Enemy of the Good

by Matthew Palmer

  Valentina could not finish the sentence. She did not have to. They all knew what happened in the interrogation rooms of Prison Number One.

  Ruslan nodded his understanding. He wanted to grab a gun and storm the gates of the prison like Ernest Defarge at the Bastille. But he had responsibilities to Boldu and to Kyrgyzstan and to the revolution that he had launched and hoped to lead. What he wanted to do was subordinate to what he had to do. This, he understood, was the price of leadership. He could only pray that Kate would understand it as well.

  “Is everything ready for this evening?” Nogoev asked in a transparent attempt to shift the discussion away from something he considered a mere distraction. The Scythian commander was pragmatic to the point of callous. And he had seen so much death in his long career that its prospect—for himself or others—was of little consequence.

  “As ready as it can be,” Hamid said. “Val and I have given clear instructions to the clan leaders, but the clans are fractious. They certainly aren’t used to working together. The plan isn’t especially complicated, but it has a lot of moving parts. Things could go wrong.”

  “They will go wrong,” Ruslan said. “That’s unavoidable. We just have to be ready for it and adapt to the circumstances. I can promise you one thing. Tashtanbek Essenkul uluu will not panic. Not even if Eraliev calls out the tanks.”

  “That’s good,” Hamid replied. “But he’s going to have to work with the Ichkilik and the southern clan leaders. Can he do that?”

  “For a while. Let’s review the plan one more time.”

  Nogoev spread a large map of Ala-Too Square out on the coffee table. His briefing was thorough and authoritative. It would not have been out of place at a high-level strategy session in the Kremlin.

  Even so, Ruslan was struck by what a wild gamble they were taking, with hundreds of lives and the future of the country on the line. Boldu was his creation and his responsibility. And he was about to bet everything on a single throw of the dice.

  —

  It was three a.m. The dead time. The night owls had finally returned to their nests and the early birds had yet to stir. The police presence at Ala-Too Square was at its minimum. There would be only a handful of officers on duty guarding the Presidential Palace. It would take time to organize a response by the Special Police. Time that Ruslan intended to put to good use.

  He and Nogoev and a small group of Scythians arrived at the square in the back of a Tata Super Ace, an Indian-made one-ton pickup truck. The Scythians unloaded plywood boards from the bed and laid them across the short set of stairs that led up from the street to the plaza. Ruslan drove the truck up the ramp and onto the square, parking it near the statue of Manas, where two raised planters created a path just about the size of the Super Ace. Six Scythians used levers and muscle power to turn the truck over on its side, blocking the path and making the first barrier.

  This, Ruslan thought, was a gauntlet being thrown at Eraliev’s feet. Only one of them could survive the duel that must ensue.

  Two policemen dressed like traffic cops rather than in paramilitary tactical gear came to investigate the noise. They shined flashlights at the truck and called out contradictory commands in a mix of Kyrgyz and Russian. Ruslan stepped forward. He looked like a Kyrgyz warlord of old in an embroidered jacket with loose trousers tucked into riding boots and a massive kalpak on his head. It was uncomfortable. Ruslan was a city boy now, and he rarely dressed like this. But it was part of the plan.

  “Greetings, brothers,” he said. “Welcome to the dawn of a new Kyrgyzstan.”

  The police pointed their machine pistols at Ruslan.

  “Get on your knees,” one of them shouted.

  “Never again,” Ruslan replied.

  Something tapped one of the policemen on the shoulder. He turned to find that he was staring into the barrel of an AK-47. They were surrounded by heavily armed Scythians. Deciding in short order that they did not like the odds, the police held up their hands in surrender. The Scythians stripped them of their weapons and tied them up sitting back-to-back at the base of the statue. Now they had bargaining chips.

  The other trucks came quickly, arriving from various side streets near the park and driving up the ramp to the square. Each truck had an assigned spot, and the Scythians worked fast to unload building materials from the back before tipping them up on their sides to make an impromptu wall. Even taking full advantage of all the raised brick-and-concrete flower beds, it still took eleven trucks of various shapes and sizes and three beaten-up old Chinese buses to make a rough, defensible wall that circled the Manas statue. They left one panel van upright that could be used as a gate. The van was loaded with concrete blocks and it sat heavy on its wheels. It was a start.

  The buses had disgorged more than a hundred villagers, mostly women and pensioners and a few young men too sick or injured to take work overseas. As Val had instructed, most were wearing Kyrgyz traditional dress, the kind they might wear to a wedding or similar ceremony. It certainly was not what they would wear to work in the fields or the mines or the factories, and it hardly seemed the right dress code for a revolution, but Val had been specific, and the clan leaders, at least for now, had obliged.

  The last truck to arrive was pulling a trailer. Tashtanbek dismounted from the passenger side resplendent in a chapan with an embroidered collar and a kalpak edged in gold. The hooded goshawk, Janibar, was perched on the oversize leather glove Tashtanbek wore on his left hand. One of the older men from Kara-Say opened the door of the trailer and led two massive horses down the ramp. Ruslan recognized the black stallion and the roan that he and Tashtanbek had ridden on their hunt. Both the truck and trailer were soon added to the walls.

