a message from Mo Chinske,” said Iza. “He says Vanya Kos has surrendered,” and after a moment another, “says Vi
ktor Kos is dead… committed suicide.”

  “I didn’t think Vanya could do it,” said Vlad with a snicker.

  Tali had had enough. She handed her pistol to Iza, limped over to Tabak and asked for Rufet’s Weatherby. There was no resisting Tali Nadirov at the moment. “Cartridge,” she demanded. Ali was surprised, but he handed her one of the Nosler hunting cartridges. She loaded it resolutely, and then there was the famous double-click of the bolt-action that places the shell into the firing chamber.

  The last thought that crossed the Kos second son’s mind was, like me now. Then the 180-grain bullet smashed through Vladimir’s skull.

  Tali said aloud, “And that’s the end of the vile beast who had been masquerading on the earth as a human.”

  37

  BTK-57

  It had been almost a year and a half since the Dark Triad coup d’état had failed, Viktor and Vladimir had been justly dispatched from this Earth, and Vanya had been convicted of numerous crimes against the state and sentenced to prison for a seven-year term. One way or another, in spite of all the high-profile security, Vanya had escaped. Some say a large bribe was involved. Whatever the case, Vanya was no longer a threat to Azerbaijan or House Kedar, at least not in the foreseeable future.

  Tbilisi, Georgia – autumn – a time for moving cattle down from the mountain range, gathering grapes from upland slopes for wine-making, and basking in the warm afternoon sun. The people of the Caucasus everywhere were happy to put the hot and humid days of summer behind them. This was especially true in the Georgian capital, where the hillsides had already turned into a grand panorama of maple reds, oranges, and yellows, and the mornings were often frost-covered. For many, it was the most marvelous time of year.

  Tbilisi’s Central Railway Station, however, stood in stark contrast to the fall splendor: an aging relic of raw, cast concrete and the Brutalist architecture of long ago. But that’s where Sam and Iza were boarding the train for Baku. Their younger daughter Elene, a slim dark-haired beauty with coltish legs who threatened to be as tall as Iza someday, was with them. The Mansours had flown in from the States two days earlier to pick up Chira Beggs, and now they were all traveling to Azerbaijan for Conor and Tali’s highly anticipated wedding.

  There is something romantic about overnight travel on a train: the hubbub of finding the right track and boarding, the hectic search for your cabin, and the strident whistling off that all are leaving on a long journey. For Elene, it was magic, but she wasn’t going to say that to her parents.

  Train 57, the newest on the Baku-Tbilisi-Kars route, left promptly at 6:15 pm and headed southeast to the one place in the Lower Caucasus where Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan found a common border. The crossing was less than an hour away, but the customs inspectors there were notoriously slow, so the train would be stopped for at least 90 minutes, maybe more. It didn’t matter. No one on board BTK-57 was in a hurry this splendid October day.

  Sam had secured two first-class sleeper compartments, which had private toilets, face-to-face window seats, two sleeping berths each, and even a television. But it was Russian TV, and none cared to watch Russian propaganda trolls. After they had all settled in, Iza knocked on Chira and Elene’s cabin door, and announced, “We’ve got dinner reservations at seven, so we need to leave in five minutes.”

  Elene replied brusquely, “Izolda, I’m texting Mary back home. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.” Like many her age, Elene was a nervy teenager, testing her boundaries. Calling her mother by her full given name was her way of asserting her place in the world of adults. It was the first time Elene had visited the Caucasus, but naturally, her friends in Carbondale were far more important than her mother’s dinner announcement or her family’s homeland.

  Besides the wedding, the Mansours planned to stay in Baku for the Independence Day festival. There was much to celebrate. October 18th was the day the new Azeri government would be installed. Guliyev had been re-elected president, of course, but there would be a new foreign secretary – one Azreal Kedar – and the first female officer of the Azeri Security Service, Tali Nadirov. At 29 and 28 respectively, they were the youngest to ever be so honored in Azerbaijan.

  Half an hour later, after the family had ordered dinner, they were enjoying coffees, teas and watching a magnificent sunset as BTK-57 picked up speed beyond the city limits. It was the first time Elene had visited Georgia, let alone Tbilisi, and she was curious about everything. She asked, “Chira, why do you live in Georgia?”

  Chira beamed, amazed by such a question from her 16-year-old granddaughter. “When Izolda was a child we lived in Kurdistan, in the farthest northern province of Kars. The Turks and Armenians were always fighting over our land, and when my husband died, I had to move. There was no fighting in Tbilisi, and I had a cousin there. It’s been a good place for me.”

