Private Wars

“You want to speak to Kostum?” the graybeard asked Lankford. “For BBC?”

“That’s right,” Lankford said.

There was more conversation in Pashto, this time between Fariq, the graybeard, and two of the others. Finally the graybeard pointed to one of the gunmen, a younger one that Chace couldn’t imagine as older than eighteen. The young man set off nimbly, up the trail, disappearing behind the boulders almost immediately.

Fariq looked at Chace, then at Lankford, saying, “We are waiting now.”

“Will it be long?” Lankford asked.

Fariq shrugged, and the graybeard asked a question, then laughed at Fariq’s response. The tension abated somewhat, muzzles dipping lower. Chace leaned against the Jeep, looking around, then down, examining the tire tracks in the dust. There’d been enough traffic along the path to make discerning different sets difficult, but at a guess, she had to think that at least four or five different vehicles had come this way fairly recently.

The heat had climbed past uncomfortable to sweltering, and she watched as Lankford removed his hat long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow. Minder Three was as fair-skinned as she, almost as tall, with straight black hair that added to his pallor. She thought he was already turning pink, and wondered if she was doing the same.

A pebble broke loose from above them, bounced down the mountainside, and the graybeard and the others with him all turned, bringing their rifles up, only to see the young man they’d dispatched as a messenger returning. He popped out from behind the rocks higher on the ridge, calling down to them and raising his arm, and immediately, Chace saw both Fariq and Karim relax.

“You can go with them,” Fariq said, addressing both her and Lankford. “We will go back now, before it is dark.”

“You’re leaving us with them?” Chace asked.

“Kostum sees you,” Fariq said. “Safe.”

He and his brother climbed back into the Jeep, starting the car once more.

The graybeard approached them, speaking and smiling at her, the others following, then coming around to get behind them. The graybeard indicated a direction, roughly the way the younger man had gone, then began leading the way.

With no other choice, Chace and Lankford followed.

They walked for another two and a half hours, and Chace suspected that the graybeard was setting an easy pace for their benefit, or more precisely, for hers. The narrow trail weaved around the rocks and scrub, summiting and then again descending. She wondered how the messenger had traveled the distance so quickly, then realized that he couldn’t have, that he must have used a radio or a satellite phone instead.

Either that or this was one hell of a setup, and she and Lankford were about to find themselves truly in the middle of nowhere, in the dead wild on the western edges of the Hindu Kush mountains. If they were going to be done here, no one would ever find their bodies.

She doubted that was how this would end up—at least, not until journey’s end. The graybeard had promised them safety, and she had to take him at his word. Al-Qaeda or Coalition, it didn’t matter who; once the promise was made, it was kept until death.

Finally they descended to a ravine, following a narrow trail midway along its side until it opened to a canyon floor. Below, a walled stronghold—it was the only way Chace could think to describe it—rested at the bottom of the way, built back against the side of the mountain, almost built into it, in fact. A cluster of trees grew in the yard, their leaves shockingly green against the deadened tan, and beyond that, in the shade cast by the mountainside, a large, almost sprawling house. A minaret rose up from the corner of the wall, and Chace could see movement inside, a man with an RPG launcher on guard.

Along the sides of the canyon, Chace saw more guard emplacements, more of the vested and robed men, sitting or standing in what little shade they could find, rifles to hand. A mortar had been positioned high on the south side, far enough away that Chace couldn’t readily identify the make and model, but it was a safe bet it had been recovered from the Soviet occupation. Chace didn’t doubt the weapon was in working order, though she wondered where Kostum found the rounds for it.

They reached the canyon’s bottom, approached the gates at the wall. The earth down here was hard-packed, and Chace could make out tire tracks, the signs of heavy vehicles that had traveled along the canyon floor. She hadn’t seen a garage on their descent, and wondered where the vehicles were stored.

“Bloody hell,” Lankford murmured to her as they approached, and she knew why he’d said it and what he was thinking. If they were going to kill Ruslan Malikov, they’d have one hell of a time getting out again after the deed was done.

“They’re going to search us,” Chace said. “Don’t fuss.”

“We’re heavy.”

“I know. Don’t fuss.”

