by Greg Rucka
“How high?”
“I can’t say.”
“Intelligence and Security Committee? FCO? Cabinet level? Ministerial?”
“I can’t say, Tara.”
“But you’re telling me that you’ve secured approval at either C’s level or higher, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“You understand why I ask, don’t you? Because I’d hate to take a job only to discover that I’m going to be sold out again upon completion. Once was enough for me, you understand.”
She saw Crocker’s mouth twist slightly, his approximation of a smile.
“I didn’t say I’d do it, Paul,” she warned. “Don’t get excited.”
“You want to do it.”
“So I can become Whitehall’s bitch again? No, thank you.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You did it so well last time.”
“I’ll protect you,” Crocker repeated, more insistent. “You do the job, I’ll bring you home, Tara. You’ll be Minder One again, you’ll be Head of Section again, back where you belong. Where you should be right now.”
“I should be back in Barlick right now, with Tamsin.”
“I hope you’re convincing yourself with that line, because you’re sure as hell not convincing me.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“This isn’t about love,” Crocker interrupted. “Of course you love her, you’re her mother. But you’re dying by inches out here. You hate it, and you hate yourself for wishing you were back in London, and back on the job. But you need to be back on the job, and we both know it, so perhaps it’s time you stopped pretending.”
Chace shook her head again.
“I know, Tara.” He lowered his voice, speaking more slowly, picking the words more carefully. “I understand, I really do. I was Minder One with a wife and two children; trust me, I know. You’re not abandoning her, you’re not betraying her.”
Chace swallowed, turned away. To the northeast, clouds were sweeping in over the summit of the hill, dragging a curtain of rain along with them.
“She’s not even a year old.”
“She’ll be all right.”
Chace heard the rustle of Crocker’s coat, knew that he was offering her the envelope again, could imagine the contents. The papers and the passport, the file photos of Ruslam—correction, Ruslan—Mihailovich Malikov and his two-year-old son. Maybe a map, certainly a two- or three-page briefing paper, culled from the Intelligence Directorate, of what to expect from Uzbekistan, from Tashkent. Options and suggestions and Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, a nice single girl from Oxfordshire who was quite possibly already known to the world as a tissue of lies.
“She’ll be fine, Tara,” Crocker said. “And so will you.”
“I was right,” Chace said. “You are a bastard.”
She took the envelope.
Preoperational Background
Zahidov, Ahtam Semyonovich
So the Old Man was finally dying, and the irony was, of course, that now was not the time. Had his body chosen to begin failing him even six months earlier, things would have been different, before Ruslan’s self-righteous cunt of a wife had started playing at spy. But no, as much as President Mihail Malikov walked and talked and spoke and dressed as a post-Soviet statesman, he had the heart and soul of an old Communist bastard, the kind who would go on living out of sheer will, out of sheer spite, refusing death with pure outrage born of the unthinkable. Death, in the final estimation, was the ultimate relinquishment of all the power Mihail Malikov had spent a lifetime greedily accumulating.
But death didn’t really give a damn, and the President’s third heart attack in as many years made that abundantly clear. Death was coming for Mihail Malikov, and when it claimed him, then all hell would break loose.
Unless Zahidov could get the pieces in place. Unless he and Sevara could make not only the President but the DPMs and the Americans see the benefits to an orderly succession. And if Sevara could convince her father to state, publicly, that she must assume control in the event of his passing, the battle would be all but won before it started.
The appropriate gestures would have to be made, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that hadn’t been done before in one fashion or another. Sevara’s assumption of power would have to be accompanied by the requisite statements of regret and humility, and the immediate declaration that she would call for a general election at the end of her term, the term that she completed now only at her father’s specific behest. They most likely would have an election, too, to appease the Americans and the British, but that was no matter. Like the two elections President Malikov had won already, this, too, would be a formality.
This time, Zahidov mused, perhaps they would give Sevara a little less of the vote. The last time President Malikov had run, he’d “won” office with over ninety-six percent of the vote in his favor, and that after having outlawed the opposition parties.
Sometimes, Zahidov wondered why the President hadn’t just claimed ninety-nine percent of the vote. If he was going to be that obvious, what was another three percent? Or even four?
If Sevara won with, say, sixty-five percent, that would be more than enough. And if they arranged it right, it might even look moderately legitimate, too.
So that was the first part, getting the President aboard, and Ahtam Zahidov had to admit that his handling of Dina Malikov had gone a good distance toward bringing that to pass. It had been tricky to negotiate, and Sevara had warned him as much.
“One thing to remove an extremist,” she’d told him, watching Zahidov as he dressed at the foot of her bed. “Another thing entirely to kill the mother of his only grandchild.”
“You should have children,” Zahidov had responded. “Show him that his dynasty can spring from you as easily as from your brother.”
“That would require Deniska’s cock. Which, unfortunately, would also require the rest of him.”
“Put a bag over his head.”
