Enemy of the Good

by Matthew Palmer

  “Are you so certain of their loyalty?” Kate asked. “Is Eraliev?” There was just enough insinuation of inside information to catch Larssen’s attention.

  “Is that really a question, or do you know something?”

  In a heartbeat, the ambassador had transitioned seamlessly from would-be Don Juan to gossipy fishmonger’s wife. Just about anywhere in the world, America’s diplomatic service had a well-earned and carefully cultivated reputation for being among the first to know vital information. The Scandinavian services, among others, actually trained their junior diplomats to make friends with their American colleagues, who typically had access to host government officials well beyond what they could hope to achieve. Now, Larssen sensed that Kate knew something that would be useful to him, and he wanted to have it. This was how the game worked.

  “Well,” Kate began carefully. “I understand that there have been questions raised about Talant Malinin’s ambitions.”

  “The chief of the Special Police.”

  “None other. Malinin has position and influence, but like all of them he’s hungry for more. There are rumors of a palace coup, and Malinin reportedly has designs on the top job himself. Eraliev may have more to fear from his own Praetorians than from the democrats.”

  “And what’s the president’s likely response to this threat?”

  “A purge, I would expect. An ishembi night massacre.” Kate used the Kyrgyz word for “Saturday.” It was a diplomat’s joke, layered and complex and requiring both a knowledge of American history and an understanding of the Kyrgyz language. That it was not especially funny was irrelevant. Kate was flattering the ambassador’s intelligence. He likely knew that, but he liked it nonetheless.

  A few minutes later, the ambassador took his leave. He needed to mingle with the guests. He shook Kate’s hand, but his attentions were considerably less focused than they had been when she had walked through the door. The only thing a typical diplomat cared for more than sex and booze was brokering information. And Kate had given him something irresistible.

  Over the course of the next hour, Kate found a few more marks with whom to drop hints about Malinin’s sharpening the long knives. She was confident that Larssen was doing the same.

  Toward the end of the evening, as Kate was out in the garden sipping too-sweet chardonnay from a clunky IKEA wineglass, a somewhat drunken official from the Kyrgyz Ministry of the Interior confided in her that he had heard rumors about the chief of the Special Police being under surveillance for suspicion of disloyalty. Kate listened to him with the open admiration he expected from a young woman as “one in the know.” If he thought that this display of insider knowledge was going to result in sexual conquest, however, he was to be disappointed.

  Kate had everything she needed. A government official had told her something that was simultaneously salacious and relevant to American national interests. She had an obligation to report it to Washington in a front-channel cable.

  Even if the cable was never sent, it would be read by Brass, among others. And what the defense attaché knew, Crandle was certain to learn about as well. And what Crandle knew, Kate had increasingly come to suspect, would eventually make its way to the ear of Eraliev, President for Life of the Kyrgyz Republic.

  21

  The Swedish ambassador made an excellent stalking horse. And the story about the chief of the Special Police falling under suspicion for organizing a palace coup was sufficiently titillating and credible that Kate knew it would spread like kudzu through the diplomatic community. With each retelling it would pick up a new detail or embellishment, often keyed to highlighting the importance or acumen of the individual telling the story. And like a game of Chinese whispers, there was no knowing for certain what would come out on the far end.

  It was a good start, but it would not be enough, so the morning after the Swedish party Kate called an old friend of her father’s. Marat Jalilov had been a crusading journalist at the dawn of Kyrgyzstan’s independence from the USSR. His enthusiasm for the republic was ultimately crushed by the oppressive regime that rose to power, and Marat spent the next quarter century in and out of trouble with the government. He was a gadfly with a serious drinking problem, but he was also recognized around the world as a former prisoner of conscience, and it was cheaper and easier for the authorities to tolerate Marat than to eliminate him.

  It was almost eleven, but Marat sounded as if Kate had woken him when he picked up the phone.

  “Allo?”

  “Marat? It’s Kate Hollister from the American embassy, Vergil’s daughter.” Kate spoke in Kyrgyz. Marat was a nationalist who had preferred to speak Kyrgyz exclusively long before it was the norm in Bishkek’s power circles.

  It took a moment for Marat’s alcohol-soaked synapses to process the information.

  “Little Katie? It’s been years. I heard that you were back in town. I haven’t seen you since—” He stopped awkwardly in mid-sentence.

  “The funeral. It’s okay, Marat. My father loved you. I’m glad you were there, and you don’t need to worry about reminding me of it. I’ll never forget.”

  “He was a great man.”

  “Thank you. There’s a lot we have to catch up on. Can I buy you a cup of coffee this afternoon?” Kate wanted to meet Marat as early in the day as possible to maximize the chance that he would be at least semi-sober.

  “I don’t see why not. Do you remember that place we used to meet up, your father and I? You came along a few times, if I recall.”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, it burned down years ago. You and I will need a new place. There’s a decent establishment on Toktogul Street not far from the university called the Augean Stables.”

  “A café or a bar?” Kate asked suspiciously.

  Marat laughed.

  “A café. I promise you. Two o’clock?”

