Private Wars (22 page)

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 Samarkand, 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.

At least now he had something to do, something he could do, instead of sitting and waiting and dining on his liver.

There were Marines in the foyer, but Riess didn’t see any sign of the Regional Security Officer, for which he was grateful. Situations like this, the Department did its traditional two-directions-at-the-same-time dance. The RSO would try to lock down the Chancery as best he could, in case there were further bombings, anything that might be directed against the Mission or its staff. By the same token, staff on the premises would be expected to remain on post, where they could be safely looked after.

Which would be fine, except that a poloff, or at least a
good
poloff—and all the bullshit with Tower and Carlisle notwithstanding, Riess still hoped that he
was
a good poloff, and very much wanted to remain as such—would be expected to actually get out and hit the ground and rustle up some hard facts, instead of relying on state-run radio to feed him its canned version of events. Facts that could be fed back to both the Ambassador and the Ops Center, that would allow both to formulate the State Department response to what had happened. If things went very well, whatever intelligence gathered would be useful enough to offset the requisite ire of the RSO, who was sure to be pissed off beyond belief that the poloff had left the Chancery in the first place.

No sign of the RSO, just the Marines, and Riess blew past them, heading out, raising a hand and saying, “Be right back.” One moved, perhaps to stop him, but without the commitment required to do so, and then Riess was outside, smacked in the face by the cold. He ran to his car, a used Toyota he’d bought shortly after he’d been allowed to move into his home, got it started and to the gates. The guards had switched to flak jackets and helmets, and they stopped him, obviously worked up. One of the Marines kept an eye on the road while the other leaned down to speak to him in the car.

“Can’t let you leave, sir,” the Marine told him. Like all the others, he was young. “RSO wants all personnel to stay on the grounds.”

“I need to take a look at the sight,” Riess said. “The Ambassador needs to know what’s going on.”

Which was true enough. And Riess figured that if this twenty-two-year-old on the gate wanted to interpret his words to mean that Riess was acting on direct orders from the Ambassador, so much the better. Certainly, Riess wasn’t going to say anything to clarify the point.

The Marine hesitated, looking away, at the road for a moment. A Tashkent police car blew past, blue lights flashing, siren crying.

“It’s a short turnaround,” Riess told the Marine. “I’ll be back in no time.”

The Marine grunted, stepped back, waving him through, and Riess hit the gas, turning out onto the street.

He
switched onto Uzbekiston as soon as he could, following the emergency lights in the distance, until he hit the roadblock, where the police stopped him. There were two cars, four officers, and one of them stepped forward as he approached, waving him to the side of the road. Riess pulled over and lowered the window. The officer was a stocky, middle-aged Uzbek who looked like he’d much rather be home and in bed.

“Please step out of the car,” the officer said.

Riess nodded and shrugged at the same time, stopped the engine, and climbed out.

“Identification.”

“I’m with the U.S. Embassy.” Riess pulled out his wallet. “What happened?”

The officer took the ID, then motioned to another policemen, telling him to check the car. Riess didn’t protest. The first officer used a flashlight, examined his identification, then shone it on Riess’ face. Apparently satisfied, he lowered the light, switching it off and handing the ID back.

“Bombing,” the officer said.

“Yeah?” Riess watched as the second policeman examined his car, popping the trunk. “Another one, huh?”

“IMU, probably,” the first officer told him, sighing.

“Bastards,” Riess said angrily.

The officer caught hold of the emotion, tying it to his own frustration. “They went after the President’s son, that’s how it looks. They’ve got us out all over the city looking for the bomber. All over the damn city.”

“They didn’t blow themselves up when they did it?”

“We’re looking for a couple of cars, so I don’t know. Maybe there was more than one. Maybe it wasn’t a suicide bombing. Who knows?”

“So they’ve got you out here in the cold, just in case.”

“Someone got away, one of the fuckers, they’re saying. They . . .”

The officer fell silent as a radio in one of the police cars squawked, and he turned his head, listening. The report was from someone on the scene, requesting an ambulance to remove the bodies. There was an answering call, a query, asking how many. Six. Maybe seven, replied the voice, dispassionately.

The officer sighed a second time, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and putting one into his mouth. “Fuckers.”

“May I?” Riess asked. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t even like to smoke, but it was a universal way to make friends. If it hadn’t been a suicide bombing, then it was something else, and for the first time, Riess had hope. After Tower’s visit, he’d figured the show was over for Carlisle. But now, now he had to think that maybe she’d actually pulled this off, that somehow she’d gotten Ruslan and Stepan away from the house, was driving them to safety even now.

Whatever she’d picked up at the arms bazaar, it must have been pretty damn big.

“You’re with the Embassy?” the officer asked.

“Yeah.”

“Out late.”

“I heard about the blast on the radio, wanted to take a look. See if it was like last time, in the market. You know, I have to make sure no Americans were hurt.”

“No, no Americans. Not unless they were staying at the house.”

“My boss will be relieved,” Riess said, then looked up, hearing the rotors closing in overhead. He could make out the helo’s belly lights, and from that knew it wasn’t military.

He flicked the remainder of his cigarette away, thanking the officer. “I should get back to the Embassy.”

The officer nodded, bored again.

The helicopter worried Riess. If they were using ambulances to remove the bodies, then the only reason for the helo was pursuit. It meant they had a line on Carlisle, where she was taking Ruslan and Stepan. Either that or they were desperate, and using every means they had at their disposal in their search.

He returned to the Embassy hoping it was the latter.