Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  Ahead of them, the border guards stepped aside, watching them advance. Chace heard the clack of a switch being thrown nearby. Another guard moved to the gates, pushing them apart.

  Walking alongside the railroad tracks, Chace and Stepan stepped onto the bridge and began the thousand-meter walk into Afghanistan.

  CHAPTER 49

  Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

  Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0800 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than he had hoped.

  Zahidov had thought he would get Ruslan and his turd offspring, but Ruslan was nowhere to be found on the Afghan side. That had disappointed him. He’d wanted Ruslan to witness what would happen, to see it with his own eyes.

  But then he’d seen the blond woman, the British spy, the woman who had given him nothing but pain, physical and more, and it drove away the disappointment, replacing it with a joy he hadn’t felt since he’d last been in Sevara’s arms. This was justice, and if he had believed in God, he would have offered a prayer of thanks.

  Perhaps Ruslan wouldn’t bear witness, but the bitch would, and maybe, if everything went very well and he was very quick, he could kill her, too. For a moment, he even toyed with hitting her first, but discarded the idea. The woman meant nothing to Sevara; it was Stepan who mattered to her. So it had to be Stepan first, and that was fine with Zahidov.

  From his vantage point, lying in the dirt a half-kilometer or so from the bridge, just over one and a half kilometers from Afghanistan, watching through the spotting scope mounted on its squat little tripod, he felt no fear. Through his scope he could see the vehicle on the Afghan side, could see the pale black-haired man pacing beyond the closed gate. Every so often the man would stop, then raise a set of binoculars to his eyes, never once looking Zahidov’s way, simply tracking the progress of the British bitch and Stepan across the bridge. Then he would lower the binoculars and resume pacing.

  Zahidov moved off the spotting scope, sliding to his right in the dirt, to where the weapon waited for him. He brought it to his shoulder, used the line of the bridge to guide his view, settling the crosshairs between the woman and the small boy. He would wait until they crossed, until they had stepped into Afghanistan.

  All he needed now was a little more patience.

  Behind and below him, the Mi-24v helicopter he’d bought from Arkitov—and that was how Zahidov viewed it, he had paid a million dollars for it, after all—waited, nestled in the bowl made by this series of hillocks, its pilot behind the stick, waiting for his word. The pilot had made no sound since they’d landed, apparently understanding the seriousness of Zahidov’s undertaking. His presence, a guarantee of escape, reassured Zahidov. Once his work here was done, he would board the helicopter, order the pilot to fly low and fast to Tajikistan. And if the pilot resisted or offered protest, then Zahidov would put his gun against his neck, to end that dispute.

  Once in Tajikistan and on the ground, Zahidov would kill the pilot, something that he was sure Arkitov had understood was part of their transaction. He would have to; he couldn’t risk the pilot returning to tell the Americans where he had gone, or worse, have the pilot turn the helicopter’s guns on him.

  Zahidov blinked, clearing his vision, then settled again behind the sight. The morning sunlight had been heating the weapon steadily since dawn, and it was already hot to the touch, burning against his cheek, waiting to be used.

  The spy was still walking with the boy, walking so slowly, and Zahidov felt an almost unbearable frustration in his chest. They weren’t even halfway to Afghanistan yet, and what patience he had left was swiftly being stripped away.

  Pick him up, he thought angrily. Just carry him.

  But no, the spy, this bitch who had beaten him, this bitch who had hurt him, mocked him, humiliated him, she walked, letting a two-and-a-half-year-old boy’s legs set her pace. Holding his hand, and every so often her head turned to the boy, and he could tell she was speaking to him, and that infuriated him even more.

  Then, to his horror, midway across the bridge, they stopped.

  They stopped.

  CHAPTER 50

  Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

  Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0802 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  “Good God,” Riess muttered, “why doesn’t she just carry him?”

  Tower didn’t speak. Instead, it was the radio that squawked, as if in response, and then a voice came on, speaking in Uzbek, the same voice Riess had heard before.

