by Ross Sidor
Several minutes passed, and Avery was soon nursing his second Coke and continued sweeping his eyes over the crowd. He did a double take when he spotted the dark pakol hat. It was a Pashtan hat worn by every man and his brother in Afghanistan. It was also common among Tajiks from the Gorno-Badakhshan region. It was an obvious recognition signal.
Damn, so that meant Dagar had somehow managed to slip by him undetected.
Avery got up and carefully squeezed and pushed through the sea of people. Near the dance floor, a young and pretty Tajik girl came enthusiastically up to him, swaying with the rhythm of the techno music. Avery smiled at her, flattered, but passed by her, missing the disappointed, pouty look on her face once his back was to her.
The Tajik in the pakol hat watched Avery approach his table, sized him up, and gestured for him to take a seat. He held a bottle of Stary Melnik, cheap and strong Russian beer. Three more identical bottles, empty, had accumulated on the table.
Avery took the open chair across from the Tajik.
“You’re Dagar?”
“You’re the fucking American spy?” Dagar Nabiyev looked Avery up and down, and shook his head. “What the hell is wrong with you Americans? You ask for attention, coming to Dushanbe like this and looking like a fucking American spy. The way you move, the way your eyes take in everything around, the way you carry yourself, and the clothing you wear to conceal your weapons and armor. Exactly like a goddamned American spy. You think you blend in, but you do not. I can spot your kind anywhere; you’re all over Afghanistan and Pakistan.”
Avery managed to exercise restraint. “Are you finished?”
The Tajik shook his head again, exhaled through his nose, and sipped his beer. “I spotted you as soon as you walked in. How long did it take you to find me?”
“Look, asshole,” Avery said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I know how to cover my back, and I’ve never gotten anyone else compromised before. Jack said you’d help me. Am I wasting my time here?”
It took a lot to get a rise out of Avery, but the fastest way was to accuse him of sloppy tradecraft or question his intelligence.
“I suppose there is no harm done this time,” Dagar finally relented. “Jack is well and sends his regards, Mister Carnivore.”
He spoke slightly accented English. He was rather soft-spoken, and it was immensely difficult to hear him over the music and voices, so Avery leaned in across the table and tilted his ear in Dagar’s direction. As the Tajik continued speaking, Avery smelled the alcohol on his breath.
“What do you think of Port Said? Anytime I am in Dushanbe, I am sure to come here. It’s great. The beer is cheap, so are the women. All you need to do is sit here with a bottle of cognac, and Tajik women will flock to you. You just have to watch out for Russians. They come in here, act like big shots, and take all the women and look for fights.” He shook his head, then smiled. “If you’re interested, I believe there is a bottle of Gran Marnier VSOP behind the bar. I make sure you have good time in Dushanbe.”
“I’m not here for women. I’m interested in Uzbeks, especially those of the Islamic variety.”
The reference to the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan was not lost on Dagar. He frowned. “You are better off chasing the pussy, my friend. Trust me.”
“I want to find Otabek Babayev.”
Dagar looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Keep your damned voice down, will you?”
“So you’ve heard of him?” Avery asked.
“Of course, I have heard of him. Everyone around has heard of him, and you’d be surprised how many consider him a hero. He’s very dangerous. I fought against his forces in Afghanistan. Tell me something, my new friend, what business do you have with Uzbeks?”
“Babayev is holding an American hostage and is threatening to execute him soon.”
“Ah, yes, the CIA man. That explains much. And what is it you think I can do for you?”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. There’s a reward for information leading to the American’s location, not to mention the reward for Babayev’s head. I’m sure we can make this worth your while.”
Dagar scoffed and started hemming and hawing again. “Goddamn fucking American spy, look how easily I spot you, and I’m a fucking old drunk man. You think you can stride in here and just buy whatever you want, from anyone. Babayev has eyes and ears all over this city. You think the Uzbeks don’t already know you’re here? Goddamn it, now those dirty fucking Uzbeks will know you’ve come to me.”