Lankford nodded, his lips tightening, and then they had reached the gates. The graybeard called out in Pashto, and a response came back from behind the wall, and the man laughed, rested his Kalashnikov against the gate, and turned back to face them. He spoke pleasantly as he approached, holding out his hand, gesturing for the bags they were carrying on their shoulders.

Chace handed hers over, watched as Lankford did the same. The graybeard was joined by the others who had accompanied them, one of the others taking Chace’s bag from him. For a moment, everyone’s attention was on the bags, and Chace took the opportunity to smooth the front of her shirt, and in so doing, to shove the Walther fully down the front of her pants. It was uncomfortable but not intolerable, and she feigned shifting impatiently, trying to move the gun into a more concealed position.

The graybeard laughed, brought out the pistol Lankford was carrying, a Browning, showing it to him. Lankford shrugged, and the graybeard laughed again, then spoke to the man who’d been helping him. The man approached Lankford, clearly apologetic, and gestured for him to raise his hands. Chace watched as Lankford did so, submitting to the search. It was brief and efficient, but Chace noticed that the searcher avoided checking Lankford’s crotch too carefully.

The two men searching her bag had finished, and were now looking from her to the graybeard, clearly uncomfortable. Graybeard indicated one of the two, then Chace, and the man sighed heavily, then approached her, shaking his head slightly as he did so. He gestured for her to raise her arms, and the discomfort on his face was blatant and so acute, Chace almost felt sorry for him.

He took all of six seconds to check her, doing her arms and legs first, before stealing himself to check her torso. He avoided actually touching the front of her body, and barely touched her back, more mime than actual search. He touched her hips, but nothing more, before stepping back and speaking to the graybeard.

Chace and Lankford were each handed their bags, and the gates opened, and they were allowed through into the courtyard.

“Kostum?” the graybeard said to them, directing his words primarily at Lankford. “Speak Kostum?”

“Malikov,” Chace said. “Ruslan Malikov.”

There was a sudden stillness in the yard, and the graybeard stared at her.

“No Ruslan.”

“Stepan,” Chace said. “Tracy.”

“Trahcee?”

Chace pointed to herself. “Tracy.”

From the shadow of the house stepped Ruslan Malikov, dressed in the vest and loose pants worn by so many of the others. Dirtier, wearier perhaps, wearing a white knit prayer cap and armed with a Kalashnikov of his own in his hand. He stared at her, as if trying to remember her face. He’d barely seen her in the light before, Chace thought, and a lot had been going on that night.

“It’s good to see you, sir,” Chace told him in English. “There are some matters we need to discuss.”

CHAPTER 37

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—Residence of the

U.S. Chief of Mission to Uzbekistan

25 August, 2011 Hours (GMT+5:00)

On 31 August 1991, Uzbekistan declared its independence from the disintegrating Soviet Union, following in the wake of the other newly forming independent states that surrounded it on all sides. In the grand scheme of nations and their histories, it hadn’t been that long ago at all, and for that reason, the Uzbek Government still made a deal of the day, and of the event. This year, the thirty-first fell on a Thursday, and for that reason, the Ambassador’s Reception in honor of Independence Day was scheduled at the end of the week prior, a Friday night.

Riess, who had been in the doghouse for so long now he’d almost grown accustomed to it, hadn’t expected that his attendance would be required, or, for that matter, welcome. Ever since Garret had been relieved of post, Riess had existed in a sort of semiexile, under McColl’s spiteful eyes. That Riess, too, hadn’t been shipped back to the States continued to surprise him.

It had been Garret who’d spared him, of course, a last act of gratitude before departing public service. The Ambassador had taken sole responsibility for opposing the White House and supporting Ruslan Malikov, and in the end, even if Garret hadn’t shouldered the load willingly, he’d have been made to bear it anyway. Garret was the Ambassador, and there were more than enough people back at State who had been willing to excuse Riess his indiscretions as a result. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for a poloff to be taken under an Ambassador’s wing, after all, and there had been some question as to how much of what had occurred had been of Riess’ doing, rather than Garret’s. FSOs were hard to come by, anyway. Measured against the difficulties in replacing Riess on post versus leaving him on station, it was easier to let him stay. His service record would reflect his involvement in Garret’s plot, and Riess knew that his next posting would be a junior desk back in D.C.

He would live in the wilderness for a long time to come.