  “Baloo, Ikki, respond.”

  Riess came off the binoculars, watched Tower grab the radio, then glare at him. Tower stabbed his free hand out the front of the van, in the direction of the bridge.

  “Keep your eyes on them, dammit! I need to know if anything changes.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Watch the fucking bridge, Chuck!”

  Riess went back to looking through the binoculars, finding Tara-not-Tracy once again, still gripping the boy’s hand, still walking steadily along with him. Their progress was painfully slow, governed by the little boy’s inadequate stride.

  “Baloo, this is Ikki, please respond.”

  “Go ahead, Ikki.”

  “We are in position and holding. Status?”

  “Shere Khan and Mowgli are making the crossing, stand by.” Riess heard Tower move slightly. “Where are they?”

  “Halfway,” Riess said. “They’re halfway—Shit!”

  “What?”

  “They’ve stopped!” Riess came off the binoculars again, looking to Tower. “They’ve fucking stopped!”

  Tower raised the radio. “Ikki, Baloo. Direct me.”

  “North point two kilometers, then east. We will meet you.”

  With his free hand, and much to Riess’ distress, Tower turned the key in the ignition, starting up the van. “En route. Out.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Riess demanded.

  “What we came here to do, Chuck.”

  Tower pulled the gearshift, dropping the van into drive, and they lurched forward, accelerating and turning all at once. Riess felt himself pulled to the left, twisted around against his seatbelt, trying to keep an eye on the bridge.

  “We can’t just—”

  “Sure we can,” Tower cut in. “What are we going to do—drive out onto the bridge and pick them up?”

  “They’re out there, they’re just hanging out there!”

  “Relax, it’s in hand.”

  Riess fell back into his seat, started to open his mouth again, then shut it. She wasn’t moving. Tara-not-Tracy wasn’t moving, and Tower hadn’t at all been surprised she wasn’t.

  “It was a signal. Between you and her, it was a signal.”

  Tower hit the brakes, hard, and the van slid into a turn, then hopped off the road onto a thread of dirt trail. The road and the van weren’t a good pairing, and Riess grabbed at the dash, trying to keep himself stable in his seat.

  “You’re learning,” Tower told him.

  Then the van hit a slope that came out of nowhere, and the vehicle pitched forward, and suddenly Riess was looking at two Uzbek Army APCs, and Tower was slamming on the brakes again, slowing them. Even as he did, the APCs started up, and the radio spoke once more.

  “Ikki, Baloo. Standing by.”

  “Let’s do it,” Tower told the radio.

  The APCs rolled forward, accelerating, and Tower slid in behind them, and Riess’ mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together, and then suddenly he saw it, understood why Tower had come. Stepan, Tara-not-Tracy, Sevara . . . none of them had anything to do with it.

  “Zahidov,” he said. “Zahidov is Kaa.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Why’s he here, what’s that bastard doing here?”

  “Unless I’m wrong, he’s going to fire a missile into Afghanistan.”

  “He’ll start a fucking war!”

  “Nah, it’ll just be a mess
y diplomatic incident. Don’t overstate it, Chuck.”

  Riess shook his head, half to clear it, half to try to dispel his disbelief. “Where’d he get the fucking missile?”

  Tower, still concentrating on driving the van over the rough terrain, started to answer, but then the van burst over the crest of the hill. Riess saw the helicopter, an Uzbek Army bird, covered with camouflage netting, and past it, the man sprawled on the ground, looking down at the river and the bridge and Afghanistan.

  Zahidov turned at the sound of their approach, his expression empty in its confusion. The van came down and skidded to a stop, and Riess was thrown against his door, but he didn’t feel it, because his whole world had become one man, what that man held in his hands.

  Zahidov was twisting about, back to face the bridge, and from the APCs, Uzbek soldiers were pouring forth, and there was gunfire, all of it together, and everything happening together. Zahidov flopped and flailed, hit by several bursts at once, his body trying to follow each bullet and instead able to follow none. He fell, and the weapon he’d held in his hands tumbled free.