Avery was losing his temper. “Would you stop your bitching? I get it. You don’t like me. So far I don’t like you much either, but I know Jack well, and if he can vouch for you, then that’s good enough for me, to a point. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave right now. It won’t be hard to find someone else interested in collecting that reward. You’re probably full of shit anyway.”
Avery started to get up, but Dagar stopped him. “Just wait, goddamn it. Don’t take things so personally. Of course I don’t like it. Top fucking CIA spy here has just been abducted and another killed. Why the hell should I trust you people? You can’t even keep yourselves safe. Everyone who gets involved with CIA gets fucked over or fucked up.”
Avery didn’t respond to that. After all, he could hardly disagree. His eyes moved to the exit, but then he thought that maybe the Tajik wasn’t so disagreeable when he was sober. He trusted Jack not to put him contact with someone this volatile.
“Okay, okay,” Dagar said. “Look, I may be able to help you. I do not do this for the reward money, you understand, but if I am to place myself in danger, I will need to buy protection or maybe relocate. Even if you didn’t offer money, I would still help you.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Babayev hides in Gorno-Badakhshan Province.”
“Last time I checked a map,” Avery said, “Gorno-Badakhshan is a pretty big place. You’ll need to do better than that.”
“I passed though there on my way into Dushanbe today. I have many ears there, and I heard some things. A local warlord there, a Pamiri, captured an Uzbek trying to enter Tajikistan from the Fergana Valley.”
So far Avery still wasn’t impressed. Tribal and ethnic turf wars were commonplace here. So was accusing someone of being a terrorist and turning them over to the Americans or GKNB as means of settling a personal grudge.
“This Uzbek belongs to Babayev. It isn’t difficult to surmise that he will be connected to the IMU cell holding the American, which is apparently led by Babayev himself. Babayev did claim responsibility for killing that man in Khorugh, did he not?”
“You have friends in Gorno-Badakhshan, among the warlords?” Avery asked, trying to gauge where exactly Dagar’s allegiances lay.
“Yes, close friends,” the Tajik replied. “Taranum and I fought together in Afghanistan, with the Northern Alliance. I know him well. We are brothers.”
“If his Uzbek prisoner knows something, why is your buddy keeping it to himself?”
“President Rahmon blamed the Badakhshan militias for what happened to the Americans. Two days later, the Uzbeks take credit. Now Rahmon is trying to connect the militias to the terrorists and preparing to launch another incursion into Gorno-Badakhshan under the pretenses of searching for the American. Taranum is using the Uzbek as leverage.”
Avery recognized the name from the briefing packet Culler provided him.
Taranum Gurgakov—the name meant wolf in Tajik—had sided with the rebels against President Emomalii Rahmon during the civil war. As part of the peace agreement, Gurgakov was given a position in the government’s agricultural ministry, but was later driven out when Rahmon sought to consolidate his power. Gurgakov took refuge in Gorno-Badakhshan. Later, Gurgakov’s band of Pamiris and Tajiks joined with the Northern Alliance against the Taliban.
When Gurgakov returned to his home in Gorno-Badakhshan Province, the government in Dushanbe immediately saw him as a potential threat. GKNB sought to infiltrate, dismantle, and disarm his forces.
More recently Gurgakov has conducted guerilla strikes against Tajik military and police targets in Gorno-Badakhshan Province with the intention of forming that territory into an independent, sovereign state. Gurgakov paid, equipped, and fed his men by smuggling drugs, tobacco, jewelry, and humans across the Stans and ransoming the occasional European hostage.
The Tajik government used this as further justification to crack down on the warlords. But GKNB officials made their money in much the same manner. Transporting Afghan heroin accounted for thirty percent of Tajikistan’s GDP.
“Can you get me into Gorno-Badakhshan?” Avery asked. “I want to see Gurgakov.”
Dagar made a sour face. “Now that may be difficult.”
“No more bullshit, remember, Dagar? I’m willing to pay cash.”
