The head of the sheep who had given his life for the beshbarmak sat on a plate next to Ruslan. As the guest of honor, it was his responsibility to carve off the cheeks and other choice pieces and distribute them equally among the other diners. There were horsemeat sausages and shashlik, skewers of grilled beef served with hunks of raw onion. The paloo was made with mutton and smelled of garlic and chilies.
Heavy ceramic plates of dumplings were passed around the table by the guests—samsa made of mutton and fat and steamed manty filled with ground beef and onions. There were wooden platters piled high with flatbread, and big bowls of lagman, thick noodles in a fiery vinegar sauce, sat in the middle of the table.
The men drank kumys and vodka and bozo, a yeasty and mildly alcoholic brew made from wheat.
The conversation was boisterous and loud and entirely apolitical. The men teased one another about the state of their fields, the quality of their flocks, and their chances in the games at the next horse festival. It was all in good fun, but there was an undercurrent of melancholy to the evening as well. The men gathered in Tashtanbek’s garden were mostly older. Their sons and grandsons were working abroad. There were a few younger men, but many of them were sick or injured in some way. One twenty-year-old—Ruslan’s first cousin—had lost his left arm at the elbow after an accident in the oil fields of Kazakhstan. An uncle had returned from the coal mines in Belarus with wasting lung disease. He sat at the far end of the table looking gaunt and hollow, picking disinterestedly at his food and coughing into the sleeve of his jacket.
Some hours later, when the guests had eaten their fill and then some, Tashtanbek stood and commanded attention.
“Thank you all for coming this evening to welcome my grandson home. It is my hope that he will soon tire of the city life and return to his people here in Kara-Say with a bride that he has taken in the Kyrgyz fashion.”
The men gathered around the tables cheered drunkenly.
“Until that day, and to ensure that he does not forget where he came from, I would ask you, Almaz, to sing for us.”
Almaz Beshimov, Ruslan knew, was not only the best Manaschi in Kara-Say, he had a national reputation as one of the most skilled and artistic reciters of the Manas epic in the country. He was somewhere in his eighties but still vital, and he took inordinate pride in his bushy white mustache that curled up at the ends.
A chair had been set up between the tables where all the guests would have an unobstructed view. Almaz had come dressed in his Manaschi best, a jelek of dark blue velvet, an elaborately embroidered kalpak, and a studded belt buckle that looked to be made of at least two kilos of bronze.
His voice was still clear and powerful and he launched straight into the recitation, a rhythmic and repetitive chant that was familiar to all the guests. He began with the traditional opening that all Manaschi used—“it was a long time ago, and now the eyewitnesses have gone”—before launching into his chosen passage.
Within two stanzas, Ruslan recognized the passage Almaz was singing. The octogenarian Manaschi had chosen a section from the third book of the epic poem, the story of the grandson Seitek. This was the passage in which Seitek, who had been raised in the enemy’s camp unaware of his own lineage, learns of his secret origin and chooses to rise up against the foes of his father and grandfather.
This was not a random selection. Ruslan knew that his grandfather has asked Almaz for this passage. He had come to Kara-Say to ask Tashtanbek for a difficult thing, to deliberately place his people in harm’s way. They had much to discuss, but it would have to wait. Now was the time to celebrate the noble history of the forty Kyrgyz tribes.
If this was a message to Ruslan from his grandfather, then the omens were good.
—
It felt like he had been asleep for no more than fifteen minutes when Tashtanbek shook him awake. Ruslan forced his eyes open and glanced at his watch. It was four a.m. He was hungover and it hurt when he moved his head. His grandfather was dressed to ride and his expression was as affectless and impassive as always.
“Get up, boy,” he said. “Time to hunt.”
Ruslan groaned, but he did as his grandfather instructed. Someone, probably Naz, had left riding gear out for him. Ruslan fumbled in the dark with the buttons and straps. It had been more than a year since he had worn this kind of Kyrgyz clothing. The plain white kalpak was a little too small. Ruslan would have preferred an American-style ball cap, but his grandfather would be happy to see him dressed the Kyrgyz way, and he loved the old man.
