Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  Zahidov felt the rage boiling through him, and he thought about all the things he should have done to the British spy when he’d had the chance. All the things he would do to the cunt if the opportunity ever came to him again.

  He heard her voice again in his head.

  She’s found a way to make peace with her brother.

  Zahidov steadied himself against the broken gun cabinet, turning slowly, then sinking to the floor, the pain in his body momentarily forgotten. What had that meant? Sevara had made peace with her brother? Would she do such a thing?

  And how? Would Ruslan be returning to Tashkent? Would Sevara allow him back into the government? Why would she? It made no sense; to do so would make her vulnerable.

  The brat, Zahidov thought. It must be the brat, she’s giving the boy back to her brother, that must be it.

  Somehow, Ruslan was playing on his sister’s sentimentality, on her guilt. Somehow, Ruslan had convinced Sevara to return her nephew to him, and she had foolishly agreed.

  He had to find out how.

  He had to find out how, and when, and put a stop to it, once and for all. A stop to all of them, to Ruslan, and Stepan, and the British spy who had been so very, very stupid in leaving him alive.

  CHAPTER 43

  Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.K. Chancery,

  Commercial Section

  28 August, 1034 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  “He’s in motion?” Andrew Fincher asked Chace.

  She flopped into the chair opposite his desk in the tiny office that served as the heart of Tashkent Station, then nodded. Officially, Fincher was listed as Vice Consul of Trade Development to the Mission, which would have earned him a larger office, if it had been true. Instead, he was shunted off into a ten-by-ten room that Chace suspected had initially been used as a closet. It made the Pit back at Vauxhall Cross look spacious.

  For all that, though, she was surprised to find that Fincher appeared to be remarkably at ease with himself.

  “You have the documentation?” she asked him.

  “Everything’ll be ready by this evening, before you leave for Termez. They had some trouble finding a picture of the boy, as you might imagine.” He slid an envelope across the desk to her, thick with paper. “Tickets for the four of you.”

  “Routing?”

  “RAF from Mazar-i-Sharif as far as Turkey, from there commercial, Frankfurt, then London.”

  “Roundabout.”

  “Best we could manage on such short notice. Easier if you’re willing to fly out of Tashkent.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “No, I know it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the COS here in Tashkent, a man named Tower, you may remember him.”

  “Should I?”

  “Tower remembers you. He’s the one who pulled you from the Interior Ministry last February.”

  “Then I owe him a very large drink.”

  “I suspect you owe him a case’s worth of very large drinks,” Fincher said, opening one of the drawers at his desk and producing a small radio set and wireless earpiece. “Anyway, Mr. Tower is now at speed regarding the search for the Starstreak, and he’ll be present in Termez, with support, ready to move on Zahidov if he shows up. London is officially viewing it as a joint operation.”

  Fincher handed the radio and earpiece over to Chace, who took them, examining both quickly.

  “Frequency’s been set. Your call sign for the operation is Shere Khan, Stepan’s is Mowgli, Tower’s is Baloo, Lankford’s is Bagheera, and the Uzbek team’s is the Ikki. You can guess who’s Kaa, and no, before you ask, I didn’t pick the names.”

  Chace laughed, making note of the frequency being used so she could share it with Lankford, before tucking the set away in the pocket of her jacket. “Seems like we’re all covered, then.”

  “I can come down to Termez, if you’d like.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Andrew, but if it all goes to hell, I’d rather have you here.” She considered him for a moment, then added, “Head of Station seems to suit you.”

  “Or I suit it,” Fincher agreed. “Took a while to warm to it, though. Hard not to view it as a demotion.”

  “I understand.”

  Fincher tugged his right earlobe. “I’m better here. A better fit, I think.”

  “It wasn’t personal, Andrew, you know that.”

  He shook his head. “Not with you, no. But I’m not looking forward to seeing Nicky or Chris come through here anytime soon.”

  “They’ll behave themselves. I’ll make certain of it.”

  “Yes, I know you will.” Andrew Fincher smiled. “And you? You’re doing well?”

  “Well enough at the moment.”

  “I still think pushing Zahidov is a mistake. You’re taking an awful risk bringing him into play like this, especially if he does have that last Starstreak.”

  “There was no sign of the missile when I tossed his apartment,” Chace replied. “Which means he’s hiding it someplace else. I had to do something to force him to bring it out into the open.”

  “All the same, you can’t be certain of what he’ll do next. And Ahtam Zahidov angry with a MANPAD is an extremely risky proposition.”

  “I am aware.” Chace cocked her head, brushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re keeping an eye on him?”

  “Until an hour ago.”

  “What happened an hour ago?”

  “Hayden says he went to the airport. He lost him there.”

  “Zahidov shook Bobby?”

  Fincher shrugged. “Bobby can’t say if it was intentional or not, but given that President Malikov has the entire NSS out looking for him, I’d suspect so.”

  “Which means that if your Number Two lost Zahidov at the airport, Zahidov certainly didn’t leave from the airport,” Chace said.

  “On his way to Termez, then?” Fincher asked.