  “But they are Christians,” Elene continued, “Why didn’t you move to another Muslim country?”

  Sam said patiently, “Your grandmother is Alevi, Elene.”

  “Is that different from us?”

  “Alevis are Muslims like us,” Sam replied. “But they are mostly Kurds, who come from eastern Turkey and northern Iraq.”

  Iza eyed her mother and frowned. “The Alevis don’t get along with Sunnis or Shias.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Theological differences,” said Iza, her brow now wrinkled.

  Chira snapped, “You know that’s not the reason, Daughter.”

  “Well, what is the reason, Mother?”

  “It’s culture, not religion,” Chira defended. “Sunnis are mostly Arabs, Shiites are mostly Iranians, and Alevis are Kurds. Our traditional ways are too often at odds… and then there’s the persecution and subjugation, of course.”

  Iza put it in plainer words, “Alevis do not recognize Sharia as God’s word. Chira calls that culture; I call it religion.”

  “Keeping our pre-Islamic culture alive is not a sin, Daughter.”

  Elene was puzzled and looked to her mother for an explanation, “Mary Shoemaker says the Bible is God’s word.”

  “One more misleading Western notion,” Chira Beggs hooted.

  “God speaks to many peoples, in many discrete ways,” Sam said. “Declaring one way better or more accurate than another just leads to trouble.”

  The punch-counterpunch was interrupted when the servers brought the meal. Sam and Iza were both relieved that good food had suspended a tedious argument.

  Twenty minutes after they had finished their meal, the train began to slow down. Iza glanced out at the landscape and said flatly, “The border.” These were new tracks on the Baku-Tbilisi-Kars route and were perilously joined to the Azerbaijan-Armenia war zone.

  “Elene, look,” Iza was pointing to the crossroad, just beyond the station. “See that sign?”

  “Ayrum, 18 km south; Nagorno-Karabakh, 200 km southeast. It has no meaning for me, Izolda… what?”

  “Ayrum is a small village across the Armenian border, but the other, Nagorno-Karabakh, that’s the Black Garden,” said Iza.

  A cynical Chira added, “What the Azeris and Armenians have been fighting over for decades.”

  “Doesn’t look like anything to fight over.”

  Iza snorted, “It’s not.”

  “Then why,” asked the 16-year-old, “do they fight?”

  “Men will fight over whatever,” Chira declared sarcastically. “Pigs, hairy cows, women, whatever. If you have it and they want it, they think it’s worth the fight.”

  Sam started to explain, “Historical issues…”

  But Chira interrupted, “Don’t let him confuse you, Elene. It’s simple. Men get bored,” she raised her eyebrows and pointed at Sam, “and need something to do. To touch a bit of glory is always tempting. Planting potatoes and herding cattle are not matters poets write about.” Sam laughed. Obviously, Chira was not familiar with Dav
id Dill’s Texas cowboy poetry.

  “I’m tired,” Iza said. “I’m heading back to our cabin.”

  The three adults got up, but Elene remained in her seat. “I’m going to stay awhile,” she said. Picking up her iJournal, she flashed it at her mother, “I want to make a few entries.” After they left, Elene set the device down and stared out the window as the last slivers of light disappeared below the western horizon.

  Sam Mansour woke up at six the next morning, expecting to see their final destination, the low rising, saltbush hills of Gobustan. Instead, the train had come to a complete stop, but he wasn’t sure where. So, he dressed quickly and walked down to the dining car.

  “Would you like a table, sir,” asked the steward.

  “Why are we stopped?”

  “A detour, sir,” replied the steward. “There have been several incidents.”

  “Incidents?”

  “We are very near the conflict zone,” he said, “and Armenian insurgents have crossed into Azerbaijani lands. There seems to be some fighting at the Agcabadi Station just ahead.”

  “Yes, I’ll take a table,” Sam replied, “one next to the windows.”

  Half an hour later, Elene burst into the dining car, plopped down next to her father, and asked, “What’s going on, Sam?”

  At first, her father did not reply, his head craning so strenuously against the window pane of the dining car that he knew he would not be understood. He was staring outside at a scene Elene could not yet see. “Skirmish up ahead,” Mansour replied. “I think the fighting has stopped, but I’m not sure.”

  Elene jumped into the seat across from her father and searched for any commotion ahead. Gazing along the length of the train along the tracks in front of her, Elene could see a group of men meandering back and forth, and the station just beyond. “Why are they fighting?” she demanded, if not from God then at least from her father. “Really, Sam, what’s it all about?”