Hide and Seek

by Jeff Struecker

  J. J. turned to the woman. She looked thirty-five or so. Tears covered her cheeks. He could see a bruise forming on each check and J. J. wished he’d dumped the man harder. His eyes moved to the children who huddled next to their mother. They were twins with the same light hair and the same terror draped on their faces. Mother pulled them close. Their expressions reminded J. J. of how he must appear to them: armed to the teeth, helmet, face covered in a black mask. J. J. wanted to pat the children on the head but figured they had been manhandled enough by strange men.

  Taking a step back, J. J. gave a gentleman’s bow and motioned to the car. The woman moved from the wall where she had been pinned and took a trepidation-filled step. J. J. moved away, put enough distance between them to help her feel safe. Crispin and Jose did the same.

  She put the car in gear. J. J. waved. The children waved back. He wondered if his kids would be that polite and that brave.

  Jose stepped to J. J.’s side. “We did a good thing, Boss.”

  “Yes, yes we did.”

  Jose chuckled. “Did you see our baby? I’m gonna have to be careful how much I tease him. Wow, what a move.”

  “I’m not the baby of the group,” Crispin said.

  Jose ignored him. “I think we’ll have to give him a new nick. Maybe Hawkeye 2.0.”

  “I like it,” J. J. said.

  “I don’t,” Crispin said, but his voice carried a tone of good humor.

  “Let’s go. There’s more bad guy butt to kick.”

  CHAPTER 26

  BISHKEK CHIEF OF POLICE Emil Abirov arrived at the front gate of the Transit Center at Manas Air Base ahead of the approaching crowd, but not by much. He traveled in the police helicopter which landed on the commercial side of the airport, an area separate from the portion used by the American military. He arrived after giving difficult advice and making hard decisions.

  His resources were limited and the danger greater than he could recall, even worse than the 2010 riots. Crowds were moving on key government facilities, the American Embassy, the White House, and several key business centers. Already several police cars were set on fire and at least three military vehicles. Eight policemen were wounded, two of them seriously, and Abirov had no reason to believe the worst had passed.

  The smoke-darkened sky made Bishkek seem more like purgatory, and he feared purgatory would become hell. Even here, north of Bishkek, the air stunk of smoke. He wondered how many toxins he had inhaled over the last few hours.

  A police cruiser waited for him near the helipad to take him around to the American-leased portion of the airport to the access road used to enter the military compound. Abirov was in a bind, stuck, as his grandparents used to say, between the devil and the deep blue sea. On the one hand a city to protect, but the airport also fell under his jurisdiction. No matter where he was, he felt he should be somewhere else. When at the White House, he wanted to be on the streets with his men; when on the streets with his men, he wanted to be overseeing the protection of the Manas International Airport. His forces were spread too thin. He did not have enough men to secure all the areas in need of police protection.

  The army was proving useful but they were tasked with protecting hospitals, key government buildings, and now the airport. It was made clear that only a few resources would be used to protect the American portion of the base. It was a political decision no doubt influenced by Prime Minister Dootkasy. The thought of the man turned Abirov’s already gymnastic stomach.

  Abirov slipped into the front seat of the police car. Jantoro Kalyev, assistant chief of police, was behind the wheel. The dome light revealed a man who had aged five years since breakfast. Jantoro had been an officer for twenty-five years and was two years from retirement. The years of police work sped his aging. His head seemed too thin, his hair too white, his eyebrows too unruly.

  “Could you see the crowds from the air?” Jantoro sounded grim.

  “Yes, I estimate they are twenty minutes away. Two groups. I estimate fifteen hundred. Maybe more.”

  “Will we be getting more men from the army?”

  “No. Not on this side of the airport. Everything around the airport is secure. We are to maintain the crowd a hundred meters from the Americans.”

  The car moved down a side street near one of the runways. Abirov could see armed American soldiers forming a perimeter around the military aircraft.

  Jantoro shook his head. “We do not have the manpower for that. A crowd the size you mentioned will easily run over us. Does the order not to shoot still hold?”

  “It does. There are still those who think police and military opened fire on civilians in 2010. The president wishes to avoid that.”

  “Would the president like to come here and help us?”

  “That’s enough. We do as we’re told.”

  “Yes, sir. My apologies. I’m a little tired.”

  “I’m frightened too, Jantoro.” He stared into the near dark and wondered when he would see his home and family again. “I want you to pull our men back. We will set up a line fifty meters south of the entrance. The Americans will undoubtedly have men along their fence and at the entrance. Since communication with them is limited with the phones down, I have brought one of our radios for them to use. Have you seen soldiers at the base?”

  Jantoro gave a brief nod of his narrow head. “They are staying out of sight, perhaps to avoid agitating any protesters who show up at the gate, but I have seen vehicles being moved in place and armed troops taking up positions behind buildings closest to the front gate. They have also moved two large trucks across the road. I think they expect the crowds to rush the gate.”

  “It is wise to be cautious.”