  “Let’s hope.” She smiled at him, then leaned forward. “Can I use your coms, Andrew? I need to contact Minder Three, tell him we’re still running.”

  “By all means.” Fincher turned in his chair, reaching to the side of the desk, to the cabinet that seemed to run the length of the wall, opening the center doors. He rose, switched on the secure telephone unit inside, then edged his way between the cabinet and the desk, passing Chace. “I’ll wait outside.”

  “Thank you.”

  She waited until he’d left and shut the door after him before rising, moving to the cabinet. The space was cramped enough that she ended up perched on the desk to use the phone. She dialed into the Ops Room first.

  “MCO.”

  “Chace. I need a patch to Lankford in Mazar-i-Sharif.”

  “Stand by.”

  Chace waited, listening to the regular click of the secure line as Alexis Ferguson put her on hold. She imagined her at the MCO Desk, trying to connect with Lankford via satellite phone to the FSB in Afghanistan. It would take several minutes, and Chace tried to be patient, but waiting led to thinking, and right now thinking too much would lead to second-guessing, and she didn’t have time for that.

  But as one minute folded into the next, and she waited for Alexis or, preferably, Lankford to come on the line, she couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t the fact that Sevara had agreed to the exchange that bothered Chace. She had been dutiful enough in following the news of Uzbekistan back in London that she had months ago noted President Malikov’s attachment to the boy; it didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that it was guilt as much as affection that kept her nephew in Sevara’s care. It wasn’t even that the Americans had agreed to allow the exchange to proceed; in the final analysis, Sevara Malikov’s decision was the only one that mattered, certainly in matters of Uzbekistan’s security.

  Winding up Zahidov, though, that was the gamble, just as Fincher had pointed out. The goal had been to drive Zahidov out in the open, Starstreak in hand, by giving him a target too irresistible to ignore. But if Zahidov could actually make it to Termez with the missile, the variables increased again, b
ecause all he would need to do was wait until she, Ruslan, and Stepan were all together in the exfil vehicle, whatever it might be. As long as Zahidov had clear line of sight—and she’d seen the bridge from the air, coming across the border from the British FSB, just three days prior, and there was plenty of clear line of sight—he could park anywhere within five kilometers and easily take them out from there.

  She prayed to God that Tower would find Zahidov before Zahidov found his shot.

  There was a click on the telephone, and then Lankford’s voice. “Tara?”

  “I’ll make it quick, Chris,” Chace said. “Delivery is set for oh-eight-hundred in zone tomorrow morning. Father is to present himself at your side of the bridge for eyeball verification by big sister’s team, then I take the package across.”

  “And where am I?”

  “With the father, as planned.”

  “Then we have a problem,” Lankford said.

  “What?”

  “Kostum told Ruslan about the ambush. He’s afraid his sister will have someone take a shot at him if he comes to the border.”

  “It’s his son, he needs to be there.”

  “That’s what I told him, but he’s adamant. And he may have a point. All President Malikov needs is one warm body who knows what he’s doing with a rifle and her brother is a thing of the past. He’s planning on staying in Mazar-i-Sharif until we reach him with his son. Kostum’s supposed to ride out with me in his stead.”

  Chace chewed her lower lip for a moment. “I don’t like it.”

  “Didn’t think you would, but I’ve been trying to convince him to change his mind since he informed me of the decision when he got into town last night, and he won’t budge.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “With Kostum and some fourteen of Kostum’s men, holed up in a house about twenty minutes from the FSB. You want me to, I can bring him back here, you can try to talk to him.”

  “That’ll take you an hour, at least.”

  “And he may not come. He’s twitched, Tara. He’s certain Sevara has it in for him.”

  Chace cursed softly, then said, “Right, can’t be helped. But he needs to be ready to move as soon as we hit town. And you’ll need to arrange transport to and from the Afghan side of the bridge.”

  “Already taken care of it.”

  “You’ll need a radio from the FSB as well.” Chace gave him the frequency and the call signs, and Lankford repeated the information without comment.

  “I’ll contact you as soon as we’re in position.” The line crackled slightly, whispering static into Chace’s ear as Lankford took a moment. “And the other factor that’s now in play?”

  “He’s been given a nudge in the right direction.”

  “Risky.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Chace thought. “Too late to turn back now.”

  “Understood. See you tomorrow.”

  “I sure as hell hope so,” Chace replied.

  CHAPTER 44

  Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—Termez

  29 August, 0319 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  Zahidov held a handkerchief to his mouth, then checked the white cloth, seeing spots of blood mixed in with his saliva. His gums were still leaking, raw to the touch of his tongue, raw like the rest of him. It gave him resolve, made him all the more certain of what he had to do.

  Not for her any longer. This was for him now.

  Captain Oleg Arkitov was watching him with both suspicion and concern. “Tell me again?”

  “One helicopter and a pilot, that’s all I need. Everything else, I’ve already taken care of it. But I need the pilot and the helicopter quickly, Captain, I must be in position before dawn.”