For that reason, Riess had thought he’d spend Friday night working late in the Pol/Econ Office, finishing up the cables back to State, and putting the final report on the latest in the stream of démarches. It had been midmorning before McColl had corrected his assumption.

“It’s black tie,” McColl had said, passing by his desk without stopping.

“Sir?”

“The reception tonight, at the Residence. It’s black tie. I hope your tuxedo is clean.”

“I wasn’t aware you wanted me to attend.”

“I don’t, but the Ambassador does.” McColl sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from his trousers and wiping his nose. “See if you can resist the urge to play spy this time, all right?”

Riess had nodded, hiding his anger and his frustration. The wound was still open, the sense of failure profound. Not one of the things he and Garret had set out to do had come to pass, after all. While Sevara had done an exceedingly good job of keeping her nose clean and of working with the U.S. in the past six months, Ahtam Zahidov was now DPM at the Interior Ministry. She kept him on a short leash, but the country’s human rights record was still a far cry from anything that would earn kudos from Amnesty International or HRW.

Sometimes, Riess wondered if it had been an ill-conceived venture from the start, if Garret hadn’t been totally unrealistic in his dreams of what they could do, what they might accomplish. Nations rarely changed overnight, and even when they did, there was always a price to pay in blood and pain. He had come to doubt that Ruslan would have made a better President of Uzbekistan than his sister. In all likelihood, for all of Ruslan’s best intentions—if indeed his intentions had even been true—very little would have changed.

Things were improving in Uzbekistan under Sevara, little by little. There were still drugs coming up from the south, out of Afghanistan, but less and less seemed to be getting through these days. The new President had eased off the dictatorial enforcement of the government’s version of Islam, permitting slightly more freedom of religion. The election that had seen her confirmed into office had been fixed, of course, but not so blatantly or arrogantly as her father’s had been in the past. For the first time, the Oliy Majlis now seated an opposition party as well as Sevara’s own. It was small to the point of being entirely ineffective, but it was more than her father had allowed. There was even an opposition newspaper available on the streets of Tashkent and Samarkand—overseen by government censors, but again, more than before.

So maybe it was the best Riess could have hoped for. This was the way diplomacy was supposed to work, incrementally and out in the open. Not behind the scenes.

He had grudgingly come to accept that, and in so doing had found a measure of peace that allowed him to sleep better at nights.

At least until those few times he saw Stepan, either in a photograph or in video footage, and he remembered the boy’s mother, and what Zahidov had done to her. What Zahidov had done at Sevara’s order, he was certain of it.

Maybe it was because Riess had known Dina Malikov, but he couldn’t forgive that.

He couldn’t let that go.

He arrived at the Residence forty-five minutes after the reception had started, showed his ID to the Marines who were pulling double duty as guards for the event. Since Michael “Mitch” Norton had taken over as CM for Garret almost five months back, Riess had had no reason to visit the Residence. In fact, the last time he’d been here was back in mid-February, in the wake of Dina Malikov’s murder. Most of the lights had been out then, Riess remembered.

This time, though, the house was ablaze, as if it had caught what remained of the sunset for use indoors. Music reached him as he went through the doors and entered the enormous two-story entry hall. A string quartet from the Bakhor Symphony had set up about twenty feet from the door, playing an Uzbek piece Riess didn’t recognize. The sound was amplified in the space, mixed with the voices speaking in Russian, Uzbek, and English. There were almost three dozen people in the hall alone, and Riess wondered just how many had been invited. The Residence, if he remembered right, could entertain somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty before the RSO went into fits about lack of security.

Riess saw several faces from the Mission, moved through the hall exchanging brief but polite greetings. He made his way through to the salon, weaving through the crowd. The doors into the back garden were open, and he could see tables set up outside, more people seated there, dining on appetizers. He saw a couple of the DPMs, too, the Head of Consumer Goods and Trade standing with the DPM for Foreign Economic Relations, and McColl was among them, his wife chatting with their wives. Riess tried to move through unseen, edged his way out into the garden.

It was cooler outside, and quieter, though the noise from inside the Residence was still audible. Riess got himself a drink from the banquet table, a plastic bottle of mineral water, twisted off the cap, and drank half of it down. There were things he could be doing inside, things he should be doing. At a function like this, his place was to mingle and chat with the junior officials in attendance, to keep his eyes and his ears open for news that might be useful to the Ambassador and Political Counselor later.

