Enemy of the Good

by Matthew Palmer

  Her mother had no ties to America, not even a passport. Her citizenships were Kyrgyz and British. Her father, meanwhile, had no real connection to the United Kingdom beyond a short stint at the London School of Economics, where the two had met. They had lived together in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Tbilisi, and Kiev. But it was Bishkek where they had spent the most time as a family. They had been happy there, for the most part.

  So Kate had made the decision to bury them in Bishkek’s Ala-Archa cemetery. The embassy had helped make the arrangements.

  She had not been back to Kyrgyzstan since the funeral, a rainy November day with a wind that blew in off the steppes and cut through her black cloth coat like a knife made of ice. Officially, it had been a single car accident on a slick mountain road. But Kate never believed that. It was murder. President for Life Nurlan Eraliev had murdered her parents.

  There was no evidence of this crime. That meant nothing. An absence of evidence was not evidence of absence. For Kate, it wasn’t a question of evidence. It was an article of faith.

  Kate thumbed through her dog-eared copy of Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, but she was too tired and distracted to concentrate. Outside, she could see villages scattered in the foothills, the first sign that Bishkek was close.

  The plane began its descent and Kate realized that she had been holding her breath. She was on edge.

  The terminal at Bishkek’s Manas International Airport was just like she remembered: drab, dirty, and vaguely Soviet in both design and execution. At immigration, she followed a sign that said CD, which stood for corps diplomatique, a vestige of another time when the language of international diplomacy had been French, the literal lingua franca. Now, thank god, it was English. In another fifty years maybe it would be Chinese. It was all about power, both absolute and relative.

  The immigration officer on duty stared suspiciously at Kate, comparing her face to that on the passport picture with open skepticism. It was a bit of a stretch to conclude that the Eraliev regime would order a low-level functionary to harass her just for sport as she was coming into the country. But it was not entirely out of the question. There was little enough love lost between Kate’s family and the Kyrgyz government.

  Kate collected her luggage at baggage claim, somewhat amazed that her bags had managed to keep pace with the ridiculous itinerary. Maybe her bags flew direct. It would be just like the State Department to book her luggage on a different—and better—route. The bags probably flew first class as well, or at least business class, waiting in the lounge with a mai tai on the layovers. Kate stretched her back to work out some of the kinks from forty-three hours in seat 36C and its equivalents. She was exhausted, dehydrated, and jet-lagged, the intercontinental trifecta. Kate knew from experience that no matter how tired she was, she would be up at three a.m., unable to sleep, slave to her own circadian rhythms.

  It was easy to spot the embassy representative waiting for her on the other side of customs. She was blond, a shade that looked natural rather than dyed. Her outfit—a pink polo shirt and pressed flat-front khakis—looked straight out of the J.Crew catalog. And she was wearing sensible heels rather than the stilettos favored by the locals.

  But what really marked her as American was her guileless smile. She looked genuinely happy to be at Manas airport on a Sunday afternoon waiting for the latest new arrival. It was the kind of smile that could not be faked. And there were few Kyrgyz or Russians who would even think to make the attempt.

  The final clue, completely unnecessary, was the small cardboard sign she carried that said KATARINA.

  The embassy greeter scanned the steady stream of passengers emerging from customs. She looked right past Kate, who triggered none of the “American” signals that made it so easy to spot fellow countrymen across a crowded room almost anywhere in the world. Kate could have been just another well-heeled local returning from a shopping expedition to Dubai or London. She was tall and slim, pretty in her own way but not striking. Her hair was dark and straight and there was something vaguely ethnic about her features that was distinct from the American midwestern norm. It was her mannerisms, however, that helped her blend in. Bishkek was perhaps the closest thing Kate had to home and she walked and dressed and talked like she belonged.

  Kate was an American diplomat and she loved her country, but it was a somewhat abstract love, more admiration than passion. It was the kind of love that you might have for a relative whose company you enjoyed on the infrequent occasions of family gatherings. Her feelings for Kyrgyzstan were more complicated, colored by the kind of intimate familiarity she did not have with the United States.

  Kate walked up to the bubbly blonde, who continued to look right through her.

  “Hi, I’m Kate.”

  Blondie looked startled, seemingly surprised at Kate’s ability to speak such excellent English. Her smile slipped for just a moment, but she caught herself and it reappeared quickly, a cloud passing briefly over the sun.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Kate replied. She tried to smile back at Blondie with the same kind of high-voltage intensity but knew that she was not quite American enough to pull it off.

  “Welcome to Bishkek.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry to drag you out on a Sunday afternoon.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my pleasure. Not much going on here on the weekend. I’m Gabby, by the way, Gabby Rider. I’m the ECON officer and your cubicle mate. I’m also your sponsor.”