  The drive ended a few minutes later with the car stopping at the front gate. A pair of large men in U.S. Army uniforms and carrying automatic weapons stood at the entrance gate. Abirov had no doubt other eyes were on him. He was glad he was in uniform.

  He approached the men. “I am Chief Emil Abirov.” He hoped his English would be clear enough. “I would like to speak to Colonel Weidman.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. The base is closed.”

  Abirov conjured a smile. “Yes, I assumed that to be the case. I still need to speak to him. He needs to speak to me.”

  “Sir, the base is closed.”

  “There are fifteen hundred people a short distance away. Your commander might want to hear that from me rather than from the mob. Unless you want to make that decision for him.” Abirov didn’t blink. One of the soldiers did.

  “Wait here, sir.”

  The soldier stepped to the guard building. Abirov could see him making a call on a field telephone. He returned a few moments later. “The colonel asked if you would mind waiting a few moments.”

  Abirov chose not to comment. Of course, he would wait. It was why he approached them.

  It took less than five minutes for a uniformed man to arrive in a Humvee. He was accompanied by two well-armed military police. Colonel Weidman walked with authority and determination, his face blank of all expression. Abirov steeled himself for verbal assault. The man had to be angry. He was facing a base closure under his watch. A bad way to end a career.

  “Chief Abirov.” Weidman held out his hand. “I’m sorry for the delay. It seems my attention is needed in many areas today.”

  “As are mine, Colonel. I am under orders of the mayor of Bishkek and our president to provide what aid I can. As you may know, riots have erupted throughout our country, the worse being here. With the telephone system down I thought it best to bring you up to date and offer you this.” He offered a handheld radio.

  “I’ve been exchanging e-mail with the president’s office.” Weidman kept his hands to his side.

  “Yes, sir. I am aware of that. The radio is so you can monitor our transmissions.” When Weidman hesitate
d, Abirov sighed. “Colonel, it is just a radio, perhaps a little more primitive than you’re used to, but it is still useful. I assure you, it is not a bomb.” A second later he added, “With all due respect, sir, if I were here to assassinate you, you would already be dead. Do you agree?”

  “I do.” Weidman took the radio.

  “Thank you, sir. Now, I need to give you some information . . .”

  KAZIMIR VILNOV CARRIED A sign calling for the expulsion of “American Squatters.” Other men and women carried signs broadcasting similar sentiments, some more critical that others. Some started a chant, “Ugly Americans leave our beautiful home.” Privately, Kazimir agreed. Nothing would please him more than to see the Americans take their war planes and arrogant soldiers to some other part of the planet. It was an opinion he kept to himself. It was inappropriate for a Bishkek police officer to voice such ideas. The sign he carried was part of his cover. Putting plainclothes officers in the midst of protesters was a tried-and-true technique to monitor events from inside and to identify instigators. Protesting was one thing; violence was another.

  “Ugly Americans leave our beautiful home.” He chanted loud enough to be heard by those around him, but not so loud he couldn’t hear what else was going on. Hearing was less useful than seeing. He scanned the crowd, frequently moving from one part of the mob to the other. He eyed their behavior, their dress, their expressions. Mostly he watched their eyes.

  Protesters tended to look in the direction they were walking or at the people by their side. If a leader was present as in this case—a young man with a megaphone at the front of the pack—most eyes gazed his way. Terrorists and criminals shifted their eyes frequently, often looking at cohorts who might be some distance away.

  Clothing was important too. Summer in Bishkek was mild, even at night. There was no need for long, heavy coats. Briefcases, sports bags, and the like were always a concern.

  So far he only saw average citizens, unemployed workers, teenagers looking for excitement to inject into their lives. Mothers carried small children. The crowd was a cross section of what Kazimir saw when the city was normal and quiet.

  There was nothing ordinary about tonight. That protests occurred was no surprise to him or anyone else in law enforcement. They trained for it for several years. Every officer had a role. Some of his compatriots were in uniform and very visible. That was by plan. Others worked undercover. There were three other officers in this crowd and a dozen more spread throughout those marching on the government buildings. Far too few for his liking.

  A motion to his right caught his eye: just a woman repositioning a toddler on her hip. Another motion to his left: two men in a scuffle over their place in the queue. Bystanders pulled them apart before fists could be clenched.

  A noise behind. Someone brought a long plastic horn and was blowing it like a fan at a soccer game. Kazimir returned his gaze to the woman with the child. She was young, early twenties he guessed. The child couldn’t be older than three. The same age as his daughter. Her image flashed on his mind as did those of his wife, his six-year-old son, and his widowed mother who lived with them. He would have preferred to be with them rather than in a mob that seemed to be closing ranks around him, making it hard to breathe.

  A short distance down the road the yellow glow of high-pressure sodium lights used by the military base diluted the darkness. They weren’t far from the south entrance. Another hundred yards and he could see the flare of flashing red lights. The uniforms were ahead of them.

  The mob slowed and Kazimir’s heart quickened. Push just met shove.

  Again his gaze danced around the group. In a marching crowd like this, new faces appeared every few seconds; suspicious ones could disappear in a moment. The angry men were side-by-side again, this time walking like old friends. Ideology could make friends of enemies and enemies of friends.