Sevara had laughed at the thought, then pulled back the bedsheet and come toward him on her hands and knees. Zahidov had stopped dressing, watching her approach, drinking in the sight of her. Sevara Malikov-Ganiev would have been beautiful even if she didn’t work at it, even if she didn’t use spas and personal trainers and stylists. Under the warm light of the chandelier her skin seemed lustrous, her hair as rich a red as the petals on a rose, her eyes shining. They’d made love twice already, and watching her coming toward him, the smile playing at her mouth, her tongue touching her lower lip, he wanted her again.
When she reached him, he took her in his arms, fastened his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the passion, all the love he had, feeling each returned. She touched his cheek when their lips parted, stroked a lacquered nail over his mouth.
“Our children,” she’d promised. “Our dynasty. In time.”
“In time,” he’d echoed. After she was President, when Malikov was gone, and beyond caring about things like marriage and divorce and paternity.
She was his biggest weakness, and each of them knew it. It gave Zahidov shallow comfort to know that he was hers, too.
Sex was so easy to come by at the worst of times, and in Uzbekistan even the lowest official could slake that thirst. But whores did nothing for Zahidov, no matter how beautiful, how willing, how young, how expensive. Even the rape of Ruslan’s wife had done nothing for him; it was just another method of interrogation, a way to break the bitch’s will, to demonstrate his absolute power over her. In truth, he wouldn’t have even bothered, instead leaving it to two or three of his men to have their way with her.
But Dina had threatened Sevara, and that had angered Zahidov. More, Dina had feared him, and so Zahidov had felt it was important that he take her, just to set the proper direction to the interrogation.
When he’d brought the video of the interrogation to Sevara, she asked him to stay and watch it with her. It had aroused her, and that had in turn aroused him. She’d taken him
then and there, in her husband’s office at the Interior Ministry, bending over the desk, looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Like Dina,” Sevara had commanded.
It wasn’t as if the Americans didn’t know how business was done in Uzbekistan, the same way it hadn’t bothered anyone—at least, not anyone who mattered—when Ambassador McInnes had gone weeping and wailing to the press. Certainly, President Malikov had felt the displeasure from each country, had felt the pressure to loosen his grip, but in the end, everyone involved understood the stakes. There was a war on, after all, a Global War on Terror, a conflict that now raged around the world, and one that required new rules. The Coalition might not approve of how the NSS acquired its intelligence, but disapproval didn’t stop the FBI or the CIA or the SIS from using it all the same.
But McInnes, and Dina, and now that new American Ambassador, Garret—they could make things difficult for President Malikov. Every time a tape was released, every time a new report of so-called human rights abuses was filed, the pressure built and kept building until someone, either U.S. or U.K., decided something had to be done. If not to actually redress the perceived problem, to at least appear to be doing so.
This redress took the form of sanctions, more often than not, and that, in turn, meant the withholding of promised aid. In the last four years alone, the U.S. had held back over fifty million dollars in promised funds, all in the name of encouraging President Malikov to improve his record on human rights. The hypocrisy of it made Zahidov want to spit. As if the Americans weren’t just the same, as if the British weren’t just the same. Abu Ghraib and Camp X-Ray and countless other facilities, Zahidov was certain they were all the same. But when someone pointed a finger at America or at Britain, who sanctioned them?
Just like the rape of Dina Malikov, it was an exercise in power, nothing more.
In the end, the money would come again. Uzbekistan was just too important to the war.
And everyone knew it.
But that didn’t keep President Malikov’s ego from being bruised each time he was pilloried in the eyes of the world. When the Old Man saw the proof that it was Dina Malikov who had been responsible for the latest round of editorials, angry letters, and sanctions, when he heard her talking about just how much she had given the Americans, it made the loss of his grandson’s mother that much easier to bear.
It was a small thing, then, to suggest that perhaps his son had known all along what his wife was doing. That he had perhaps if not encouraged it, certainly permitted it. And if Ruslan had encouraged it, well, the reasons behind such treachery were easy enough to see.
Sevara, the dutiful daughter, devoted to her father, found it hard to say the words.
“He wishes to replace you, Father.”
If only it were that simple, and that easy. But Zahidov knew from experience that Mihail Malikov wasn’t a fool. The Old Man wouldn’t have survived for this long if he were. He knew the ulterior motives in bringing this incident to his attention. He knew that Sevara coveted his power just as greedily as Ruslan did.
It would take more than simple suspicion to fix the ascension.
But this was a start, Zahidov had to admit, and a strong one. Before Dina’s confession, Ruslan had been the clear choice, his father’s favorite, and male, to boot.
Now, at least, Sevara stood a chance at gaining her father’s blessing.
The rest, Zahidov was certain, would come in time.
President Malikov was the first part. The second, more easily handled in a fashion Zahidov preferred, were the Deputy Prime Ministers of the various and sundry offices who held power throughout the country. If they opposed Sevara’s ascension, it would make things difficult.