  “Perfect. See you there.”

  —

  Marat was twenty minutes late, which was ten minutes early by Central Asian journalist standards. Kate was shocked at how old he looked. It had been nine years since her parents’ funeral, but Marat seemed to have aged at least twice that. He was tall and broad but walked with stooped shoulders as though carrying a heavy weight on his back. His shock of white hair had thinned considerably and the flesh around his jawline hung loose and saggy. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot from last night’s drinking. The whites were slightly yellowed, and Kate could only imagine the demands Marat had placed on his liver over the years. Journalists in the successor states to the Soviet Union lived hard lives, and Marat’s life had been harder than most.

  Kate stood to greet him and he enfolded her in a bear hug, kissing her roughly on both cheeks.

  “You look beautiful, Katie. So like your mother.”

  A wave of shame washed over Kate as she thought about how she was about to use and manipulate this man who had loved her father. It was cold and calculating, but it was also in the service of a goal that Marat would have embraced as wholeheartedly as he had just embraced the daughter of his friend.

  Here again, it was Uncle Harry’s damn values complexity conundrum in operation. Do something wrong to do something right. Choose the lesser evil and hope the ends justify that choice. She understood it. She accepted it. And she was ashamed of herself nonetheless.

  “So tell me, how do things look to you?” Kate asked after they ordered coffees. “You always had the best sources in town.”

  “I did and I do. I may look old, but I haven’t slowed down. You’ve come home at an interesting time, Katie. I know a lot of people are dismissing Boldu as little more than a horsefly on Eraliev’s ample rump, but this is the most serious challenge to the regime since Azattyk. And the Boldu leadership seems to have learned something from that experience. Eraliev is afraid of them and he has reason to be. I know some of the people in the movement’s leadership . . . or at least I th
ink I do. You might be surprised at the names.”

  The look he gave Kate was enigmatic but also somehow lighthearted, almost amused. If he knew about Ruslan and the rest of the ISB mafia in Boldu, his sources were indeed more than good.

  Kate knew that if she told him something interesting, Marat would use it as trade bait with his sources, and the word would spread on another network that overlapped like a Venn diagram with the diplomatic channels she was working through the Swedish ambassador. It would be an echo chamber. The separate reports seeming to come from independent sources would confirm one another and validate the story. But Kate had to make it interesting.

  The waitress brought their coffees and two small bottles of mineral water.

  “Is Boldu the only thing Eraliev has to be afraid of?” Kate asked.

  “Not at all. The fat prick could have a stroke or a major coronary event any day. God willing.”

  “What about his own security services?”

  “A knife in the back? I haven’t heard anything like that.”

  “I have.”

  “Who?”

  “Malinin.”

  Marat raised an eyebrow that was so thick it looked like a caterpillar was crawling across his forehead.

  “Interesting.”

  There, Kate thought, was the magic word.

  “Ain’t it?”

  “Tell me more.”

  Kate did, assuring herself that she had made the only possible choice and hating herself for it at the same time.

  —

  After work, Kate stopped at the newsstand. She picked up a copy of Vecherniy Bishkek for fifty som. It was the husband on duty tonight. In contrast to his corpulent bride, he was short and slight and the bones in his wrist were clearly visible as he made change, his movements as light and delicate as a bird’s.

  There was no eye contact, nothing that might give Kate a clue as to whether Ruslan had received her message, whether he had been able to respond.

  Back at her apartment, Kate leafed quickly through the paper. Tucked inside the sports section, she found a small scrap of paper with a few words written in Ruslan’s spidery scrawl. It was a little more than an address and a time: 164 Serova St. Block 13. Apartment 11. 24:00. As an additional layer of security, Kate and Ruslan had agreed on a simple code. They would subtract two from every number in any message, meaning that Ruslan would meet her at 162 Serova St., Block 11, Apartment 9, at 10 o’clock. It wasn’t much, but Ruslan told her that little bits added together could make a big difference.

  Kate felt a rush of excitement at the prospect of seeing him. It was a feeling she had not had in so long, she had almost forgotten what it was like. Her face was flush and warm, her pulse elevated, her palms damp. She wanted to rush to the address in Ruslan’s note, but it was only seven o’clock.

  And she was cautious. Barrone had tracked her to their last meeting. It would be potentially disastrous if he were to do so again. It was even possible that the RSO’s surveillance detection team was parked out in front of her apartment right now on the assumption that Kate’s response to the grilling she had endured would be to do exactly what she had done before, set up a meeting with the man that the embassy security team suspected might be Seitek.

  If she dashed out into the night, lovestruck and heedless, there was a good chance that she would be leading her embassy minders to another Boldu safe house. This time they might have equipment that would allow them to listen in on their conversation, lasers that could read the vibrations off the windowpanes of the apartment, or something even more exotic on loan from Crespo’s office.

