by Leo Gher
Before he could answer, there was a loud hiss of airbrakes releasing and then a second as the train lurched forward bit by bit. Next, the whistle sounded three shorts, a long, and another short, signaling the station ahead of the BTK-57’s approach, however sluggishly. The station master indicated to the engineer that he should move on through without stopping, and so the train proceeded forward. Elene peered out the window anxiously as the train crept along at a snail’s pace.
It was an odd moment, and Elene felt out of sync with the world. A lone fly buzzed past her face as it sought an exit from the dining car. Her attention slipped from the scene outside to the little creature banging over and over against the windowpane, eager to be outside for some reason; but there was no escape for it. “You want out,” she whispered and then cracked open the window latch.
It was an action she quickly came to regret. The fly got out, but the putrid stench of rotting flesh seeped in through the opened window, like an evil ghost.
The train’s forward motion didn’t last long, and Elene sensed that something was wrong. As it neared the station, she could see a man in a military uniform of some kind shouting at the train engineer to stop. Everyone inside the dining car could taste the stench in the back of their throats – rot, body fluids, stale urine, and fecal matter. All searched in vain for a breath of clean air. Maybe it was the reek that confused her, but nothing was clear in Elene’s head. She could see several men picking up large white bags, and then loading them into the back of a truck. Sleeping bags? she wondered. Why would they need sleeping bags? One man was slashing a marker across each one before it was tossed onto the truck-bed.
As the train inched forward, and she could see that there were bodies laid out in front of the truck to be bagged. Elene’s mouth turned suddenly dry, her face pale. She bit her lips, but her eyes could not turn away from the carnage.
“The ravages of war, Elene,” said her father. “That’s the cliché.”
“Is this for real?” she looked on.
As the train slid to a stop, Elene saw two soldiers just below her window carrying a body toward the truck. It was a young man, Elene’s age, and he had a horrific wound. His left arm had been blown clean away, and a large chunk of torso was exposed under his rib cage. What flesh remained on his face had turned gray, and his eyes were open to a sky he would never see again. As gravely as it played on her mind, that’s when Elene knew his soul had moved on, and that all that was left was the pitiless disposal of a boy’s body.
“Is this the reason you take photos, father?” she asked, proud that she kept the trembling out of her voice.
“Sad, sensational, and provocative – all equivalent emotions banging against your brain at the same time,” Sam responded.
“Bela is coming!” Chira rang out. Elene turned to see her grim-faced grandmother staring out the window.
Iza followed on, “Let’s go back to the sleeping compartment. The air is better there, and we can talk.” It was agreed, and they all returned to their sleeping car post haste. But there was little talk. Iza opened her iPad and began searching for news about the incident. Chira picked up her history book and started to read. Sam pulled out his camera and took a few photos through the glass, but he knew the quality would not be up to standard. Elene watched him closely, followed his techniques and mannerisms, and she searched his face, knowing that she had found her future at last.
They would be in Baku in less than two hours.
38
Phantom
Later that morning, as BTK-57 was entering the Hajigabul district along the ancient Silk Road, Jake Moynihan was landing at the Stepanakert airport, the capital of the disputed Nagorno-Karabakh territory. It was just 250 km west of Baku. He had told the Mansours, Tali, and Conor that he would be flying directly from the States. But he had altered his travel plans slightly. It wouldn’t be absolutely direct – there would be a detour to see Lindy Bedrosian. It was something he had to do. He wanted to know how she was doing and how the VDW was fairing after the disaster at Kars. Colonel Davidian would undoubtedly use the misadventure to advance his personal agenda.
Meanwhile, Lindy and her Uncle Mike were waiting impatiently at the terminal’s egress gate for their former VDW comrade to show up. “Can we really trust him, Lindy?” Mike Bedrosian asked.
“Jake has promised me he would always be on our side, and you know that Jake keeps his promises.” It wasn’t unerringly true, of course, but the recently promoted Vartan lieutenant commander had convinced Tadesian and others that they could use this nascent American politician as an ally if or when war came to Armenia.