He didn’t want to. He didn’t really want to be there at all. It had been at a party like this that he’d first met Ruslan and Dina, and it brought back memories, and again, he felt like a failure.

He sighed, steeling himself. What he wanted to do was irrelevant; what he needed to do, right now, was his job. He turned around to head back inside, then stopped, seeing Aaron Tower coming toward him.

“Chuck,” Tower said. “Standing outside all alone?”

“I was about to head back in, sir.”

The CIA man continued approaching, reaching out to the banquet table and snagging a bottle of water for himself. His smile was easy. Like almost all the men attending, Tower was in a tuxedo, though somehow he’d already managed to rumple it.

“How you doing?” Tower asked.

Riess pondered the question for longer than he intended. They’d spoken in passing a handful of times in the last few months, confined it to greetings and social pleasantries. If Tower had harbored ill will for what had happened, there’d never been any true sign of it. He’d been angry about the Ambassador’s two-step behind his back, of course, but none of it had come back to hit Riess, at least not that Riess knew.

“I was thinking about Dina Malikov,” Riess said.

Tower sipped from his bottle, nodded slightly. “You heard anything from Garret?”

“No, sir. Not since he went back home. I understand he’s in the private sector now.”

“Got himself a job as president of some college on the West Coast,” Tower confirmed. “You look tired.”

“McColl’s keeping me busy.”

Tower grinned. “I’ll bet. Well, you’re doing a hell of a job for him, Chuck. He might make DCM yet. Not here, of course, but on his next posting.”

“Good for him,” Riess said.

They drank their water in silence, looking back toward the Residence, through the open doors. More people were making their way outside from the den, drinks in hand.

“Coming out for the fireworks,” Tower said. “Soon as it gets dark.”

“Right.”

A cluster of people emerged, surrounding the Ambassador and his wife as they escorted Sevara Malikov-Ganiev and her husband, Denis, the former DPM of the Interior, outside. Sevara looked stunning, Riess had to admit, the gown she’d chosen for the event just managing to straddle the line between alluring and reserved, but her beauty lay far more in the way she carried herself. She was supremely self-confident, and when she laughed at something the Ambassador’s wife said, it carried over the grass to him. Riess wondered if Sevara had left her nephew at home for the evening.

“She didn’t bring the kid,” Tower said, reading his mind.

“Yeah, I was just wondering.”

“She takes good care of him.” Tower took another pull from his bottle, watching the Ambassador’s party advance. “It’s called guilt, Chuck.”

“I don’t think she feels guilty about anything, sir.”

Tower turned slightly, looking him in the eye. “Never forget that they’re patriots the way we’re patriots, Chuck. They believe in their country the way we believe in ours.”

“Not all of them.”

“Most of them, then. Sevara Malikov-Ganiev is the first CIS leader who didn’t cut her teeth under the Soviets, Chuck. Think about that. All the others, the old men, either they’re former Communists or they came up under the Communists. But that woman’s the new breed.”

“It’s not where she is now that bothers me,” Riess answered. “It’s what she did to get there.”

“Don’t think it doesn’t bother me, too.” Tower’s eyes were on the Ambassador’s group, now being seated at the largest table.

Riess didn’t say anything.

“You know Ruslan’s alive,” Tower said, softer. “In Afghanistan.”

Why are you telling me this? Riess thought. “No, I didn’t.”

“Somewhere in the Samangan. Or maybe the Bámiyán region.”

Riess stared at Tower, who continued to watch the Ambassador speaking with Sevara. “Nice place to hide.”

“If that’s all he’s planning, yeah,” Tower said. “Let’s hope that’s all he’s planning.”

Behind them, they heard a series of cracks, then a hiss, and both of them looked up to see the first of the fireworks streaking into the sky. The explosives shrieked as they climbed, then went silent before bursting into a cascade of green, white, and blue, the colors of the Uzbek flag. Green to represent Islam, but officially said to represent nature and fertility, the life of the young country. White to represent purity in thought and deed. And blue for the waters that fed the cotton and the land, and to recall the fourteenth-century flag of the ruler Timur, who had claimed an empire from Samarkand, controlling the heart of the Silk Road.