“Okay, okay,” Dagar replied. “I will try to arrange it, but it may take time.”
“Unacceptable. I need access to Gurgakov’s prisoner immediately. We leave tonight. Make it happen.”
In response, Dagar lifted the bottle to his lips, poured the remainder of its contents down his throat, and belched.
NINE
Gorno-Badakhshan
Following Dagar’s directions, Avery took the M41 highway east. Their destination was a remote village, thirty miles north of Khorugh, where Gurgakov’s forces were held up. Dagar had offered to drive, but Avery refused. He didn’t like being a passenger. He also would have preferred going alone, but Dagar said there was no way that Gurgakov would see the American if he came alone.
After parting company with Dagar at Port Said earlier, Avery had returned to the Dayrabot safe house and gave Poacher a complete SitRep. Poacher provided him with a GPS transceiver that would transmit his location, so they could track him. Poacher and Flounder would travel discreetly to Gorno-Badakhshan as backup, while Mockingbird and Reaper remained behind in Dayrabot. This way, Avery would have operators in both Gorno-Badakhshan and in Dushanbe, if something went down.
It was 3:36AM.
During the drive, Dagar gave the full history of Gorno-Badakhshan. Prior to the province’s creation in 1929, the land was divided up amongst various self-governing territories claimed by both Russia and China. While part of the Tajik Soviet Republic, the province received subsidiaries directly from Moscow. Even in Soviet times, Dushanbe had little control over the region. The province was home to Tajik Pamiris, an Indo-Iranian people who adhere to the Ismaili sect of Shia Islam.
Although Gorno-Badakhshan compromised nearly half of Tajikistan’s landmass, twenty-five thousand square miles, barely two hundred thousand people lived here, less than 5% of the country’s population. With only two roads connecting the province to the outside world, this was one of the most isolated places in the world. With limited modern infrastructure and development, Avery thought it must look much the same as it had centuries ago.
Dagar played tour guide, occasionally pointing out towns or land features near impossible to see in the dark of night. Avery thought it was simply a contrived means to break the silence. Never one to make light conversation, Avery kept his mouth shut and eyes on the road. He knew that his propensity for silence tended to make others uncomfortable, and he didn’t mind if this was the effect on Dagar.
After an hour, Dagar’s voice gradually slowed down, replaced within twenty minutes by loud snoring. When Avery took a glance, Dagar’s head was slumped forward. Too much crap Russian beer for him.
Avery had started to feel tired earlier, too, but he’d chugged a Monster and devoured a couple high calorie protein bars before leaving the safe house and had a second Monster with him now in case he needed it. He rarely consumed caffeine or other stimulants, so he quickly felt its effects in his system.
They neared Khorugh before first light.
Avery could make out enough from the Tajik-Farsi street signs to know they were getting near. He woke up Dagar, who, after looking around to gather his bearings, provided Avery with directions off the highway and eventually onto a rough, unpaved road that led to the village.
Eventually, Dagar instructed him to slow down.
A man in a gho robe stepped out of a decrepit hut and motioned for them to stop.
Avery lowered his window. Dagar spoke over him and exchanged words with the man in Tajik Persian, and the man stepped aside and allowed them to pass.
“One of Gurgakov’s men?” asked Avery.
“Yes,” Dagar answered. He yawned. “Gurgakov still needs to be cautious. No one has reason to come here, so any outsider is automatically subject to suspicion. They are expecting us, but Gurgakov is concerned that the GKNB may be following you, that you will lead his enemies to him.”
“But Gurgakov trusts the local villagers and peasants not to turn on him?”
“But of course he does. They are loyal to him here. These people are very poor, and Gurgakov supports their village with money and food, insulating homes, repairing roofs, and digging wells and irrigation systems. That is more than the Tajiks in Dushanbe has ever done for them. There are other villages just like this one throughout this entire province, and Gurgakov has their support, too. This is why he is a threat to Emomalii Rahmon’s power.”
