by Greg Rucka
“My orders are—”
“Yes, you said that,” Ruslan snapped, then added something softer in Uzbek, the shape of the words lost beneath the wind rushing past the shattered window. From the corner of her eye, Chace saw him shift in his seat once more, checking again on Stepan, then resume looking out the windshield. “My name is Ruslan, not ‘sir.’ ”
Chace nodded. “Tracy.”
“Tracy?”
“Tracy.”
Ruslan nodded, and neither of them spoke again for another half-dozen kilometers, and oddly, Chace found herself growing uncomfortable with the silence. She supposed it was because Ruslan’s doubts were her doubts, that he was asking questions that she had asked herself. Riess had said Sevara had White House support, and much as she was loath to admit it, she was having a hard time believing that her government would want to oppose the Americans, at least with regard to the future of Uzbekistan.
“How old is he?” She tilted her head to indicate Stepan in the backseat.
“My son is two and two months now.”
Chace hesitated. “I have a daughter. Almost ten months old.”
Ruslan reappraised her, mildly surprised, before saying, “Ten months was good for Stepan. He was walking at ten months.”
“Mine’s not walking yet,” she said. She considered his reaction to their newly discovered common ground, thought that it might help to put him more at ease if she continued. Tamsin had ignored crawling altogether until only the week before Chace had left Barnoldswick, at which point she’d begun pulling up and the first attempts at cruising. She was adept at it, could make her way around the living room, wobbling wildly, using her hands to find support wherever she could.
Ruslan looked away from the road to study her again. He said, “You are missing her.”
“Yes.”
“You should be home, maybe, with your husband and your baby.”
“I’m not married.”
Ruslan considered that, then said, “But the father, he is with your daughter?”
She heard it in his inflection, a wistfulness, and Chace knew Ruslan was thinking of Dina.
“No,” Chace said. “No, he died.”
Again he murmured something in Uzbek before saying in English, “You have my . . . is it condolence, that is the word?”
“Condolences, yes.”
“My condolences, then. I know that pain. Too well, I think that I know that pain. So your daughter, she is without her mother, and there is no father now.”
“She’s with her grandmother.” Chace bit back the urge to become defensive. “She’s fine.”
“This is not a good job for a mother.” Ruslan said it with conviction. “Killing and spying and stealing the cars of rapists and murderers. You should be with your daughter.”
“It may not be a good job for a mother, sir, but it’s the job I have. And it’s a job you want me to complete, I’d think.”
Ruslan grunted. “To what end? I will not lead Uzbekistan. Sevara has the Americans, and the British will not oppose the American plan. At the best, Stepan and I are merely being relocated.”
“It’ll keep you safe.”
“No doubt, for a time. But it doesn’t help my country.”
From where it rested on the armrest, its antenna deployed, the satellite phone chimed, its LCD lighting up.
“It helps you,” Chace said, sharper than she’d meant to. Keeping her left on the wheel, she picked up the phone, saw that a message had arrived. She thumbed the menu, bringing up the text.
15 MIN.
“Is there a problem?” Ruslan asked.
Chace dropped the phone in her lap, checking the odometer and doing the math. They’d covered seventy-three of the seventy-seven kilometers to the landing zone. It would be tight, but they’d make it.
“No,” she told him. “Everything’s fine.”
From his expression, Chace saw that Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov didn’t believe a word she was saying.
CHAPTER 25
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—14 Uzbekiston
21 February, 0440 Hours (GMT+5:00)
It was a goddamn mess, it was nothing but a goddamn mess, and as Ahtam Zahidov kicked at the broken pieces of the house, knocking burnt wood and blasted tile with his shoe, he swore aloud like a child having a tantrum. He cursed Ruslan Malikov and he cursed Aaron Tower and, most of all, he cursed a woman he had never seen before, a woman he’d never known existed until an hour ago, some bitch called Carlisle who had come to Uzbekistan to make his life miserable, who had come to Tashkent to hurt the woman he loved.