  Ruslan walked over to greet his grandfather. By the time he made it through the throng of new arrivals who wanted to touch his arm or exchange a few words with the great Seitek, Tashtanbek was already deep in conversation with Valentina. Like Ruslan and the others, she was dressed in traditional Kyrgyz clothes. Ruslan had never seen her like this. It was not a good look for her.

  “Grandfather, thank you for coming. And I see you’ve already met Valentina. Val, you look . . . great . . .” It was unconvincing.

  “She’s the reason we’re dressed like this,” Tashtanbek answered. “Are we here to fight, or are you planning a feast and a dance?”

  Val laughed lightly.

  “There’ll be time to eat after the revolution, I promise. But I wanted us dressed like this because of the contrast it will draw between the demonstrators and the government forces. They’ll look like stormtroopers or Cossacks assaulting innocent villagers. I want the world to see that. I want it all on film. We’re going to fight the battle in the streets, but we’re going to win the war on the BBC.”

  Tashtanbek nodded but said nothing. With his free hand he reached up and patted the barrel of the ancient rifle slung across his back. The weapon was as old as he was, but Ruslan had seen him use it to kill a mountain goat at eight hundred meters, shooting uphill in the wind.

  “We need to get ready,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Grandfather. We are ready.”

  Ruslan stepped up on one of the concrete planters to give himself a better view. Everywhere, Scythians and villagers were using the bricks and lumber they had unloaded from the trucks to reinforce the defensive walls and fill in the gaps. As they settled in for a siege, Ruslan planned to improve the defenses further, but they had anticipated that the first attack from the Special Police would come within hours.

  It came at dawn. Ruslan stood on a makeshift rampart and watched a squad of Special Police in riot gear form up, their curved plastic shields overlapping. The light was still low and their faceplates were up. Through the binoculars, they looked young and nervous. The Scythians to Ruslan’s left and right were, in contrast, calm and confident. They were well led and they believed in themselves as well as their cause. It was
a powerful combination.

  Nogoev hauled himself up onto the platform and surveyed the scene.

  “Are you sure about this, Ruslan? My Scythians could cut them down like wheat if you gave the order.”

  “I’m sure, Daniar. I don’t want to kill anyone unless we absolutely have to. Those are our brothers out there. Our goal is to rally the country to our cause. Murdering police, young men with families, is not the image we want to project. We are better than Eraliev and his thugs, and we have to live up to that.”

  “Politicians,” Nogoev scoffed. But Ruslan could hear the affection buried under the complaint. The Scythians would do their duty.

  The riot police marched forward in lockstep carrying long truncheons in their right hands. They were acting as police rather than soldiers. They did not yet understand that this was a war. Three Scythians threw Molotov cocktails that fell short by design. The flaming pools of gasoline were intended to disorient the police and break up their line as they advanced.

  When they got closer, the villagers started throwing stones and bricks, forcing the police to raise their shields above their heads. The police tried to climb the barricades, but the Scythians and the younger villagers had the high ground and used blunted farm tools to beat them back. A few police got close enough for the Scythians to grab their shields and rip them off their arms. Ruslan watched one riot cop get caught up in the shield straps and hauled bodily over a section of the wall made of wood and loose brick. Within seconds he had been stripped of his equipment, and minutes later he had joined the growing cluster of prisoners at the base of the Manas statue.

  Ruslan hefted an ax and joined the Scythians at the wall. The ax was blunted, but he still used the flat back rather than the edge to beat down on the shields and helmets as the riot police tried to clamber over the planters and the makeshift wall of trucks and buses.

  It was all over in less than ten minutes. The riot police retreated, leaving three of their number behind as prisoners. They were battered and bruised, but no one had died on either side. Ruslan knew that they had been lucky in that regard. People would die on both sides before the dust had settled. All he could hope for was to keep that number as low as possible.

  The Special Police gave the revolutionaries a few hours of respite as they regrouped. The Scythians and the villagers used the time to improve their defenses. One of the buses had been loaded with food and water and the women from one of the southern villages lit a fire and set large pots of mutton stew on the coals. A group of men set up two large felt-covered yurts. It’s a regular village, Ruslan thought, and he was the mayor.

  Valentina walked up to him with a small video camera. She had taken footage of the attack and would use her MacBook to edit the film and post it on YouTube. She had already set up a Facebook page and a Twitter feed with the handle @Ala-TooRevolution.

  “Easier than you thought?” Valentina asked.

  “No. They didn’t know what to expect. I knew we’d be able to take the first punch. The next round is going to be tougher.”

  “I need some footage of you for YouTube. Say something inspirational.” She laughed and then turned the camera on and held it up in Ruslan’s direction. He made a sour face.

  “You have to do this, Ruslan. It’s your responsibility. You don’t belong to yourself anymore. You belong to all of us. Sorry. But that’s what you signed up for. And that’s just the way it is. You’d better get used to it.”

  “I know. I’ll do it. And I’ll do the best I can.”

  “Seitek, Boldu has planted its flag here in Ala-Too Square. Is there anything that you would like to say to the Kyrgyz people?”