The village consisted mostly of similar ramshackle huts and tiny dilapidated houses packed close together. Most of them looked like they could have three, four rooms at the most. Many appeared on the verge of collapsing beneath their own weight. There were limited power lines, and many homes lacked electricity. Vehicular traffic was sparse, almost non-existent. Most people were peasants and got around on foot and rarely, if ever, even ventured outside of the village. Others wandered around with donkeys in tow. Avery saw mostly old people, children, and lots of women.
Dagar explained that there were no jobs here, and most of the men went to Russia or Kazakhstan to find menial work in manual labor and sent the money back to their families, or they joined Gurgakov’s ranks. Less than three thousand people lived here
Tajikistan was the poorest country in the region. Farmers, whose crops failed due to years of drought, sold most of their possessions, including the tin roofs of their houses and their livestock, for cash, while children dug up rat holes to scavenge for food and skipped school because they didn’t have shoes.
“Stop here,” Dagar instructed. “We go the rest of the way on foot.”
Avery complied. He grabbed his liter-bottle of water and got out of the car. Local Pamiris walked by and looked at him curiously, but kept their distance. Dagar led the way, and Avery followed. It was a thirty-five minute hike through the steep hills and wide valleys. Avery estimated the temperature at eighty degrees, and was soon sweating. The sky was clear of clouds, and the morning sun radiated over them, the air dry and hot.
The path they took eventually led to a long, narrow rope bridge crossing a deep river valley. The bridge looked old and decrepit. Avery let Dagar go first and followed him across. The Gunt River flowed a hundred feet below, its banks steep and precipitous, with a rocky bed. A small group of men from the village fished there. On the other side of the bridge, there were wide open fields of tall grass blowing against the light breeze, and a herd of goats curiously watched them pass. Avery scanned the overlooking mountain ranges. Maybe four hundred feet high, he saw a machine-gun nest occupied by two tiny, dark figures.
They next traversed a dirt road carved through the field. Big tire treads ran down the length of it. Soon, in the distance, Avery could make out a farmhouse, and a wide, dusty road leading to it. Dagar took Avery down this road. Within minutes, two figures emerged from the farmhouse and began walking down the road in their direction.
They met almost halfway down the road. The Pamiris were dressed in tracksuits and carried AK-47s.
Following Dagar’s example, Avery stopped in his tracks and slowly raised his hands halfway up into the air, palms forward. He remained calm and showed no intimidation as the two Pamiri militants eyed him up and down and spoke quietly to each other. One of them laughed, and the mockery and derision were appare
nt in his laughter.
Dagar spoke with one of the men in the Pamiri language. They seemed to recognize each other, probably from Dagar’s travels through here the previous day, Avery surmised. After a few more words, Dagar turned his head to Avery and said in English, “He asks that we hand over to him any weapons we are carrying. They will be returned to us when we leave.”
Avery reluctantly complied. There was no point in arguing or turning around and going back. He slowly reached beneath his windbreaker and produced his Glock. He extended his hand, holding the Glock by its barrel with the butt pointed out. The Pamiri, keeping his eyes locked on Avery, stepped forward, and took the pistol. He then padded Avery down and searched through his backpack, while the second Pamiri stood back and kept his rifle trained on him.
The two Pamiris then escorted Avery and Dagar the rest of the way down the road, around the farmhouse, and to a large barn where another armed man stood, smoking a cigarette. This man opened the doors into the barn and allowed them inside. Two of the Pamiris followed them in, but they kept their distance and stayed out of the way of Gurgakov and his visitors.
Gurgakov was in his fifties, but his face appeared older, from a lifetime spent living in the mountains and waging war. He looked strong and fit, with straight, erect posture. An aged AK-47 hung at his side from a strap over his shoulder. He wore a loose fitting dirty white robe that fell to his knees and baggy tan cargo pants, with a Pamiri hat resembling a turban. He had a long, scraggly gray beard. His skin appeared dark tan, cracked and leathery, and deep lines extended from around the narrow slits of his eyes.