Because that’s what this was, as far as Zahidov was concerned. This was an attempt to hurt Sevara, and never in a million years would he stand for that.
“Motherfucking cunt spy,” he spat, then kicked again, this time knocking enough rubble clear to reveal the burnt body of yet another guard. From his size, it looked like Ummat, but there was so much damage, Zahidov couldn’t be sure. He doubted they’d even find the rest of them; like the house, they’d probably been blown to bits.
This made eight bodies, six of them left on the street, as if declaring their worthlessness as sentries. And they had been worthless, Zahidov thought, all of them shot dead dead dead, and only one of them with his fucking pistol even in his hand. Which meant all of the other cocksuckers had been caught entirely unaware. They weren’t sentries, they were fucking jokes, and he had hoped to find at least one of them with his pants around his ankles and his prick in his hand, because that, that would have explained how this had happened. Six dead outside, two dead inside, and no sign of that cowardly shit Ruslan or his whimpering little abortion of a son.
They’d found cars, for all the good that had done them, but even that was sour because they hadn’t managed to find his fucking Audi. No, they’d found a Range Rover that looked like it had been maybe brought into service around the time Khrushchev was getting into a pissing match with Kennedy, and they’d found the missing Volga, parked on the other side of town, outside of the Jewish cemetery, its interior splattered with Kozim’s blood and brains and nothing else. And nothing in the Range Rover, either. Zahidov had hoped it was the spy’s when he heard about the blood in the Volga, but he knew it wasn’t. No, just fucking Kozim the dead and useless, and he had gotten off lucky, in a way, because Zahidov would have done him himself if he’d lived through this.
He glared at the phone in his hand, willing it to ring, and like everything else this night, it defied him, staying silent. All he wanted in the world at this moment was a lead, something, anything on where they were headed in his car—and he was positive they were in his car now. Police and NSS throughout the country had been given the description of his Audi, ordered to find the vehicle and detain the occupants in whatever manner was required.
The border guards had been notified at the crossing into Kyrgyzstan, less than twenty kilometers north of Tashkent; Zahidov had taken care of that as soon as Tower had told him what had happened. But Zahidov knew the spy wouldn’t go north—that portion of the border was too closely guarded, too well watched, and if she was traveling with the brat along with Ruslan, they wouldn’t go on foot, they would stick to the roads.
So maybe they’d try for Kyrgyzstan via the northeast route, but that would take them into the Chatkal Mountains. The roads that way were bad, and it would take a lot of time, and time was everything now, both to him and to the spy. By the same logic, he doubted she’d taken them toward Tajikistan. There were only two real roads that would lead south to the country, and again, one of them would wind through the Chatkal. The other would be a trip of almost one hundred and fifty kilometers, too far. Turkmenistan was easily eight hundred kilometers by road, would take even longer. Considering escape through Afghanistan was absurd.
The cunt spy wasn’t going to take them out on the ground. No, she would fly them. Which meant either a plane or a helicopter. If a plane, they’d need a runway, and he’d already alerted the airports in Tashkent, Dzhizak, and Sa
markand, and had heard nothing. No private liftoffs, no private landings, but Zahidov ordered men to those locations all the same, just to be certain. A helo would be harder to find, would be able to set down just about anywhere, though he was reasonably sure the landing zone was south of Tashkent, not to the north. There were too many sets of eyes to the north, too easy to be spotted.
If the pilot knew what he was doing, he’d come in low, to avoid radar, and if the helicopter was the right one for the job—and at this point, Zahidov was positive that it would be, because this fucking bitch spy knew what she was doing—it would have range enough to enter the country and then get out again, setting down just long enough to take on passengers. Coming in from Kazakhstan more than likely, then.
The police were on the roads now, scouring the countryside and setting up security checkpoints, but Zahidov didn’t hold out much hope for it. If she tried for Dzhizak or Zaamin or Chichak, they’d nail the bitch entering the city limits. But for precisely that reason, she wasn’t going to go city. She was going countryside, for a helo pickup.