  “My fellow countrymen,” he began. “We are a proud people. A warrior people. But we have for too long hung our heads and allowed a privileged few to decide for us how we live our lives. Their time is at an end. And our time is beginning. Come join us here in Ala-Too Square. Stand with us, fight alongside us, and send a message to the Eraliev regime that they cannot ignore. They are yesterday. We are today. And you are tomorrow.”

  Ruslan had not seen the small group of Scythians and villagers who had gathered behind him while he spoke. But when he finished, they cheered loudly and clapped him on the back, the adrenaline of combat still rushing through their veins.

  Valentina lowered the camera.

  “That was perfect.”

  —

  A few hours later, the police tried again, harder this time. There were at least a hundred members of the Special Police, and a few of them carried shotguns or rifles instead of truncheons. A six-wheeled armored personnel carrier lined up on the square directly across from the gate. Two cops stepped out in front of the group and began shooting grenades up into the air. They all knew what was coming.

  “Gas!” Nogoev shouted. “Masks, now!”

  Among the gear they had confiscated from the Special Police warehouse were three boxes of gas masks. There were enough to equip all the Scythians and almost half of the villagers. Those without masks huddled in the yurts for protection. The tear-gas canisters landed in the middle of the Boldu encampment and began spitting out a white mist that hung low to the ground.

  Villagers picked up the individual canisters and tossed them back over the wall in the direction of the police. The attackers donned their own masks, and the net effect on the balance of power was close to zero.

  The APC started its engine and moved forward toward the gate, clearly intending to ram it open. The Scythians responded with Molotov cocktails, and soon the front end of the APC was covered in flames. The driver pulled back, leaving behind a black slick of melted rubber from the tires.

  “They have guns, Ruslan,” Nogoev observed. “What are the rules of engagement?”

  “If someone points a gun at your men, you can shoot him. Try to not kill him unless you have to.”

  “Understood.”

  Nogoev went to pass the word among his troops.

  The Special Police moved forward hesitantly. One man raised a shotgun to his shoulder and almost immediately fell to the ground, clutching his leg where a Scythian had shot him. The message had been delivered.

  The police did not seem to have much of a plan. Evidently they had hoped to rely on the tear gas to demoralize the demonstrators and the APC to open a hole in the wall. Moreover, the defenses they were attacking were now stronger than they had been, and the defenders, with one victory under their belt, were more confident.

  The results of the second attack were almost the same, with one critical difference. Two dead. One on each side. A policeman trying to clamber up the undercarriage of a truck had fired his shotgun, perhaps by accident. It caught one of the Scythians, a nineteen-year-old named Azamat who had hoped one day to be a pilot, under the chin, blowing off his face. Seconds later, the cop was dead, shot more than a dozen times by vengeful Scythians.

  Once the police had retreated, Ruslan ran to the fallen fighter. His comrades had already come to his aid, but the boy was dead. One thing that Ruslan had not thought about was a morgue. What should he do with the body?

  The ever practical Nogoev stepped in, instructing the Scythians to place the body of their comrade behind the Manas statue and cover it with a blanket. Ruslan wanted to accompany them, but Nogoev put his hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  “No,” he explained. “This is for them. Not us.”

  Tashtanbek joined them. On anyone else, Ruslan would have described his expression as grave. But on his grandfather, it might well have represented overwhelming joy. It was impossible to say.

  “There is a man at the gate,” he said.

  “Is he selling something?” Ruslan asked, knowing full well that the attempt at humor would be wasted on his grandfather.

  “No. It’s one of the Special Police. He looks like an officer. He is alone.”

  “A parlay?” Ruslan asked.

  “
It does seem early,” Nogoev agreed.

  “Let’s go find out.”

  At Ruslan’s direction, the van pulled forward a few feet and a tall man wearing Special Police tactical gear stepped into the encampment.

  Ruslan was there to greet him, along with Nogoev, Murzaev, and Tashtanbek. Whoever this cop was, he was walking alone into the lion’s den. Ruslan had to respect that.

  “My name is Davron Kayrat uluu,” he said, offering his hand to each of them in turn.

  Ruslan raised an eyebrow.

  “The commander of the Special Police.”

  “I have the honor.”

  “But only as of late,” Nogoev said.

  “True.”

  “How is your predecessor?”

  “Dead by his own hand, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity.”

  “This is an unlawful gathering,” Kayrat uluu said. “I have come to ask you to disperse before there is additional loss of life.”

  “Your side is the one that escalated to firearms,” Ruslan said. “The consequences are on your head.”

  “If you lay down your weapons, and return to your homes, I can guarantee the safety of your followers,” the Special Police colonel continued. “And I have been authorized to make an additional commitment. If you surrender yourself to justice, the government will release your comrade, Katarina Hollister, without charging her.”

  “You cannot hold her,” Ruslan protested, and he could feel the anger building inside him. “She is an American diplomat, with immunity under international law. You must release her immediately and without condition.”

  “Not my department, I’m afraid. I have no idea who this woman is. I’m just passing on the message.”

  “If Chalibashvili hurts her, so help me god, I will rip the eyes from his head.”

  “We could hold him,” Nogoev said. “Trade the commander of the Special Police for Kate.”