  “Motherfucker,” Tower said, reaching for his radio.

  CHAPTER 51

  No-Man’s-Land—Amu Darya River—

  “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0803 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  Chace had stopped not so much because the boy needed her to carry him, but because she needed the signal to be clear. It was a game of trust now, trust that everyone would do what they were supposed to, be where they were supposed to, when they were supposed to.

  She could see Kostum and Lankford at the far end of the bridge, standing in Afghanistan, five hundred meters away. When she turned and looked back, she could see Sevara’s little motorcade, the President standing where they’d left her, watching their progress.

  Then she heard the radio chatter in her ear, Tower’s voice speaking in Uzbek, and another’s, answering him in the same language. She saw the plume of dust spurt from where the van had been parked on the slope, and she knew it was on, and as a result, she knew several other things. The first was that Ahtam Zahidov was somewhere within five kilometers of their position, within the maximum range of the Starstreak. Second, that he planned on using the Starstreak to kill not just Stepan and Ruslan, but Lankford and herself as well.

  And third, that she now needed to make certain Zahidov stayed so focused on what she was doing that he didn’t decide to fire early, that he wouldn’t see what was coming.

  Stepan was looking up at her, confusion painting his small face, and he asked her a question in Uzbek, and she smiled at him, then crouched and hoisted him in her arms, positioning him on her left hip.

  “How about a song?” she asked him. “Shall we sing a song?”

  Stepan’s confusion remained, and Chace resumed walking along the bridge. Most of the songs she knew by heart, she realized, were entirely inappropriate for children, whether Stepan could understand them or not. Instead, she pointed with her free hand down toward the southern end of the bridge, and used the one Uzbek word that Stepan himself had taught her.

  “That way,” she told the little boy. “Ota.”

  The boy twisted in her arm, looking, and she felt him tense with excitement, and for a second, she was afraid she would lose her grip on him as he tried to lunge forward. Then, not seeing his father, he sagged and turned an accusing look at her. She couldn’t blame him. That Ruslan’s fear had been greater than his desire to see his son, to be present when the little boy came across the border, confused her. If it had been Chace waiting for Tamsin, she’d have stood naked with a bull’s-eye painted over her heart, just so her daughter would know she was waiting.

  From the southern end of the bridge, Kostum shouted something in Uzbek at them, and Chace didn’t understand a word of it, but it got Stepan’s attention, and he squirmed in her arm. There was a crackle in her ear, and a second transmission in Uzbek, followed by another response, and now Tower sounded more agitated, more urgent. Chace tried to keep her progress as slow as before, buying time, but Afghanistan was coming closer. She thought about stopping again, but to do so a second time would be too risky—Zahidov would see it for what it was, a stalling tactic.

  Look at me, she thought. Look at me, hate me, look at me. Just don’t hate me so much you lose your patience.

  Stepan was speaking in her arms, apparently in response to Kostum’s words. Chace wondered just how much of what the little boy was saying was actually Uzbek versus toddler babble. Kostum was gesturing toward himself, then the vehicle, parked and waiting for them. Lankford now stood by the open driver’s door, the tension on his face, the anxiety. She shared it.

  The trap hinged on denying Zahidov the optimum shot, on keeping Chace, Stepan, and Lankford apart for as long as possible. Once they were all together in Afghanistan, once they were at the vehicle, that would be when Zahidov loosed the Starstreak. They had to stay separated long enough for Tower and the Uzbeks to close in on Zahidov. But they couldn’t be obvious about it, because if Zahidov for an instant thought he was being set up, he’d take whatever shot he could.

  And Chace knew whom that shot would be targeted at, and this time, she was sure there’d be no narrow escape for her and little Stepan Malikov.

  She kept walking, measuring her pace, trying to guess at the time. How long had it been since she’d given the go signal? Thirty seconds? Forty? A minute? How fast would they be able to move overland, how far away was Zahidov?