Tashtanbek was waiting for him outside. He was mounted on a large black horse. The saddle and felt blanket were decorated with embroidery and yak fur. A hooded goshawk perched obediently on a leather glove he wore on his left hand. His right hand held the reins of a second horse, a roan-colored stallion that was a match for Tashtanbek’s mount in size and strength. Ruslan mounted his horse and took the reins from his grandfather. It was a cold morning, and the clean mountain air was already clearing his head. He looked forward to the hunt.
“Lead on,” he said.
Wordlessly, Tashtanbek took them down the side of the mountain and across a wooden bridge that spanned the Naryn River. In spring, the water was too high to walk the horses over the ford and too fast to swim them across. The bridge was not strong enough to carry vehicles, but it was more than adequate for horses and riders.
The sun was starting to come up and the mountains were silhouetted against the still starry sky, outlined in bands of red, orange, and violet.
A narrow, rocky path led up the hills on the far side of the Naryn. For all their bulk, the horses were remarkably surefooted on the path. After about an hour’s ride, they reached a djailoo, lush and green from the spring rains.
Tashtanbek removed the leather hood from the goshawk and spoke to the bird. He told the hawk that it was brave and fierce and loyal, that soon it would kill and feast. As he whispered to the bird, he stroked the feathers on its neck. The hawk glared at him with angry yellow eyes, offering the clan leader obedience but not affection.
Hunting with raptors was the apex of manly skill in Kyrgyz culture. It took patience and discipline and many hours of practice. It was, alas, a dying art, but Tashtanbek was one of the last great masters. He had a kestrel and a saker falcon, and as a younger man he had hunted fox and even wolves with a great golden eagle, but this goshawk was his favorite. His name was Janibar, which meant “one who has a soul.”
There was a blur of brown against the green of the djailoo. A rabbit. Tashtanbek raised his gloved hand and the goshawk took flight, trailing his leather jesses behind him. The raptor flew low across the djailoo. The rabbit spotted the hawk and elected to run rather than hide. It was not a good choice.
Janibar dipped his wings and flew in behind the rabbit, catching it by the back of the neck and lifting it effortlessly into the air. The prey twisted violently as the hawk broke its back.
As he had been trained, Janibar returned to Tashtanbek with his prize, surrendering the rabbit to his master while simultaneously shrieking his disapproval at the arrangement. With his belt knife, Tashtanbek carved off some small slices of rabbit flesh and fed them to the hawk by hand before again hooding the bird and whispering in his ear about his greatness as a hunter.
Then, and only then, did Tashtanbek turn to his grandson and speak to him for the first time since ordering him out of his warm bed.
“Tell me what it is you need,” he said.
“It’s time,” Ruslan replied. “If we don’t act now, there will not be another chance. The Sarybagysh are mobilizing to do to us what Janibar just did to that rabbit. If we do not move first, Eraliev and the GKNB will hunt us down and snap our necks.”
Ruslan did not need to elaborate. He and Tashtanbek had discussed the plan at length, and while his grandfather had reservations, he saw the opportunity to return the Adygine to a position of power and influence. Tashta
nbek was not motivated by abstractions like freedom and democracy. But clan loyalty was something settled deep in his bones. Like most traditional leaders, however, he was cautious by nature.
“It is too soon. We need more time.”
“There is no more time.”
“When do you plan to do this thing?”
“Six days from now.”
Tashtanbek was quiet for a moment as he thought about that answer.
“That is not nearly enough time to get the young men back from abroad.”
“I know.”
“Who then will fight? We are a village of old men, women, and children. All of the villages in the district are the same.”
“I know.”
“And that does not give you pause?”
“It gives me hope.”
Tashtanbek’s face actually betrayed an emotion, if confusion could be considered an emotion.