The crowd broke into polite applause, and a second volley of fireworks started, chasing the first into the air.

“Come on, Chuck,” Tower told him. “Let’s enjoy the show.”

It was when Riess was leaving, shaking hands with the last of the junior Reps, that he saw Zahidov. The Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior stood alone at the edge of the den, looking out into the garden. He had a drink in his hand, but it was untouched, and Riess followed his gaze to see that Zahidov was watching Sevara, still seated outside, now talking animatedly with the DCM.

Riess headed outside, wondering about Zahidov, thinking about the other color in the Uzbekistan flag, the one color that hadn’t been represented in the fireworks display. On the flag, between the strips of blue and white and green, ran thin red lines. Red for blood.

He was sure that Zahidov had noticed it was missing, too.

CHAPTER 38

Afghanistan—Hindu Kush Mountains—

Samangan Region

25 August, 2105 Hours (GMT+4:30)

They were allowed to freshen up, which gave Chace the opportunity to move the Walther into a less uncomfortable position at her back, and then were given refreshment, food and drink. Ruslan and Kostum watched them while Chace and Lankford ate, the two men speaking quietly to each other in Uzbek. Both she and Lankford were hungry and very thirsty, and they took the meal eagerly, thanking their host.

Kostum seemed to approve of their manners and their gratitude. He was a short man, broad-faced, and like everyone else in Samangan, had his own Kalashnikov ever close at hand. He asked Ruslan what sounded like some very pointed questions at one point while watching her and Lankford, and Chace had no doubt the questions were about them, why they had come, what they wanted.

When the meal had been cleared, Ruslan said something to Kostum that started a brief argument. Lankford cast a quizzical glance her way, and Chace shook her head. Nothing in either Ruslan or Kostum’s body language indicated imminent violence. Beyond that, she had no way of knowing what was being said.

“Your friend,” Ruslan said in English. “He will go with Kostum.”

“I’d rather stay,” Lankford said.

Kostum spoke up, also in English. “No, tour, please. I give for you a tour.”

“It’s all right, Chris,” Chace said.

“How you figure?”

“We’re under protection, isn’t that right, General?”

Kostum grunted. “Protect you, yes. But.” He raised his right hand, index finger pointing down. “But my brother Ruslan protected also.”

“We understand,” Chace said. “Go with him, Chris.”

“Right.” Lankford unfolded his legs, getting to his feet. “Holler if you need me.”

“Will do.”

She and Ruslan watched as Lankford left, escorted by Kostum. They could hear his broken English as they went, explaining how he had come by the home, how it had been used by the Soviets first. Then Kostum’s voice faded to nothing, leaving Chace and Ruslan looking at each other in silence.

Ruslan sat down opposite her at the table, refilled her glass of tea halfway, using the silver pot on the table, then poured a half glass for himself.

“Have you come to kill me?” he asked her casually.

In answer, Chace pulled the Walther from behind her back, then set it on the table between them. Ruslan reacted at the draw, then relaxed fractionally as her hand left the gun.

“It’s an option,” Chace told him.

Ruslan moved his eyes from the gun back to Chace. “You saved my life and my son’s life, and now they send you to undo that. Why?”

“There are people, sir, who think you are planning to make trouble for your sister. That your intention is to gather men and arms and launch an attack, to try to force Sevara from power.”

“And you, Tracy? You think this, too?”

“Kostum looks to have a lot of men, sir, and a lot of equipment. Whether or not he could move those men and that equipment north without being stopped by either the Afghan Army or the NATO forces between here and Termez, that’s another question.”

“You are not answering my question.”

“No. It’s not what I think.”

Ruslan seemed surprised, tilting his head as he regarded her. “Then what do you believe I want?”

“Whether you wish to live out your life here in peace or whether you’re planning something else, I can’t say. It doesn’t matter.”

“No? Why does this not matter?”

“Because there are people who believe you threaten Sevara. Unless they’re given a reason to think otherwise—and a compelling reason—they will continue to believe it.”

Ruslan nodded thoughtfully, drank his tea, then asked, “How is your child?”

Chace smiled. “Very well, thank you.”