“I can’t believe that Jake Moynihan is running for the House seat back home,” Mike said. “What does he know about politics?”
“He’s a hero twice over. It’s all you need, and that speaks to the people of the South Side.”
“Yeah,” said Mike Bedrosian, “redistricting has made a big difference. It’s no longer a minority-dominated district.”
Lindy answered back, “Sonia says he has a chance with more Polish and Irish populations now added to Illinois’s 1st Congressional District.”
“Sonia?”
“Yeah, Sonia,” Lindy snarked. “You remember your wife, right?”
“It’s that Nation of Islam thing,” Mike groused. “The Farrakhan crowd has had the welcome mat out for years, and the Black Muslims moved in by the thousands. People are frightened.”
“We’ll see.” At that juncture, Lindy turned her attention to the crowd coming their way and recognized the dark hair and broad Irish forehead of Jake Moynihan popping above the rest. “There he is,” she announced. But this was a different looking Jake Moynihan. He was wearing a custom fit black blazer, gray slacks, and a white dress shirt, but no tie. He had a garment bag draped over his shoulder and was carrying a briefcase. But what knocked Lindy for a loop were the shoes – charcoal gray suede loafers. The tanker boots were gone – a new Jake Moynihan, indeed!
“Jake,” Lindy shouted out, “over here.”
Moynihan hesitated for a moment, then smiled no holds barred. When she offered an embrace, Jake set his attaché on the ground, put his arm around her waist, and then kissed her unreservedly. “I’ve been considering that for a year,” he said.
Taken aback at first, Lindy stared at Jake quizzically, then responded, “That took a year of considering?” Jake beamed at her good-humor.
“Car is this way,” Mike grunted.
Jake nodded and acknowledged his old rival. A moment later, they were off to the Stepanakert airport auxiliary barracks. It was a half-hour away, and that’s where the Vartan Defense Wing had been stationed ever since it had entered Armenia.
Thirty-six hours earlier, after the firefight at Agcabadi had come to an end, the lieutenant of the Azeri unit was congratulating his second in command for holding off the Armenian invaders. “How many casualties, sergeant?”
“Eleven, sir,” replied the man. “Four dead and seven wounded; Quliyeva is critical, bad chest wound.”
“And the enemy?”
“We have counted 16 dead so far,” said the sergeant. “Looks like they have gathered up their wounded and scurried back into no man’s land.”
That wasn’t true, exactly. There was still an Armenian presence, just not a human one.
None of the Azeri military personnel recognized the low hum of the Phantom-7 drone as it surveyed the scene just beyond the Agcabadi train station. The Zenmuse X7 camera lens zoomed in on the defense parameter at the outskirts of the village, transmitting vital information to headquarters about the defensive tactics employed by the Azeri unit. The DJI Phantom 7 was the best surveillance drone on the market. It was also a smart-flyer, equipped with an intelligent flight system, which included a satellite positioning system and enhanced visual capabilities.
The man operating the drone was a member of the Vartan Defense Win
g, and he had been dreaming of this moment for months. He understood full well what the Azeri lieutenant did not: the purpose of the incursion was exploratory, not a confrontation to take ground. Tadesian and Lindy would not let the failure at Kars be repeated. Force protection would be assured in any future battle between the Armenian and Azeri troops.
As the camera got closer, a row of houses came into focus – stone and concrete, two stories – the enemy had stored supplies there, and there was a sniper’s perch. The drone orbited, allowing the operator to explore every angle inside. There was a soldier lying three feet from the window, dead, his limbs folded at awkward angles, his head twisted in such a way that no one could conclude that he might be sleeping. The drone paused; a moment of insight, or perhaps just data collection? Who will come for him? Who will weep for him? Who will pray him forward?