Fortunately, there were three easy ways to deal with the DPMs. Threats, which, Zahidov knew from experience, worked remarkably well when properly delivered. These could be delivered by himself or by his agents. He preferred video for this tactic, because he felt the moving image provided much more immediacy, and thus a greater sense of peril. Played for a recalcitrant DPM in a darkened room, two or three minutes of footage showing a loved one, spouse or lover or child, as the person went about his or her daily business, oblivious, could be all it took. If more pressure was needed, some physical evidence, perhaps, a particular piece of jewelry, or—Zahidov found this particularly effective if there was a romantic attachment—an undergarment of some sort. Presented to make the point perfectly clear: see how close we can get, see how you cannot protect your son/daughter/wife/mother/lover/friend.
It was not the first choice, but should it be required, he had no doubt of its efficacy.
The second option was money, of course, and this was likely to be the most successful tactic. President Malikov had, for obvious reasons, filled the posts of the DPMs with men of like mind, and thus, like the President, their greed was abundant. Payoffs in cash, transfers to Swiss or Cayman Islands bank accounts, these things could be easily arranged, and Sevara had the money to spare. This would not be a wasted expenditure for her, but rather an investment on future gains. In the last two years alone, she had cleared something in the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars American by using the Interior Ministry to facilitate the transport of heroin from Afghanistan into the ever-hungry veins of Moscow.
The poppy had returned with a vengeance with the fall of the taleban to the south, and all that was needed was a way to bring it to market. Uzbekistan, with its unique position bordering no less than five other countries, was an ideal transfer point. Unlike her father, Sevara had no qualms about moving the drugs through the country, and Zahidov had no doubt she would continue to work with the drug lords in Afghanistan when her ascension came to pass.
There was but one rule when dealing with the heroin, and it was inviolate, and Zahidov himself had proposed it to Sevara, who instantly saw the wisdom in it. The rule was this: heroin could enter Uzbekistan, and it could leave Uzbekistan, but it could never be sold in Uzbekistan. This was done for no reason associated with the health and well-being of the Uzbeks, but rather out of sheer self-preservation and protection. Should the heroin find its way into the arms of the American soldiers stationed in the country, the Americans would respond with a vengeance, a headache Sevara most certainly didn’t want, or for that matter, need.
Which, in its way, brought about the third method of dealing with the DPMs. This was by far the most cost effective, and the most efficient, but also the hardest to achieve.
If the Americans supported Sevara Malikov-Ganiev as the next President of Uzbekistan, the DPMs would fall into line like eager soldiers on a parade ground. If the White House backed Sevara, that would be all it took.
If.
This was why, on the morning of February, Ahtam Zahidov found the surveillance report he was reading so very alarming. After demanding why it had taken four days—four days!—for it to reach him, he had the officer responsible for the report brought in to speak with him. It took another forty-seven minutes to locate the man, but only three minutes after that to get a positive identification from a photograph.
Concerned, Zahidov left his office in the Ministry of the Interior on Yunus Rajabiy, quickly making his way across town to the Oily Majlis, the Parliament Building, on the west side of Alisher Navoi National Park, named after the famed Uzbek humanist and artist who had died over five hundred years ago. It took Zahidov another twenty minutes of searching before he found Sevara, locked in a meeting with the State Customs Committee. He interrupted, knocking twice on the conference room door before entering, and Sevara, seated at the head of the table, her papers around her, an aide standing to the side, turned sharply at the unprecedented interruption.
When she saw it was him, though, she smiled, and despite the message he was bearing, the smile lifted him as well.
“Excuse me, please,” Sevara said, and rose from the table, the committee members all sliding their seats back in response, getting to their feet. “No, sit—we’ll continue in just a moment.”<
br />
Zahidov held the door for her as she stepped past, into the corridor. The carpet had been replaced recently, a deep blood-red color, still new enough that it gave slightly beneath his feet. When she was out and beside him, he put a hand on her elbow, taking her another few feet down the hall, making certain they would not be overheard.
“Ahtam? What is it?” The concern in her expression and her voice made it clear her first thought was for him.
“Ruslan is reaching out to the Americans.”
The concern on Sevara’s face dissipated, replaced by a sharper intensity. “How do you know this?”
“He had an automobile accident on Saturday, and it wasn’t an accident. He nearly ran over one of the men from the American Mission.”
Her brow creased. “The same man?”
Zahidov nodded. “Charles Riess.”
“They spoke?”
“According to my man’s report, not more than a few words. But I am certain it was no accident, not the day after his wife’s body was found.”
“You think he passed a message?”
“He must have.”
Sevara made a noise, sucking on her lower lip for a moment as she thought, and Zahidov cursed himself silently, because it made him desire her there and then, even with this problem, even with what it could mean for them. She seemed to know it, too, because she met his eyes, and her smile was sudden and pleased.
“You look so worried, Ahtam. But my brother’s given us just what we need. We bring proof that he’s trying to move things along with the Americans to my father, my position will be secured.”
“Unless he’s gone to the Americans to secure his own position.”
“With what? What does he have?”
“He won’t need much if the Americans support him.”
Her smile faded as she considered his response. “You’re still watching him?”
“Three men. They’re old KGB, so they know what they’re doing.”