“I hear my son is well also. You saved his life.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“It is true. You saved both our lives. If you had not taken us from Tashkent, Zahidov would have killed us. Perhaps not that day, but on a day to follow it. The way he killed my Dina.”

Chace nodded, waiting.

“I do not want to be the President of Uzbekistan,” Ruslan said. “In truth, I never did.”

“You told the Americans—”

“My wife had been murdered, and my son and I were in peril.” He was studying her, as if trying to measure her understanding of his motives. “You have a daughter. Is there anything you wouldn’t do to protect her?”

“No,” Chace said immediately. The question didn’t merit any thought.

“If I went to the Americans and I said I would be their man, I thought perhaps they would protect me and my boy. Instead, they went to the British, and they sent you. If we had escaped Uzbekistan, I would have been content.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to return?”

“Why would I?” He seemed perplexed by the question.

“It’s your home.”

“I would make a new home. Would it have pleased me to leave Uzbekistan forever? No. But that is a small loss to bear if measured against the loss of one’s child.”

“You want Stepan back,” Chace said, realizing. “This is all about your son.”

“I want Stepan,” Ruslan agreed. “And I trust you to bring him to me.”

Chace laughed softly, pulled the ball cap from her head, ran a hand through her hair.

“You are amused?” Ruslan asked.

“At myself. At them.” She gestured vaguely in the direction she thought was the West. “My understanding is that Stepan has been well looked after by your sister, that Sevara takes very good care of him.”

“That is my understanding also.”

Chace looked at him, and for a moment saw the man as he had been when she’d found him in Tashkent. Sleeping alone in a bed made to be shared, on the side nearest his son’s room. She felt the familiar ache in her chest that came with the reminder that Tom had died never knowing they’d made a daughter, never seeing Tamsin’s face. She thought of how much she missed Tamsin at the best of times, when she wasn’t traveling, when she wasn’t away from home for days on a job. She wondered how much more it hurt to be Ruslan Malikov, unable to see his son for almost seven months now.

And he trusts me to bring him his son, Chace thought. But we’re not in the business of reuniting families, certainly not this one. Not unless the reunion could serve not just SIS’ interests, but the Americans’ as well.

“Is there a phone?” Chace asked, finally. “A satellite phone?”

“Kostum has one. He does not like to use it, because the CIA, they can detect it. They send the Predator drones out, believing he is a terrorist. Kostum does not wish a missile shot into his home.”

“No, I can see why he wouldn’t.” She leaned forward. “Could I use it? It wouldn’t take long.”

“I can ask him.”

Chace nodded, fell silent and into her thoughts once more. Ruslan watched, frowning, as if trying to read her thoughts.

“Does Zahidov have another missile?” Chace asked. “Like the one I used, like the one that brought down the helicopter?”

“I do not know. Why?”

“There were four missiles in the set. Three have been accounted for, but the fourth is still missing. They were stolen here in Afghanistan, then sold again, probably several times. We think the last buyer was Zahidov, that’s how they came to be in Tashkent.”

“And you want this fourth missile?”

“We want it back.”

Ruslan scratched his chin beneath his beard, turning away in thought. “Kostum might know something of this.”

“Any information on the whereabouts of the last missile would be very helpful.”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes, but for whom?”

“We want the missile. You want your son. There may be a way to get both.”

“You will help me?” Chace saw hope flicker across Ruslan’s face.

“If I can.”

“Why?”

Chace thought of the best way to answer the question, of all the things she could say, all the ways in which she could appeal to him, convince him. The plan stirring in the back of her mind was ill formed at this stage, but it had potential, she was certain. The problem was, it required not only her participation, but that of Ruslan, a two-year-old boy, and the Americans as well.

“Because you’re not the only person that Ahtam Zahidov has stolen something from,” Chace told him.

The name had an immediate effect on Ruslan. His expression darkened with encroaching memories. He looked at Chace again, and the realization was there, and then it was replaced with understanding.

“He had you? Tortured you?”

“I was fortunate,” Chace replied. “Someone came for me in time.”

“My wife was not fortunate.”

Chace was silent.

“And you think there is a way to return my son to me, to appease my sister, and to punish Zahidov?”

“Perhaps.”

“I would like to see them pay, Tracy. More than you can imagine.” Ruslan Malikov bit back a laugh, more bitter than incredulous. “All right. I will listen to what you have to say.”

