Enemy of the Good

by Matthew Palmer

  “The first piece of imagery shows the wreckage of a helicopter, a Russian MI-8, being hauled on the back of a flatbed from an area not far from Kosh-Dobo in the direction of Bishkek. This may or may not be related to the rumored attack on the convoy.”

  “Why do you call it rumored?”

  “Because I have no actual evidence. Intelligence is an empirical game. If I can’t see it and touch it and fuck it, as far I’m concerned, it doesn’t exist.”

  “So what do you believe?”

  Crespo stabbed a finger at the paper in the middle, another black-and-white image.

  “That somebodies are dead.”

  The second piece of imagery looked to Kate to be a high mountain valley with a stream running parallel to a narrow road. A small group of vehicles was parked in a neat line on the side of the road, each one helpfully labeled by some nameless NGA imagery analysts. The important part of the picture, however, was in the lower right corner on the back side of a ridge that overlooked the road. It was a rectangular patch of ground that was a different shade of gray from the rest. A black arrow pointing at the shape led back to a dialog box that said euphemistically “recently disturbed earth.”

  Kate’s stomach turned.

  “A mass grave,” she said.

  Crespo nodded.

  “Big enough for twenty to twenty-five people,” he said.

  “Do you know who?” Kate asked the question, but she did not want to know the answer.

  “Read the intercept.”

  The piece was written in the dense and turgid style typical of NSA products. One of the challenges of interpreting SIGINT was that people who knew each other well enough to say anything interesting typically spoke in shorthand. An individual conversation was usually a snapshot of a larger exchange that was part of a long-term relationship, often stretching back years. Participants rarely needed to return to square one to explain the context to each other. They understood what they were talking about. It was the eavesdropper who was most at risk for misunderstanding.

  There was even a classic 1970s Francis Ford Coppola movie called The Conversation that revolved around a garbled intercept and the critical difference between “he’d kill us if he got the chance” and “he’d kill us if he got the chance.” SIGINT was far from an exact science.

  No matter how you wanted to parse this particular product, however, it was disheartening and disturbing.

  Kate read one sentence out loud.

  “Chalibashvili told Major (unidentified) to execute the subjects and dispose of the bodies.”

  “That’s the money line,” Crespo agreed.

  “I have to assume that’s the same Chalibashvili who runs the interrogation program at Prison Number One. The one they call Torquemada.”

  “I don’t know another one. He’s an unpleasant little creature. But we only know him as Eraliev’s current torturer in chief. This is unusually operational for him.”

  “What did he mean by subjects?”

  Crespo shrugged.

  “That’s everything we know.”

  “But you think it’s Boldu. That Seitek is dead.”

  “If there even is a Seitek. I’d say the odds are good.”

  “Shit.”

  —

  The club was not crowded. But there were enough people there to make Kate feel a little less like she was drinking alone. It was nine o’clock on a Thursday night, and there should have been a bigger crowd. The drinks were cheap and strong and the music was good, a pianist who was playing mostly jazz standards but who Kate could tell had had classical training. She was on her second vodka tonic. Dinner had consisted of olives and peanuts.

  It was possible, Kate had to acknowledge, that Val was dead, lying in some shallow grave in the Ala-Too mountains alongside Seitek and all hope for a better future for Kyrgyzstan, just another sad, futile casualty in the long and so far unsuccessful war against the Eraliev family.

  She hummed along to “My Funny Valentine,” the vodka tonics already starting to do their job, numbing her brain and her soul. She fished the slice of lemon out of the drink and bit into it, relishing the way the sharp, sour taste cut through the alcoholic fog. Together with the olives and peanuts, the lemon would make for a complete meal.

  Kate was signaling the bartender for another drink when she felt a hand on her arm. She turned to find a woman who until that instant she was afraid was dead.

  “You want to pass on that next drink,” Val said.

  Kate looked her over quickly for some sign of injury. There was nothing visible. Val was dressed casually in slacks and a silk top. Her eyes were shining.

  “How come?” Kate asked

  “Seitek wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  15

  Valentina’s car, a nondescript Japanese hatchback that might have been a Mitsubishi or a Nissan in a dark color that might have been blue or black, was parked a block away from the club.

  “Where are we going?” Kate asked.

  “Off to see the Wizard,” Val said.

  “I won’t ask what road we’re going to follow. I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

  In the green glow of the dashboard, Kate could see Val smile.

  The yellow brick road evidently looped around through Bishkek’s backstreets, because that’s the route Val drove. Kate had enough training in counterintelligence and defensive driving to recognize this for what it was. The “cousins across the river” in Langley called it SDR, a surveillance detection route. Val drove with one eye on the road in front of them and one eye on the rearview mirror.

  “See anything?” Kate asked.

  “Nothing. But I won’t see the one that gets me. The GKNB is pretty good at this kind of thing.”

  “You look like you’ve had some practice yourself. Was I sick the day they taught this kind of stuff at ISB?”

  “We have a guy with some experience that he’s been willing to share. If everything goes right, you may meet him tonight.”