  The Afghan border guards were raising the gate now, she saw the two bars of white-and-red-painted metal lifting and separating, clearing the way. Chace felt her stomach contracting, knowing that her next few steps would take her and the boy into the kill zone, the blast radius of the Starstreak when it hit the Cherokee. Any instant now, Zahidov would fire.

  Any instant now, he would kill them all.

  Then Chace heard the echo of gunfire as it rolled down the hills out of Uzbekistan and across the water, the chorus of automatic rifles as they made certain that the man who had tortured her, who had murdered the mother of the child in her arms, could never hurt anyone ever again.

  CHAPTER 52

  Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

  Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0803 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  Finally, the bitch had done what she was supposed to be doing all along. And carrying the little shit, that was even better—she’d be wearing his blood by the time he was through.

  Zahidov felt his heart pounding in his ears, his pulse making his very palms vibrate. He adjusted his position slightly, pressing the sight more firmly to his eye, settling the crosshairs on little boy’s head as it rested on the blond bitch’s shoulder. If he did it right, he’d take them both together.

  He heard engines, car engines, or engines larger than cars, and for a moment the sound confused him. They were far from the road, far enough that the sounds of the vehicles traveling it wouldn’t carry. He pulled his eye from the sight and half turned, trying to find the source of the noise, and then he saw the vehicles coming, two APCs and, of all things, a white van, a Daewoo, and they were roaring toward him, cresting the hill above where the helicopter waited.

  And in that moment, Ahtam Zahidov knew he had been had.

  Swearing, he twisted back around, to face the bridge and Afghanistan, trying to reacquire the bitch and the boy in his sights. But he’d shifted, he was looking at the water, not at the bridge, and it took him precious seconds to reacquire the target, and then he could see them, the two figures about to come off the bridge, the gate on the Afghan side being raised.

  He heard the shouts and the gunfire together, the rattle of automatic weapons, and he knew that they were too late, all he needed to do was pull the trigger, such a little gesture, such a tiny act. But his chest felt suddenly heavy, as if filled with cast iron, and his legs felt brittle, and he couldn’t see the target anymore, only sky. He felt a thousand blows raining down on his body.

  He s
aw his rifle on the ground.

  Then a last blow shattered his head, and he never saw anything else.

  CHAPTER 53

  Afghanistan—Balkh Province—

  1.3 Km ESE “Friendship Bridge”

  29 August, 0806 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  Lankford drove the Cherokee, taking them out along the newly paved road that paralleled the Amu Darya, Chace seated beside him. In the backseat, belted in, Stepan sat numbly beside Kostum, who, Chace thought, was doing a wretched job of trying to reassure the boy.

  She was looking back over the river, to the Uzbek side, when Tower’s voice crackled once again in her ear, the transmission distorted with interference from the border posts.

  “We have Kaa but negative on the candle. Baloo to Shere Khan, do you copy?”

  Chace glanced sharply to Lankford, saw from his expression that he’d received the transmission as well, was just as bewildered by it as she was. She twisted in her seat, looking past Stepan, back toward the bridge spanning the ugly river.

  “Shere Khan, do you copy? I repeat, negative on the candle, the candle is not here.”

  The binoculars that Lankford had used were on the dashboard, and Chace took them up, used them to look back toward the Uzbek checkpoint. She could feel Lankford slowing the Cherokee, and that made it easier to find what she was looking for, the cluster of soldiers and vehicles that formed President Sevara Malikov-Ganiev’s motorcade. They were still parked as before, and she could see the figures that made up her retinue as the President made nice with the guards, taking her promised tour of the border crossing before returning to the Sikorsky and a quick trip back into Termez.

  How long until she got aboard her helicopter once more? Three minutes? Five?

  There was another transmission from Tower, this one so distorted as to be unintelligible, but it didn’t matter, she knew what he was saying. Zahidov hadn’t had the missile, maybe had never had it, and that meant it was in someone else’s hands.