“Move on,” came the command. And the Phantom-7 hovered at the window opening to view the landscape beyond. Across the street, there was an apartment building. Laundry was fluttering in the breeze outside the windows, so it was not possible to get any view of what was happening internally. “Move on,” repeated the voice from headquarters.
For the next half hour, the VDW operator continued mapping the village fortifications. “Mostly dry holes,” the operator reported.
“We’ve got what we need,” said headquarters. “Vulnerabilities have been mapped. Return to base.”
That evening, after supper at the VDW mess hall, Lindy invited Jake to her private headquarters. It wasn’t much, just a sparse, two-room apartment with a personal bath. The sitting room, however, had two lounge chairs and a table. Tonight, sitting on the table, was a bottle of Jameson and two whiskey glasses. Jake smiled, “You remembered.”
“Well, it’s the best I could do for an old boy-toy.”
Jake beamed, “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
“For leaving us at Ninots?” She sneered. “Don’t be too sure… and don’t read too much into this bottle of whiskey, Moynihan.”
Jake had really wanted to talk about their lost relationship, but Lindy’s command was something he couldn’t ignore.
She began pouring a generous dram into his glass. Jake added a splash of water, and then sat back. Lindy had changed. She had picked up weight – muscle mostly – and cut her hair, leaving a short bob with a smart side-swept bang. Then she changed the subject. “Tell me about this run for Congress, Jake. What made you decide to take up politics?”
“It was Marty Mills and others at Kasey’s place,” Jake replied.
“Oh yeah, the South Side watering hole.”
“Yeah, Marty gave me Mike’s former job as FAA recruiter.”
“Doesn’t explain the political connection.”
“Right,” Jake acknowledged. “Lots of guys recognized me from that Crow thing. It was so long ago.”
“Two years have come and gone,” Lindy reflected.
“I thought they would have forgotten, but no.”
“Nobody forgets something like that, Jake.”
“One of the guys was a Chicago alderman,” he continued, “and the Democrats were looking for somebody new in the Illinois First. I had lots of success recruiting; they thought I knew how to speak to South Siders.”
Lindy put forward the real question, “Can you win?”
“Some think so. We’ll see.” Then he added, “The election is next month. I’ve got to get back soon.”
Unexpectedly, there was a loud fist-bang on the door. “Bedrosian!” Without waiting for an invitation, an Armenian army regular burst into the room. “We’ve got a mess,” he shouted. Moynihan knew the man from the Carpathian rendezvous: Colonel Davidian, the liaison officer of the Armenian Defense Force. Jake remembered him as the man who always opposed the VDW forces for interfering with professional military planners.
“What’s the problem, Gregir?” Lindy demanded.
“Your recon mission at Agcabadi has come to a bad end,” he shouted, “Twenty plus dead, twenty plus wounded!”
“But did they get the information?”
“VDW reports yes, but the Azeris are closing and re-enforcing the border everywhere!”
“The information is all that counts,” Lindy insisted.
“Ground counts too,” Davidian huffed. “Toys on the wind mean nothing!”
Bedrosian replied, “We have everything in place, sir.”
As the Colonel retreated to the door, he shouted back, “Force protection lieutenant commander! Remember your mistake at Kars, and get to your forward position now!” Then he left, slamming the door behind.
“I don’t like that guy,” said Jake. “He is out for himself.”
Lindy put down her glass. “Listen, Jake. He is right about one thing. We’ve got to protect the drone fleet. It’s our tactical advantage against the Azeris if this comes to war.”
“Where?”
“Fifty percent of our forces, more than 100,000 drone strikers, have been deployed to a valley position on the front called the Sotk Pass.”
“I don’t trust Davidian, Lindy. You’ve got to watch your back.”
“You have to leave right now,” she replied. “Otherwise, you’ll never get through.”
“But we have issues to settle,” Jake insisted. “Personal issues.”
Lindy looked into Jake’s eyes and saw truthfulness. “Later, Jake,” she said gently. “We’ll have to take it up later.”