  After half an hour or so of hard turns, switchbacks, and at least one block going the wrong way down a one-way street, Val hit the edge of town and veered left into the dark foothills. About fifteen minutes later, she turned onto a rutted gravel road. A kilometer down the road, she pulled over to the shoulder and killed the lights and the engine. Rolling the window down, she stuck her head out into the cool night air and listened.

  “No lights behind us, and I don’t hear anything but the wind. I think we’re clear.”

  The road ended after another three kilometers at an old farmhouse. Val parked in front. Kate could see other vehicles parked in the shadows of the house and barn.

  Val led Kate up to the front door and then stopped.

  “Kate. Before we go in there, I want you to know that I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I couldn’t. The risks are too great.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She opened the door and they stepped inside, and Kate understood what Val was talking about. Goddamn her. This was not fair. Seven people sat in a rough circle on wooden chairs and benches drinking and smoking. Clouds of cigarette smoke floated up into the rafters. A kerosene lantern sat on a table in the middle of the room, casting a warm yellow light.

  It was a mixed group. Young and old. Kyrgyz and Slavic. Most looked like educated, urban sophisticates, but there was one older man in traditional Kyrgyz dress.

  Kate’s eyes were drawn to one man sitting on the far side of the room. The others were all turned to face him. It was clear to Kate that this was Seitek. He had a slim build and dark hair. He was handsome, with eyes that had the intensity of a hawk’s. He looked to be about Kate’s age, but she knew he was older than she was. By forty-five days. She knew his birthday and his favorite music and the name of his firs
t horse.

  He stood up when he saw Kate. He was tall and Kate remembered how she had had to tilt her head back to kiss him.

  “Hello, Kate,” he said, and the familiar sound of his voice sparked a frisson of excitement in her chest.

  “Hello, Ruslan,” she said.

  —

  Ruslan stepped in close to her and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. His lips were soft against her skin and Kate flashed back on the first time they had kissed. They had been young and inexperienced, but that first kiss had been neither awkward nor furtive. Standing under the old walnut tree that still dominated the courtyard at ISB, Ruslan had kissed her as tenderly and confidently as if they had been longtime lovers. They had been drinking sweet tea at a bonfire celebrating Nowruz, the Kyrgyz holiday that marks the vernal equinox. His mouth had tasted of honey and wood smoke.

  “Thank you for what you did,” he said, switching from English to Russian. “It was a lot to ask.”

  “Yes,” Kate agreed. “It was.” I hope she’s worth it. Kate was pleased that she kept that last thought bottled up. Even six months ago, she might have said it out loud. She was growing up. Cuba had changed her.

  “What you did was a minor miracle. We owe you and I won’t forget.”

  “Consider it a contribution to the campaign.”

  “Oh, we do.” This voice too was familiar.

  “Is that you, Hamid? I didn’t recognize you.”

  The former wrestling champ looked different. He was leaner than he had been in high school, with a new hipster beard and round wire-rimmed glasses. The real change, however, was something beyond the mere physical. Where ten years ago, Hamid had been the prototypical athlete, all swagger and ambition, he seemed now to be reserved, sadder. And to Kate, at least, his eyes seemed to speak to a depth of character that had been lacking in the younger Hamid with his glossy, untroubled surface. Kate understood instinctively that the regime had taken someone from him too.

  “You look the same, Kate. As beautiful and serious as ever. It’s good to see you.”

  Kate knew the Garayev twins slightly, but they had been a few years behind her at ISB. The older man in Kyrgyz dress was Ruslan’s uncle from his mother’s village in Choktal. Ruslan introduced the others, including the Red Army veteran Nogoev and Boldu’s chief of intelligence Murzaev. Kate thought that Nogoev looked a little like Clint Eastwood, square-jawed and flinty-eyed. It was easy to imagine him standing on the back of a tank surveying some sunbaked rill in an Afghan valley and scanning for mujahideen. Murzaev reminded her of Yoda, squat and ugly and wrinkled as a Shar-Pei. He would be easy to underestimate. Kate promised herself that she would not make that mistake.

  “These two are the men who make Boldu different from every failed democracy movement that has come before,” Ruslan explained. “Murzaev has given us an intelligence network that may be smaller than Eraliev’s but is no less skilled. And Nogoev has built an armed wing for the movement that for the first time gives us the ability to hit back. You’re here right on the cusp of real change, Kate. We’re happy to have you.”

  Kate saw from the slightly sour expression on Murzaev’s face that not everyone in the movement shared this sentiment.

  She took a seat in the circle directly across from Ruslan. Val pressed a ceramic mug into her hand. The dark liquid inside had the cloyingly sweet smell of homemade wine.

  “So, Seitek,” she said, taking a sip of the wine to give herself a moment in which to organize her thoughts. “Congratulations on everything you’ve accomplished. I was worried that you were dead. And I am pleased to be wrong.”

  “What made you think I was dead?”

  “I knew you were planning to ambush a prison convoy somewhere on the road to Kosh-Dobo. When I didn’t hear anything from Val after I passed her the transfer order, I went looking through the intelligence. There’s a fresh grave near the highway, big enough for twenty or more. It was reasonable to fear that your raid had not gone well.”