  Kate waited. She did not rush to the window straining against the dark to spot the men who might be out there watching her. She would assume that they were there and act accordingly. Fortunately, Kate had just the thing to help pass the time and focus her thoughts. The living room was dominated by an older but lovingly maintained baby grand piano that she had bought from a local dealer and had had delivered the week before. The Kyrgyz took their music seriously and it had not been difficult to find a quality instrument she could afford. It was a German mark, Bechstein, polished sleek and black. Most of the pianos on the local market were Russian made. Kate steered clear of those. Ironically, the Russians, who produced many of the world’s finest pianists, also produced some of the world’s worst pianos.

  Kate sat and played from memory. Rachmaninoff and Roberto Fonseca. Chopin and Hilario Durán. The disciplined act of playing helped calm her emotions and focus her thoughts. She played for an hour and a half before taking a quick shower and changing into jeans and a soft gray sweater.

  It was twenty minutes after nine when Kate left her apartment. She took the stairs down to the basement and used the service door at the back of the building that opened out onto a narrow alley. The alley took her almost a full block from her building before intersecting with Mosovskaya Street, which even this late was busy and well lit. Kate slipped into the crowd and walked another six blocks before grabbing a cab and taking it to within two blocks of the address Ruslan had given her. She had not been able to spot anyone following her. But Kate was aware that she lacked the training and experience to be certain of this.

  The apartment building was older and unprepossessing. There were hundreds just like it throughout the city, a monument to Soviet design. The front door clicked open when Kate hit the buzzer for apartment 9. The stairwell was clean and the lights worked.

  Ruslan opened the door to the apartment wearing black jeans, a white shirt, and two days of stubble.

  There was so much she wanted to tell him, but without so much as a hello she found herself in Ruslan’s arms, kissing him hungrily. Greedily. As though they had been apart for years.

  —

  Ruslan propped himself up on one arm and used his free hand to trace the gently curved form lying next to him. Kate’s skin was warm to the touch, and Ruslan had spent the last couple of hours exploring every square centimeter of it. With some chagrin, he knew that if he were magically granted one wish right now it would not be for a free and democratic Kyrgyzstan. It would be for time to stop. For this moment of clarity and purity to last forever. Was it possible, he wondered, that he was falling in love so fast, or was it that he had never fallen out of love with Kate Hollister? Had he been carrying her with him for more than a decade? And was that the source of the weight that he had felt on his heart? The reason why the women who had been so numerous had meant so little to him?

  Kate made a contented sound, like a low purr, as Ruslan stroked her hip and thigh and she pressed her body against his in invitation.

  He was tempted, but there would be time for that later.

  “Talk first,” he said.

  She kissed him.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he lied. “I am a committed revolutionary. Sacrifice comes with the territory.”

  Kate laughed and her laugh was familiar, reminding him of easier days when the calculus midterm was his most serious worry. She sat up in bed, letting the sheets fall to her lap. She had a dancer’s body, strong and lean.

  “You said you needed to see me. I am more than overjoyed to see you, but your note made it sound like something was wrong.”

  Kate’s expression was troubled, almost guilty.

  “I know who Cameraman and the Pensioner are, or at least who they work for.”

  “Who?”

  “Us.”

  “The Americans?”

  Kate nodded.

  “They work for the embassy security office. They must have followed me to Ala-Too Square.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because both the CIA and the Defense Department think I’m holding back on them. That I know more about Boldu than I’ve been willing to say.”

  “The identity of the Great Seitek?”

  “Pretty much.
Our defense attaché is an air force pilot who goes by Brass Ball. No, seriously. That’s his name. Brass is obsessed with you. And he’s much too close to the government for my liking. I don’t trust him to keep a secret.”

  “So what did you tell him about the picture? That I’m just some guy you met in the park and kissed? That wouldn’t be the dumbest thing the CIA has ever believed.”

  “Fair enough. But I told them the truth, or most of it. I said that I was hooking up with my old high school boyfriend . . . Grigoriy Vetochkin.”

  Now it was Ruslan’s turn to laugh.

  “Grigor? What ever happened to him?”

  “I have no idea. And I’m hoping that they don’t care. It was the best I could do on the spot, but my story has holes you could drive a truck through. I don’t know if it’s going to hold up for long. And if it doesn’t—”

  “Then they may very well figure out who I am.” Ruslan finished her sentence.

  Kate looked stricken.

  “I’m sorry, Ruslan. This is all my fault. I should have spotted them following me and not come to meet you at Ala-Too.”

  Ruslan reached out to stroke her hair and rest his fingertips lightly on her shoulder.

  “You’re a diplomat, Kate, and a musician. Not a spy. You couldn’t possibly have known they were tracking you. This was always a risk. And if someone needs to learn who I am, better it be the CIA than the GKNB.”

  “Are you sure there’s a difference?”

  “There has to be.”

  “I’m worried, Ruslan. This focus on Boldu and on you is intense and hard to explain. I don’t think they’re going to let it go easily.”

  “So you’re worried, eh? Well, we Kyrgyz know how to handle worries.”

  Ruslan got up and padded to the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with two glasses of vodka. Murzaev had evidently made sure that each safe house was stocked with the essentials.

  They clinked glasses and drained them in a single gulp.