  New arrivals at embassies around the world were assigned sponsors who would show them around town, introduce them to the embassy community, and stock their refrigerators so they would not get mugged on their first night in town looking for a convenience store. Sponsors were assigned by the community liaison officer, or CLO—a position typically filled by an embassy spouse, usually female and always unnaturally chirpy. The CLO was responsible for embassy morale, and the position was predicated on the belief that the psychological impact of intestinal parasites, car jackings, and intrusive surveillance by the intelligence services could be papered over with Halloween parties, children’s play groups, and adult pub crawls. In assigning sponsors, CLOs typically tried to pair like with like. That Gabby was not wearing a ring suggested that she was “the other single woman” in the small embassy fishbowl, and the CLO had decided that they would be friends. It was social engineering on the most micro level and Kate found it irritating.

  She promised herself that she would not take it out on poor Gabby, who was just doing her job.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Looks like you had a rough trip.” Gabby touched her temple in the same place where Kate’s bandage was visible. Underneath were three stitches.

  “I had an accident on my last day in Havana.”

  “Then how about I drive into town. The traffic here can be a bit nuts. The car’s out front, and I thought we’d just go straight to your apartment. You must be beat.”

  Kate’s smile this time was genuine as she contemplated first a shower and then a nap.

  “I’d like that, thanks. I’m looking forward to a little downtime.”

  “You won’t get much, I’m afraid. The ambassador has asked you to dinner tonight at the residence. Just the two of you.”

  Kate shook her head resignedly.

  “Yeah. I thought that might happen.”

  “Are you two . . . ?”

  “Yes.” Kate’s answer was just a little too quick and curt to be polite.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m hoping no one treats me different. I’m here to work.”

  “Of course.”

  Kate was expecting the typical embassy airport pickup vehicle, an armored SUV suitable for urban warfare. But Gabby had brought her own car, a cherry red Mustang GT conver
tible with a white racing stripe.

  “Sweet ride.”

  “Only one in the country,” Gabby said proudly. “Straight up American muscle. An ambassador for the United States in its own right.”

  “V-8?”

  “Accept no substitute.”

  Gabby shot up several notches in Kate’s estimation. Maybe it was shallow to like someone because of her taste in cars, but so be it. Gabby gained another notch when Kate saw that she had opted for the six-speed manual transmission.

  “You do any racing?”

  “As a kid. Karting mostly. Both of my brothers were real gearheads. The older one tried his luck at racing for a while, but could never make a real go of it. He runs a Ford dealership outside of Indianapolis.”

  “So you got a good deal.”

  “The very best.”

  Kate’s bags just fit in the Mustang’s undersized trunk. In an embassy Suburban, the drive into town from Manas airport took almost an hour. They made it in less than half that time, as Gabby pushed the sporty Mustang down the two-line “highway” with reckless abandon.

  It was all familiar to Kate. Change was slow to come in this part of the world. Donkeys grazed in the fields on either side of the road. Small farm stands lined the route, piled high with fresh melons and tomatoes, cabbages, beets, and apples. In the middle distance, the awesome Ala-Too mountain range dominated the landscape.

  Traffic was light on a Sunday afternoon, which was all to the good as Gabby passed overloaded trucks and underpowered Russian Ladas like they were standing still.

  Farmland gave way to an industrial belt around the city and then to residential neighborhoods closer to the center. Kate’s building was on a relatively modern, or at least post-Soviet, apartment block no more than half a mile from the embassy.

  “You’ve got a good building,” Gabby said. “There are a couple of government muckety-mucks who live here, some of Eraliev’s cronies. So the power never goes out. Me, I’m not so lucky. Blackouts once a week minimum.”

  The apartment was pleasant enough, with two bedrooms, a small balcony, and a kitchen with Italian appliances.

  “Anything you need?” Gabby asked after she had helped Kate get settled.

  “I’m good for now.”

  “Great. Dinner at the residence is at seven-thirty. Do you need me to pick you up? I don’t mind.”

  “No. That’s okay. I know my way around.”

  —

  A shower and a catnap made her feel almost human. There was an iron in the embassy “welcome kit,” which included linens and kitchenware to see her through the two or three months it would take for her household effects to make the trip from Havana. Kate ironed out the wrinkles in a black knee-length dress. She used minimal makeup, just lip gloss and enough foundation to hide the darks circles under her eyes. The pearl necklace that she chose as her one piece of jewelry used to belong to her mother.

  Kate took a look in the mirror, running a brush quickly over a last undisciplined strand of hair. Not bad, she decided, as long as she was grading on the jet-lag curve.

  There was a taxi stand a block and a half from the apartment. She had noticed it from the passenger seat of Gabby’s Mustang. It was already dark, but street crime in Bishkek was not a serious problem. There were too many police and the punishments were sufficiently severe to ensure that neither petty larceny nor armed robbery was seen as an attractive profession.

  There was crime in Kyrgyzstan, of course, but it was organized and high-level. At times, it was also somewhat misleadingly called politics.