  To Kate’s surprise, Ruslan looked stricken at the news.

  “A grave?” he asked. “You’re certain?”

  “I can’t say too much about the specific intelligence,” Kate replied. “But it was pretty definitive. We’ve had an unfortunate amount of practice spotting mass graves from space over the last decades.”

  “Poor Bogdan.”

  Kate looked quizzical.

  “Who’s Bogdan?”

  “One of the guards. They’re just pawns really. Almost as much victims of the regime as the prisoners they keep under lock and key. I didn’t want any of them to die.”

  “Eraliev could not allow them to live,” Murzaev said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It was always a risk. The regime is vulnerable to ridicule, and if the guards had spread the story of how the great Seitek had gotten the better of them, it would have been another blow to the government’s credibility. I’m frankly not surprised they did it.”

  “I didn’t want it to happen that way,” Ruslan said, and Kate was struck by the depth of sadness in his voice. He was young and the burden he was carrying was heavy.

  “It wasn’t you,” she said. “It was that pit viper, Chalibashvili.” Kate knew that she needed to be careful about revealing information that pointed to intelligence sources and methods. But Ruslan’s obvious need for succor pulled her right up to that line. The young leader of Boldu shook his head resignedly.

  “Someday,” he promised. “Someday soon, he’s going to be made to answer for his crimes.”

  “This is another sin to add to the pile already on the scales,” Val agreed. “But we also need to look forward. Kate, you asked for this meeting and you earned it. The floor is yours. What do you have to tell us? How do you want to use this time?”

  Kate had practiced her speech in her mind. She had even made a few notes. But she had never imagined delivering it to her high school boyfriend.

  “We share the same goals,” she began. “The United States wants to see a democratic transition in Kyrgyzstan and we see Boldu as an ally in this. We want to work with you, find ways we can help.”

  For diplomats, the first-person plural was the default pronoun. Just who exactly “we” were was always a little undefined. This was the nature of the profession. Diplomats did not merely tolerate ambiguity, they needed it in the way plants needed water and sunlight. But sitting here in a farmhouse with a group of people risking their lives for a cause they passionately believed in, Kate felt herself questioning which “we” she really belonged to. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Too close to the charge of divided loyalty that Crespo had leveled against her.

  “It seems to me that the United States and Eraliev also have certain interests in common.” This was Murzaev, and it felt to Kate like the old spy was reading her mind. “Your negotiations on the air base agreement, for example, seem quite . . . advanced.”

  This was the problem with speaking to this group on behalf of the U.S. government. It was the flip side of the values complexity dilemma that her uncle had addressed so eloquently. The United States was big and multidimensional. The American government wanted many things, and if Kate had come here to speak only as a U.S. government official, she would have to own them all.

  “I hear you,” Kate said, and it felt good and natural to slip into the singular. “But I’m here to represent my family as much as I’m here on behalf of my government. You know what my parents gave to the cause. I am as committed to freedom for the Kyrgyz people as my mother was. Or her sister. My uncle sees things here as clearly as his brother—my father. He asked me to reach out to you and offer our help, not because it is another item on his to-do list, but because he cares about this country. And as for me . . .” Kate paused and looked at Val, Hamid, and Ruslan in turn. “You know me. You know why I’m here, and just how much I’m willing to risk to help you win.”

  “How much, Ms. Hollister?” Murzaev asked.


  “Everything.”

  “So what do you propose, Kate?” Val’s question was open-ended, a lifeline she could use to haul herself out of the swamp of Murzaev’s suspicion. She was grateful for it.

  “It depends in part on what you need. We have some experience with this. I have some experience. I can help you with information. I can help you make contact with other pro-democracy groups in the region. I can arrange for material assistance. If you don’t want to take American money—and I would understand why not—there are independent organizations that could step in and provide help. You’ve done amazing things to date, but this is a big lift and you don’t need to carry it all yourselves.”

  The debate this triggered among the members of Boldu’s leadership was intense, passionate, and compelling. They did not seem to mind arguing with one another in front of Kate. Two distinct camps emerged. Val and the twins backing an alliance with Kate and the Americans. Murzaev and—to Kate’s disappointment—Hamid leading the charge against. Ruslan listened to both sides, but kept his own cards close to his chest. As a leader should, Kate thought.

  They smoked foul-smelling Turkish cigarettes and drank the sweet wine and argued. Kate highlighted the way U.S. support had made the difference in the Maidan Revolution in Ukraine, the student movement in Serbia that had brought down Slobodan Milošević, and the long and ultimately successful struggle for democratic change in Burma. Murzaev pointed to Iraq’s Anbar Awakening, the failed “Sea of Green” protests over a stolen election in Iran, and the aborted Denim Revolution in Belarus as examples of U.S. support evaporating at the critical moment, leaving the protestors swinging in the wind, at times with a rope around their necks.

  “You seem like a nice girl,” Murzaev said at one point in a voice lacking all sincerity. “But you are young, and very junior. Even if we decide to trust you, what would prevent your superiors, meaning, let us speak frankly, just about everyone in your government, from changing their minds and selling us to the Eraliev regime for thirty pieces of silver?”