Ruslan explained what he had in mind.
When he had finished, his grandfather laughed.
It was a good omen.
24
Patience was one of the many virtues that an education in classical music was supposed to instill. Kate must have been absent that day. For her, the wait was excruciating. She wanted to see Ruslan right now. To warn him. But also to touch him. To hold him close and rail against the machine, the powerful forces colluding to rip her lover away from her and carry him off to some black pit where demons shaped like men flay the skin and flesh from the bones of those unfortunate enough to fall into the insatiable maw of the security apparatus.
Murzaev had told her to wait. To be patient. To check in through the usual channel for further instructions. Even on a clean phone, the spy had been characteristically evasive. But Kate was left with the impression that Murzaev was not entirely certain where Ruslan was at the moment, or when he would be back.
Kate did not want to go back to the office and face her accusers. At least not right away. Instead, after her brief exchange with Murzaev, she went to Ala-Too Square, not because she expected to find Ruslan there building a palisade to defend the foot soldiers of Boldu, but because she wanted to feel close to him. Wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, she knew he was thinking about this place. Ground zero for his dreams of a free Kyrgyzstan. Maybe he was thinking about her as well. She hoped so.
It was warm, and the sky was blue and streaked with the thin cirrus clouds called mares’ tails. Kate did not want to read too much into that as a sign. She was a rationalist, and not a big believer in God, the gods, or Jungian synchronicity. But it cheered her nonetheless.
There was a café on the west side of the square with a view of the comically heroic statue of Manas. Kate sat at one of the outside tables and ordered a double espresso. As she sipped her coffee, Kate looked out on the square and tried to picture it filled with protestors singing, beating drums, and staring down the rifle barrels of the Special Police. Maybe Ruslan was right. Maybe the regime was brittle, its support limited to a relatively small number of the Bishkek-based elite who had grown rich and fat off Eraliev’s largesse. Maybe the Kyrgyz people were ready to rise up against their overlords. If they did, Kate vowed to herself that she would stand with them, no matter where her government came down. Crespo, she realized with a flash of insight that was as uncomfortable as it was clarifying, had been right to doubt her.
That evening, she opened a bottle of decent Spanish rioja and drank too much as she played Chopin until her fingers cramped. Her sleep was fitful and troubled by dreams.
The next morning, Kate woke late, hungover and dehydrated. Breakfast was half a liter of orange juice and three Advil. She forced herself to go for a run. The first mile was agony, but as the blood started to flow, her headache receded and her mood improved. It was Saturday and there was nothing she had to do but wait. Once Kate accepted that reality, it was oddly liberating. Since being picked up off the street by Murzaev’s snatch-and-grab crew, Kate had started varying her routes and times the way she was supposed to. She picked her way almost at random through the backstreets and green spaces of Bishkek, mulling over what Ruslan and Boldu were planning and what she could do to help. At this point, there were too many variables and it was impossible to know where she might be able to plug into the equation.
At the end of the run, she stopped by the newsstand and bought one of the local papers, resisting the urge to open it up right there and look for a note. The moment she was back in her apartment, however, she flipped quickly through every page and was disappointed to find nothing.
Uncertain about what else to do with her time, Kate drove out to the stables where she had met with Ruslan alone. The caretakers, Myrzakan and Adilet, were home and they welcomed Kate with affectionate hugs and salty bowls of kumys. Myrzakan helped her saddle the stallion Aravan, and Kate rode him up to the djailoo where she and Ruslan had played their game of kiss-the-girl. Kate smiled when she thought about how she had pulled back on the reins just a little bit at the end of the race, just enough to lose.
Adilet had packed the saddlebag with a liter bottle of water, a goatskin bag of harsh red wine, some flatbread, and cheese and dried meat wrapped in wax paper. Kate stopped by a bend in the stream and ate lunch while Aravan grazed on the sweet spring grass. Frogs croaked in the shallows and a gray heron marched elegantly along the far bank looking for a meal. It was a peaceful scene, but Kate kept replaying in her mind the last, unpleasant exchange in her uncle’s office and Crespo’s whispered warning.