“This… Conor and Tali’s wedding should take no more than a week,” he replied. “Then I will return, and we can settle the matter.”
“Talk, Jake,” Lindy said, a little more firmly now. “We can talk.”
Jake was pleased. He had a plan and a promise. Outside, a convoy of military trucks was waiting.
Two hours later, the convoy arrived at the Sotk Pass crossing. Lindy and Jake got out of the Mercedes-Benz G-Class SUV. She would go no further. Mike would take Moynihan across the border to Ganja, where he would board the night-time BTK-57 to Baku.
Once again, Jake took Lindy in his arms and embraced her tenderly. But he did not kiss her as he had earlier; it would be an embarrassment before the troops. “One week,” he said. “I see you again in one week.” She nodded and quietly waved.
Then he walked over to join Mike in an unmarked car. But before he entered, he turned back for one last look. She stood as a phantom, boldly framed against the bright lights of the military entourage.
39
Toykhana
“How long have you been working for the Kedars?” Iza asked.
The limo driver was an old friend, Ali Tabak. “I stayed on after Tali was safely reunited with the family. You remember, after our big adventure at Lake Goygol.”
Iza shook her head with a booming hoot, “Big adventure, indeed.”
Elene, the other passenger in the car, was perplexed, “What big adventure, Iza?”
“You remember when I visited Chira last year,” Elene concurred by blinking and nodding, “well, there was a side trip. Ali and I were asked to find and rescue Tali, who had been kidnapped by the Kos clan.”
Ali cackled, “That one rescued herself.”
“True enough. We were just facilitators.”
Ali continued his story: “With Rufet and Rayna dead, the Kedars needed personal assistants for Conor and Mira, so I got the job of helping Conor while he was still in recovery. Been here ever since.”
The Mercedes-Maybach began slowing as the Zümrә Estates came into view. Elene pointed at the marquee that had been erected in the open space just outside the compound. She didn’t understand the Azeri signage. “It’s called the toykhana, Elene,” Iza said, “It’s the traditional Azeri way of announcing a wedding.”
Elene was unsure of her mother’s explanation. “I thought you said Conor and Tali were progressives and didn’t care for the old ways.”
Tabak glanced into the rearview mirror and waggled his head a tad. “The groom and the bride are very much an enlightened couple, Miss Elene,” he replied. “but they are also celebrities of the Shirvan, and this wedding ceremony is a national event for all the people, not just a private affair. There had to be some compromises about old ways and the new.” That’s the way Ali understood it. It wasn’t every day that the foreign secretary and the first female officer of the Azeri Security Service got married, after all.
As they turned onto the access road of the compound, Elene noticed the two television vans. They had been stationed there ever since the marquee announcing a wedding had been erected. When the black limo with official plates pulled up to the entry, several camera crews rushed forward. President Guliyev and other dignitaries of the recently installed government were scheduled to arrive anytime. Elene was amused.
Then, just beyond the Zümrә gate, she saw the two armored cars and the four soldiers, who were inspecting every vehicle that entered the compound. “Is something wrong, mother?”
Mother, Iza thought, that’s different. “What do you mean, Elene?”
“The soldiers,” she asked, “Why such security just for a wedding?”
Iza replied, “President Guliyev is coming,” but she knew full well that her daughter would not be satisfied with such a flimsy explanation. She had her parents’ journalistic instincts. “The country is on alert. Armenia has upped its war games, and everyone is… on alert.”
Ali drove past the professional building and parked the charcoal gray limo in front of Conor’s apartment. Once Iza and Elene stepped out, they headed for Conor’s azalea garden, where two large tents had been erected – as tradition held, one was for the women and the other for the men. The day’s ceremony would center on two old-fashioned events: first, the menfolk would visit the tent of the womenfolk to inspect the dowry, and afterward, if every protocol had been followed suitably, the marriage proposal would be accepted by the mother.