CHAPTER 39

London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room

25 August, 1709 Hours GMT

Crocker blew into the Ops Room, cutting off Mike Putnam before he could announce his presence on the floor.

“What’s happened?”

“Minder One on Sundown, sir,” Danny Beale said, turning at the Mission Control Desk. “Satellite link, duration seven seconds. Open code, says she needs to speak with you, that she’ll be calling back in . . .” He looked to the plasma wall, checking the clock there. “One minute, eighteen seconds.”

“No idea where she is?”

“Presumably still in Afghanistan, sir.”

“Is it a flap?”

“Didn’t sound like it, sir.”

“Then what the bloody hell is she calling in for?”

Putnam, Beale, and, at Duty Ops, William Teagle shrugged in unison.

“You’re all useless,” Crocker told them.

“Yes, sir,” Beale agreed cheerfully. Bill Teagle snorted.

Crocker scowled, then moved to the coffeemaker. The coffee was foul, had probably been sitting on the burner since the shift had begun, seven hours earlier. He crossed back to Communications, took the headset Putnam offered, settling it over his ears just as the call came through.

“Crocker.”

“Hello, Dad,” Chace said. “There are birds in the air and they make big droppings, so I have to be brief.”

“Understood.”

“Long-lost brother has been found, but he’s not the big bad we’ve been led to believe. He misses his family and has been trying to get his sister’s attention enough to talk about arranging a reunion. He assures me he has no interest in moving back home. In fact, he’d like to move to a different neighborhood altogether, one much farther west.”

“You believe him?”

“I do, yes, I think it’s all about his little boy. And the fact is, he’s staying with some overprotective relations. It’s limited our options.”

“You still have company?”

“Baby brother is with me, yes.”

“What do you want to do?”

“The long-lost is only one part of it. The other concerns the four candles.”

The reference was oblique enough that Crocker needed a second to translate. Then he said, “You know where the missing one is?”

“According to our host, the set was sold intact. Which means the man who bought the first three still has the fourth.”

“You trust your host’s information?”

“Apparently our host was interested in buying the candles himself at one point.”

“Go on.”

“I’m wondering if a reunion between long-lost and his son couldn’t be engineered to somehow bring that last candle out of its box.”

“It’s no use to us if it gets lit.”

“No, it’s a delicate situation. But I think it’s doable. Grandmother might be able to get a message across to big sister.”

“I’m not certain our cousins are going to care for this,” Crocker said. “It’s not the definitive solution they wanted.”

“If we can convince big sister, she can talk to the cousins. And I’m sure the cousins want all of the candles blown out as much as we do. Might be a way to make everyone happy.”

“I’ll talk to Grandmother. If we can arrange the reunion, we’ll set it up through our house there—”

Chace cut him off. “Long-lost has been very clear on one point, Dad. I’m to babysit. Seems he’s reluctant to trust anyone else, especially after last time.”

“That complicates things.”

“It does. I have your permission to proceed?”

“All right,” Crocker said. “You’ll be traveling north?”

“Soon as I can.”

“I’ll contact the family in Tashkent, let them know you’re coming.”

“Very good, sir. Have to go, I can hear the birds in the trees.”

“Take care,” Crocker said, but the line had already gone dead. He removed the headset, handing it back to Putnam absently, thinking for several seconds before saying, “Mike? Signal Tashkent, let them know Minder One is on her way there and should arrive in the next twenty-four to forty-eight as part of Sundown. Stress to Fincher that it’s a Special Op, and that he’s to follow her instructions. I’ll want confirmation of receipt of signal.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Ask the Deputy Chief to meet me in C’s office, Bill.”

“Right away, sir.”

Crocker headed upstairs.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Alison Gordon-Palmer said.

“It gives the Americans what they want, just not in the manner they requested it. And if Chace is right, it’ll bring us that missing Starstreak.”

“Which would delight me to no end, Paul, if I felt there was the remotest chance that Kostum’s intelligence on its whereabouts was in the least bit reliable.”

“Chace reported that Kostum had been interested in buying the Starstreaks himself. It’s plausible that he tracked their sale in the hopes of acquiring them at a later point. And if there had been four available, I can’t imagine that Zahidov would have only purchased three of them.”