They’re going to kill him.
The implication was clear. A report on the conversation would be shared with Kyrgyz authorities, the GKNB or the Special Police. They would hunt Ruslan down, turning over every rock and stone until they found him. And they would murder him because there was at least a chance that he was Seitek, and Eraliev was so afraid of Boldu that he would happily kill a thousand innocents for a five percent chance that one of them was his nemesis.
Kate was certain that it was Brass who was leaking intel to the Kyrgyz security services, likely at the instruction of Winston Crandle. And it was hard to escape the conclusion that her uncle knew what was happening. Maybe it was part of a quid pro quo in the base negotiations. It would hardly be the first time the U.S. government had sacrificed its long-term interests for a short-term gain.
Kate knew one thing with a clarity that was so intense as to be almost painful. She needed to talk to Ruslan.
Mounting Aravan, she rode back to the stable and helped Myrzakan unsaddle the big stallion and rub him down. Promising to return soon, Kate drove back to town and, tamping down any expectations, stopped at the newsstand for a copy of Vecherniy Bishkek.
She did not wait to get back to her apartment. Sitting in the driver’s seat, she opened the paper to the back pages. A small blue note card fluttered out onto the floor. Kate’s heart beat faster as she picked it up. The message was simple.
Tomorrow. 45 Oberon St. Apartment 04. 23:00.
The note did not say so, but Kate felt strongly that Ruslan would be there. Somehow that would make everything okay.
—
The next day, at precisely nine o’clock, Kate hit the buzzer next to the number 2 in the entryway of a block of ugly concrete apartments painted a dull yellow. It was a transitional neighborhood, part residential and part industrial. Kate had driven a circuitous route, looking to see if she could spot anyone following her. As near as she could tell with her limited training and experience, she was clean.
The door clicked open and Kate walked down a short flight of stairs to a garden-level apartment with a crooked number 2 nailed to the door.
Ruslan opened the door, wearing jeans and a black zippered fleece. He looked tired and worn out, but he was most definitely alive.
Kate reached for him and he took her in his arms, one hand pressed into the small of her back and the other stroking her hair. She pressed her face against his che
st, not certain if she wanted to laugh or cry. Then Ruslan took her face in his hands and kissed her, and time stopped.
Kate pulled back from the kiss.
“I’m sorry about Albina,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Where’s Yana?”
“Hamid is looking after her.”
“Close the damn door.” Kate recognized Murzaev’s voice.
Ruslan ushered her into the apartment and locked the door behind them. Like the other Boldu safe house she had seen, this one was sparsely furnished. But there were chairs in the living room and a low table with a silver tray holding a bottle of vodka and three glasses. The table and chairs sat on top of a large Turkoman-style carpet dyed a deep red.
Murzaev was sitting in one of the threadbare chairs wearing a black suit that looked like it had been slept in. The spymaster himself looked older, almost frail. Kate walked over to him and leaned down to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said.
Murzaev smiled wanly and gestured at one of the chairs. Kate and Ruslan sat opposite each other and Murzaev poured the vodka.
“I don’t think I was followed here,” Kate said.
“I know you weren’t,” Murzaev replied.
“How do you know?”
“Because my boys followed you to make certain you were not. They saw nothing. And if there was something to see, they would have. My boys are good.”
“I certainly didn’t see them following me.”
“No,” Murzaev agreed.
Kate turned to the man she loved.
“Ruslan, they know about you. The security team in my embassy didn’t believe the story about Grigoriy. They went to the school with the photographs and Mrs. Larson identified you. I should have thought of that and asked for her help. I have reason to believe that what the embassy knows, Eraliev knows. The CIA station chief warned me that the government was going to kill you. He whispered it to me, like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to share.”
Enemy of the Good Page 25