  The mother held her position but two other mothers with children on hips joined her. Between angry shouts they smiled, enjoying the excitement the march brought to their home-bound lives. Kazimir knew what it was like to live with a woman who felt chained to the home by children—

  A new face. Bearded. Long hair like an old Russian mystic. While others kept their faces lifted, this man kept his head down. He stared at the ground, alone in a crowd of over a thousand. He didn’t chant. Did not pump his fist in the air. More disturbing, he wore an overcoat. Stains and several unraveling seams said the coat was old, older than the man who owned it.

  “Did you hear?” A man in his forties with a face scarred by the sun touched Kazimir on the elbow. “They have brought in a fire truck. Maybe from the air base. We might get wet.” He smiled, showing a gap where two incisors had been. “Pass the word on.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I will.”

  Kazimir regained sight of the man in the overcoat. He was moving forward, elbowing his way through the crowd.

  He reached inside the coat with his right hand.

  Gun? Worse, a bomb?

  The man shoved an elderly woman to the side. That settled it for Kazimir. He dropped the sign and pressed his way forward, trying not to draw the vocal ire of the protesters. He needed to surprise the man.

  He failed.

  “Don’t push!”

  The suspect looked behind him and his expression told Kazimir he had been spotted. The man drew his hand from the coat and Kazimir saw a cylindrical object.

  “Bomb! Bomb!” Kazimir shouted loud enough to hurt his own ears. No time to think. No time to form a plan. No chance to question his actions. Kazimir sprinted forward, the image of his family in mind.

  Screams poured from the front of the group and rolled over the heads of the crowd. An unfamiliar sound. People began moving back. A careful step or two at a time then with a quicker pace.

  Kazimir pushed against the human tide. So did the overcoat-man.

  “Bomb! Bomb!” Kazimir knew there would be a panic but his warning might save a few lives even if it caused a few injuries—

  Something white flew through the sky then fell on the crowd. It was cool and slimy.

  He pressed forward, closing the distance.

  The slime continued to fall but in greater amounts until it covered persons and pavement. Kazimir slipped in the material, falling to a knee, driving it into the road and launching fiery bolts of pain up his leg and back. He pushed to his feet and continued the pursuit, working his way between fleeing protesters.

  The man with the cylinder in his hand fell to the ground hard, his feet unable to get traction in the goo. He pushed to his feet, turned, and raised the object over his head.

  Kazimir plowed forward, leaping with arms outstretched but unable to get the position necessary to launch himself as high as he needed. Instead of reaching the suspicious object he had to settle for the man’s throat.

  Both tumbled to the ground as a hundred pairs of feet raced past. His momentum landed Kazimir on top of the bomber. He was crawling over the man’s frame before the fall was complete.

  He let go of the man’s neck.

  He pinned the arm with the cylinder.

  He stretched for the object: a metal cylinder with a red button. It reminded him of a spray can, but a kind of spray can he had never seen before.

  The man struggled to get a finger to the button.

  “Drop it! Police. Drop it!”

  The man continued to struggle. He brought a left fist to the right side of Kazimir’s face but his position on the ground, surrounded by slippery foam, deprived the punch of any real power. He tried again, but Kazimir ignored it as he did the first. He was focused on one thing: keeping the man’s finger off the red button.

  Kazimir had no sense of time, or of pain, or of his own life. The button. Just the button.

  One finger touched the top of the can, then the side of the trigger, then the top of the button.
Kazimir took hold of the finger and pulled it back and then back more until he heard the knuckle snap.

  A scream.

  Kazimir twisted the broken finger, ignoring the howls of pain. Then he yanked as hard as his position would allow and it allowed plenty.

  The cylinder dropped and Kazimir snatched it.

  A wave of white, fire-retardant foam swept over him.

  CHAPTER 27

  AMELIA WONDERED IF HER pounding heart had enough power to break her sternum. It was as if the muscular organ was trying to make good its escape. Jildiz pushed herself to a sitting position on the sleeper cab mattress. Pulling her knees to her chest, she remained quiet just as Amelia told her to do. Still she wheezed and, to Amelia’s heightened senses, it sounded as if the woman had a three-pack-a-day habit.

  She heard something else. The sound of the rescue inhaler. Amelia worried about an overdose but she couldn’t make Jildiz take back the inhalation of medication. It was done now and that egg couldn’t be unscrambled.

  The cab jerked to the right several times as if someone were trying to rip the door from the hinges. Then a voice spoke in Kyrgyz, “Look. The wiring is hanging low.”

  Amelia cringed. She had pulled a portion of the wiring harness from beneath the dashboard in a useless attempt to figure out how to hot-wire the vehicle.

  “It is old. What do you expect?” A different voice. Older. Harsher. Muted by the metal frame of the truck cab.

  “No one would leave it that way. It would be in the way. We should check inside. The key to the back must be in there.”

  “That doesn’t matter. We are not here to loot. We are here to find the women. I don’t want to explain why they got away when you’re holding stolen goods. It would not go well.”