  It was only a ten-minute ride to the ambassador’s residence. Kate did not have any local currency, which was called som from the Kyrgyz word for “pure,” but the driver was only too happy to accept five dollars. The residence was a Georgian mansion in an upscale neighboorhood set back from the road behind a high fence and wrought-iron gates. The grounds were spectacular, with mature trees, a tennis court, and a swimming pool. The pool was formally considered an “emergency water containment facility” on the theory that the residence was the alternate safe haven for embassy personnel in the event of an insurrection or natural disaster and the huddled masses would need something to drink. The bean counters at State drew the line at luxury, but did not mind paying for security.

  Kate knew the residence well. She had attended scores of diplomatic parties and embassy functions there over the years. The house itself was a graceful building with a wide stone portico and an enormous American flag that hung limply in the windless night air from a pole affixed to the butter yellow façade.

  The guard at the front gate recognized her.

  “Miss Kate. It’s been a long time.”

  “Nine years, Mehmut. It’s nice to see you.”

  They spoke Kyrgyz together, a language in which Kate was almost as comfortable as she was with English. Although written with the Cyrillic script, Kyrgyz was closer to Turkish than to Russian. Language was intimately bound up with identity, and Kate’s mother had made certain from the cradle that she would grow up fluent in Kyrgyz as well as Russian.

  “You look all grown up,” Mehmut said. It was the kind of thing he would not have said to an American officer if they were speaking English. The Kyrgyz language broke down the barriers of formality and rank, however, and all that was left was a sense of family.

  “Not yet,” Kate assured him. “But I’m working on it, I promise.”

  Mehmut touched a button inside the guardhouse and the gate slid open on oiled hinges.

  “The ambassador is waiting for you.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  3

  BISHKEK

  The gravel on the driveway crunched agreeably under her boots as she walked up to the stone stairs at the front of the house. The grounds were lit and Kate could see the clearing where the admin staff would set up the volleyball court for the embassy’s Fourth of July parties and the flagstone patio that was used for more formal outdoor gatherings. There was the oak tree that her father liked to stand under during receptions, out of the sun, with a gin and tonic in his hand, holding court with a rotating cast of friends, colleagues, and contacts. His loss had left a hole in her life that she knew she could never fill.

  The portico with its thick marble balustrade led around to the side of the house. The door opened as she approached. Meryem, the house manager, was there to take her coat, but only after giving Kate a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s so lovely to have you back with us,” she said. “And I am so sorry about your parents. They were wonderful people.”

  “Yes, they were. Thank you for thinking of them.”

  “Always.”

  Meryem showed Kate into the sitting room, with its familiar overstuffed furniture.

  “The ambassador will be here shortly,” she said. “Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

  “A glass of wine would be nice, thanks.”

  Kate sipped the wine and flipped through a coffee-table book of photographs of Kyrgyzstan. It was a beautiful country, and Kate was unreasonably proud that she had been to most of the places featured in the book. There were still a few things she had not seen. Nothing a few months in the country wouldn’t allow her to fix, however.

  “Good god, you look absolutely lovely.”

  The ambassador of the United States of America strode into the room like Caesar stepping onto the floor of the Roman Senate. Confident and in command.

  He was a big man with silver-white hair streaked with a few traces of black. His tortoiseshell glasses made him look scholarly, like an art history professor or a documentary filmmaker. His blue suit was freshly pressed, and the gray-and-red-striped tie he wore announced to those in a position to know that the ambassador was a graduate of the National War College. Her father had had one just like it, and there was enough of a family resemblance between the two brothers to make her
wistful.

  Kate smiled. She was happy to see him. Her uncle had reasons for bringing her here, she knew, reasons that had nothing to do with family ties. He was ambitious and subtle, and he never did anything without a reason. He had moved awfully fast to snatch her out of Havana, as though he had been waiting for the opportunity. But Kate knew that he would not simply tell her what it was. She would have to earn it.

  She rose from the couch and let the ambassador fold her into a massive bear hug. He kissed her cheek in a manner that was both affectionate and possessive.

  “How’s my favorite niece?”

  “Uncle Harry, did my father have any other children I should know about? If not, I believe I am your only niece, which makes that kind of a low bar.”

  “You always did set the bar high, Kate. Just one of the many things I admire about you.”

  Horace “Harry” Hollister was a charming man. He was like her father in that way as well, and it was a quality he both cultivated and appreciated in others.

  “What happened to your head?”

  Kate was wearing her hair loose and she had tried to style it to hide the bandage, but it was still hard to miss.

  “It’s nothing. You should see the other guy.”

  “We Hollisters give as good as we get,” her uncle agreed.

  Kate patted him on the arm affectionately.

  “Thank you for having me to dinner.”

  “I’m sorry to impose on you on your first night in country, and I’m equally sorry that I couldn’t make it to the airport to pick you up. I had to spend the afternoon at the interior minister’s hunting lodge. Frightfully boring man. That’s the way he hunts, I think. He tells stories to the animals until they shoot themselves to make it stop. I came dangerously close to mounting my head on the wall of his trophy room today. God, the things I do for my country.”

  “I’m glad you dodged that bullet,” Kate said with a laugh. “I hate eating alone.”