  “And at dawn—”

  “It may not be at dawn, but I think soon after, certainly before noon. Then I do what I have been sent here to do, and your pilot, he takes me in the helicopter east, drops me in Tajikistan. Then he returns to you. That’s all.”

  “I am hesitant, Ahtam.” The yellow light shining from the ceiling of the captain’s office made Arkitov’s expression seem even more troubled, his frown more profound. “Even if everything is as you say, it puts my pilot at great risk.”

  “My risk is far greater, Oleg. This is for our country. I’m appealing to you as a patriot.”

  “So you have said.” Captain Arkitov motioned to the radio resting on the shelf beside the door. “But you can’t be here officially, Ahtam, the President replaced you this morning with her husband. It was on the radio.”

  “I’ve explained that she needs to preserve her deniability.” Zahidov ran his handkerchief across his mouth a second time. “That’s why she did it. You know the President’s relationship with me, how close she and I are. Think about it.”

  “I had heard you were no longer as close as you had been.”

  “The President of Uzbekistan must be discreet.”

  Arkitov nodded slightly, accepting that. “But if what you’re telling me is true, Ahtam, why haven’t I received orders from my superiors? Or from the President herself?”

  “Deniability. The fewer who know about this, the better.”

  “But surely, after it’s done, the whole world will know. You’ll be a wanted man.”

  “Which is why your pilot must take me to Tajikistan. You see how I look?” Zahidov indicated the bruises on his face, his injuries. “I had these wounds done to me by my own men, Oleg, to build my cover. If I am willing to lose my front teeth for this, you think I would not sacrifice even more for our country’s future?”

  Arkitov studied him, and Zahidov knew he was marking all of his many bruises and cuts and scrapes, and he tried to keep anything from his expression that might betray him.

  “No, you are a patriot, Ahtam, you always have been,” Arkitov agreed. “I accept that, I accept what you are telling me.”

  “Then you know what I need. We must get moving, I don’t have much time.”

  Zahidov rose from his chair, stopped as he realized that Arkitov had made no move to follow.

  “I don’t have much time, Oleg,” Zahidov repeated.

  “Yes, I understand that. And I understand that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for this, that Uzbekistan’s future is more important than your own. But I now must think about mine, Ahtam. If I do this, I will be blamed, accused of aiding and abetting you.”

  “You do this for your country.”

  “No, you do this for your country. I need more.”

  “You don’t deserve that uniform,” Zahidov spat, furious.

  “Perhaps not, but I am the one wearing it, and you, as you have said twice already, do not have much time.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “For this? For an act that will end my career and possibly shame me and my family? A million American dollars, I think.”

  “I don’t have a million dollars.”

  “Of course you do. Just wire one of your banks in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands to transfer the cash to my account.”

  “We don’t have time for this!”

  Arkitov folded his hands across his stomach, then stared patiently at Zahidov. “I do.”

  Zahidov swore, thought about killing the man right there, where he sat, but knew that if he did, he would never get what he needed. And the money, he would need the money if he was to run and to stay hidden, he would need the money to survive. One million dollars, that was perhaps an eighth of what he had hidden away, but it rankled, being blackmailed in this way.

  Arkitov pointedly looked at his wristwatch.

  Zahidov cursed a second time, then moved to the desk, grabbing the telephone and dialing quickly, from memory.

  “Give me the account number,” he spat at Arkitov.

  Arkitov leaned forward, pulling a piece of paper from the yellow Post-It pad on his desk, and taking up a pencil. He scribbled out a sequence of numbers, and the name of his own bank in Bern.

  It took Zahidov another twelve minutes to arrange the tran
sfer, and three minutes more for Arkitov to confirm that the funds had made their way to him. Satisfied at last, the captain hung up the phone, rose, and smiled at Zahidov.

  “Now, my friend,” he said, “let’s see about that helicopter for you.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

  Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0747 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  One journalist had labeled it the “Checkpoint Charlie of Central Asia,” and as Riess rode with Tower out toward the bridge in a filthy white Daewoo van, he thought the description both appropriate and painfully ironic. Termez itself had seen recent construction and renovation, attempts to repair and bolster its infrastructure in support of both the relief and military operations that were staged from the town. But as they left the city and followed the road down to the river, the already sun-blasted landscape dropped around them, flattening out as it ran to the water. Patches of scrub and weeds clung to the land, barely surviving.

  The van rattled as they crossed the railroad tracks, continuing down toward the foot of the bridge. Approaching, Riess could see concrete slabs painted white and black positioned as roadblocks, in an attempt to channel and control approaching vehicle traffic. The bridge itself was ugly, pure Soviet in execution, white-painted steel and concrete, and the paint was faded and peeling. On the Uzbek side, the final access to the crossing was blocked by a gate, closed and electrified, another part of the fence that marked the border. Armed guards in camouflage uniforms patrolled the immediate perimeter.

  Tower parked the Daewoo some fifty feet from the bridge, off the side of the road, and killed the engine. Riess wanted to question that decision. Not yet eight in the morning, and already the temperature had passed miserable and was well on its way to kiln. The air conditioner would be a relief.