He looked at his phone again, still resolute in its refusal to ring, then spun about on his heel, to the six men waiting on the street. They stood by the cars, engines idling, two of the Toyota Land Cruisers that the NSS preferred for their ability to go off-road. Six of his best plucked from the NSS, standing with their M-16s. Zahidov had even ordered Tozim to pull the two remaining Starstreaks from storage, loading one each into the back of the cars. All these men needed was a direction, a way to go, and he couldn’t give them one.
He shouted at Tozim. “Where’s the fucking Sikorsky? Where the fuck is it?”
“It’s coming, Ahtam! It’s coming, it should be here any second. We had to get a pilot out of bed, it’s taking—”
Zahidov spun away, waving his free hand to shut Tozim up. He needed to think, he needed to think like this spy. The helicopter, that was the key to it, that was the trick. He’d been hoping Tower would call, tell him where the LZ was for the bitch’s pickup, but it wasn’t coming, there was no call, and that meant that all of the U.S. forces on the ground and all of their radar and all of their technology and all of their talent couldn’t find the bird. Coming in low, coming in from Kazakhstan or Kyrgyzstan.
Coming along the river, Zahidov suddenly realized. Following the Syr Darya in its valley, to stay low.
This bitch, this spy, she would meet her helicopter along the river, somewhere south of Tashkent, that had to be it.
He tucked the phone in his pocket, closed the distance to Tozim, put a hand on his shoulder. Tozim was younger by perhaps two years, tall and strong and faithful and loyal enough that he’d been one of the men he’d chosen to help with Dina Malikov.
“Take three men and head south along the Samarkand highway,” Zahidov told him. “Fast as you can. Keep your radio at hand.”
Tozim nodded, the excitement visible on his face. “You’ve got them? You know where they’re going?”
“I think so, not exactly, but I think so. Take the road to the M39 bridge, where it crosses the river, start searching there. Take one of the Starstreaks. You see any helicopter that isn’t the Sikorsky, you bring it down.”
“I will.”
“Go.”
Tozim moved, grabbing the three men nearest, tumbling them into the first car, and they peeled out, the wheels whining as the car made a tight turn before accelerating out of sight. Zahidov could hear the Sikorsky now, looked up to see the lights on the helo’s fuselage coming closer.
“You two are with me. Bring the missile.”
The two hurried to comply.
Zahidov moved out into the street, raising a hand, and the Sikorsky settled into a slow descent. Prop wash from the blades stirred the dirt and dust and debris on the street, making it fly about. Zahidov turned his head away, to shield his eyes, saw that his remaining men had their hands to their faces. He heard the Sikorsky’s motor whine, then change pitch as the big machine settled on the ground. He ran for the door, making his way through the cabin to the cockpit phone.
The Sikorsky was an S-76, a commercial model, not military, used by Sevara and her father for quick trips in comfort around the countryside, spacious enough inside for five, plus another two in the cockpit. There were no armaments, but it did have the one thing that all Sikorsky helicopters had, from the military Black Hawks to the civilian S-92: it had speed.
While his men loaded the missile and then themselves, Zahidov grabbed the handset from the cabin wall. The pilot came on instantly.
“The river,” Zahidov told him. “Fast as you can, get us to the river, and then start following it south.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fast as you can.” Zahidov repeated, and before he’d even hung up, the rotors above were again gaining speed, the engine whine growing louder once more. He helped the last of his men in, slamming the door shut just as the Sikorsky begin to rise. The helicopter banked sharply, tilting as it gained altitude, then rocking forward as it gained speed. Zahidov swayed on his feet as if riding a wave. One of his men stumbled, falling against the couch and dropping his M-16.
Then the Sikorsky settled on its path, and Zahidov turned his attention to the crate and began preparing the Starstreak for launch.
CHAPTER 26
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,
Office of the Political Counselor
21 February, 0443 Hours (GMT+5:00)
Riess sat, staring blankly at his monitor, not seeing and not much caring for the work that required his attention. He’d been unable to sleep following Tower’s visit, wandering around his home in the small hours, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to proceed. He’d tried reaching the Ambassador at the Residence just after two-thirty in the morning, had been surprised when his wife, Michelle, had answered the phone instead, telling him that Garret wasn’t in, that she thought he was at the Embassy.
He’d hung up and changed clothes, then headed for the Chancery. The gate Marines checked his pass, let him through, and he’d made his way to the Ambassador’s office, through corridors that weren’t nearly as empty as they should’ve been at a quarter to three in the morning. Riess had passed the Press Office, seen the lights on inside, and his mood had soured further. Lydia Straight was burning midnight oil, and the only reason he could see for that was damage control. What damage she was controlling was the only real question, and he hoped it wasn’t his or Garret’s.
He was stopped at the Ambassador’s office by one of the Marines, some kid from Georgia with the accent to prove it. “I’m sorry, sir, the Ambassador is not to be disturbed.”
“I need to speak to him.”
“Yes, sir. He’s not to be disturbed, sir.”
“You know what he’s doing in there?”
“I believe he’s on the phone, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t really know. He’s not to be disturbed, sir.”
Riess wanted to ask what the kid did know, if, in fact, the Marine knew anything at all, but he didn’t, just turned and made his way to the Pol/Econ office, doing time-zone math in his head. Past three in the morning in Tashkent put it past five in the previous day’s evening in D.C. With Lydia Straight in the Media Office and the Ambassador on the phone, Riess was sure that Garret was talking to Washington, getting lashed by either S or D or the White House itself.
Not good. None of it was good, and Riess felt something he hadn’t since the days following the bombing in Dar es Salaam. Not just lost, but adrift.
He’d brewed a pot of coffee, started on his first cup, when Lydia Straight came through the door, out of breath and looking like she’d sprinted the halls to reach him.
“There’s been a bombing,” she said.
Riess lunged for his desk, spilling coffee all over his hand, swearing. He flicked the radio on, hoping to find the news, saying, “Anyone injured?”
“Fuck if I know,” Straight said. “It literally just came on, I just heard it on the radio in my office. No idea how long ago it happened
.”
“Suicide? Car? Both?”
She shrugged at him, and beyond her, down the hall, Riess saw a Marine run past, probably headed out to the gate to double up the watch. He shook coffee off his hand, reached for the secure telecom unit on his desk, started dialing the Operations Center at the State Department.
“The Ambassador’s in his office,” Riess told Straight. “Let him know what’s happened, I’ll deal with it here.”
“Right,” Lydia Straight said, and bolted off down the hall.
The radio babbled Uzbek at him, and he dropped the handset long enough to grab a pen and scrap paper, taking notes as fast as he could. Bomb. Uzbekiston. East part of the city. Unknown casualties. Home of a government official. More to come.
Jesus Christ, he thought. Ruslan. It’s Ruslan’s home.
He dropped the pen and went back to the phone. There was the hiss and ping of the satellite connecting, and the phone rang, or rather, beeped, and then the Duty Officer at the State Department Operations Center came on the line. Riess identified himself, his post, then gave the bullet on what he knew, which was, as yet, too little.
“Any American casualties?” the Duty Officer asked.
“Unknown.”
“How many dead?”
“Unknown.”
“It was a residence?”
“That’s what the radio is reporting. I’m going to head out, see if I can find something concrete.”
“Keep us posted.”
Riess killed the connection, dialed McColl, waking him with four rings. When the Political Counselor came on the line, he said, “Sorry to wake you, sir, but there’s been reports of a bombing on east Uzbekiston. You might want to come in.”
“Dammit to hell,” McColl grumbled, thoroughly annoyed. “You’re in the office?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was a pause, then McColl said, “I’ll be there shortly.”
Riess grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he went out the door, stopping only long enough to close and lock it behind him. He was trying to keep his head clear, trying not to make too much of the news, to not let his imagination run away with him, but all he could think was that it was Ruslan’s home, it had to be Ruslan’s home, and he wondered if this, too, wasn’t somehow his fault, the way he felt Dina Malikov’s death was his fault.