“Plausible is not proof.” She frowned, thinking. “We know that, as of February, Zahidov had three of the four missiles. Is it reasonable to think he’s been holding the fourth?”

“Chace thinks so.”

“I’m asking you, Paul.”

“I trust her assessment.”

“And all of this is contingent on whether or not Ruslan Malikov can be trusted to begin with. Simon?”

Rayburn, seated beside Crocker, closed his eyes for several seconds before opening them once more. “I think Malikov may be on the level, ma’am.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There was never any intelligence to indicate that Ruslan had ambition to become President of Uzbekistan. It was only after the murder of his wife that he contacted the Americans to express interest. My understanding is that, prior to that time, it had been Dina Malikov who made contact with the U.S. Mission. So if he was running for President, he’d have been making a very late start, to say the least. I think Ruslan’s overtures read more as an insurance policy for himself and his son than a legitimate grab for power.”

C frowned at him, then at Crocker, weighing the decision. “And you want me to contact the Foreign Office, have them communicate with our Ambassador and pass along the message to Sevara Malikov?”

“It seems the best way to arrange things,” Crocker said.

She nodded, reached for her phone, tapping the intercom to her outer office. “Danny?”

“Ma’am?”

“Contact PUS at the FCO, ask if he’s available for a meeting soonest. I’ll come to him.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

She tapped the intercom again, then looked back to Crocker. “What’s Chace going to do in the meanwhile?”

“She’ll proceed to Tashkent, then stand by for word as to where and how to collect the boy. Assuming it all goes through, she’ll deliver Stepan to his father, then she’ll arrange transport for both of them out of Central Asia to the West.”

“Here?”

“It’s unclear. But Ruslan’s informed Chace that he has no desire to remain in the region.”

“Have you spoken to Seale?”

“Not yet.”

Rayburn nodded, already ahead of the conversation, and apparently in agreement with what C was about to say. “Probably best you let the CIA know Chace will be in Tashkent, and our suspicions about the fourth Starstreak. You don’t want their COS getting jumpy.”

“I’ll speak to Seale right away,” Crocker said.

The phone on C’s desk rang, and she answered it swiftly, listened, then said, “Have my car brought around, please, Danny.” Finished with the call, she rose, and Crocker and Rayburn followed suit.

“Seccombe will see me if I head over now,” C said. “If he likes the sound of it, he and I will bring it to the Foreign Secretary.”

“You’ll sell him on it?” Crocker asked.

“The way you’ve sold it to me,” she answered. “Paul, this’ll be the second time Chace has tried to get Ruslan and his son out of the region.”

“I know.”

“Let’s hope she gets it right this time.”

CHAPTER 40

Afghanistan—Hindu Kush Mountains—

Samangan Region

26 August, 0623 Hours (GMT+4:30)

They were ambushed before they came out of the mountains.

The fact of the ambush didn’t surprise Chace. What surprised Chace was who was doing the ambushing.

They’d departed Kostum’s stronghold before dawn, the sky just beginning to lighten enough to show the blue behind the black, and the last hard stars starting to vanish above. Kostum had insisted on guiding them back to Mazar-i-Sharif himself, leading the convoy, and leaving Ruslan behind in the stronghold, to limit his exposure. Lankford would wait in Mazar-i, and Chace would continue on to Tashkent. Once everything had been confirmed, Ruslan would join Lankford and proceed to the exchange, to be reunited with the boy.

Kostum assembled a convoy for them of guards and vehicles, three of the seven automobiles that he kept in a substantial garage. Chace and Lankford traveled in the middle vehicle of the convoy. The car was a four-wheel-drive Jeep SUV, like Fariq’s had been, but unlike Fariq’s it was in much better condition. Kostum drove, with Lankford beside him, Chace seated in the back. In the bed of the SUV, the graybeard who had escorted them to Kostum’s rode with them, Kalashnikov cradled in his lap.

They drove out along the base of the canyon for just over a kilometer before turning uphill, the vehicles following one another in a weaving incline that, to Chace, seemed impossibly steep. In the moments before they crested onto the road, she was certain their vehicle would topple over backward, and she envisioned herself being bounced around the interior of the car like a pinball as it fell, end over end, back to the canyon floor. It didn’t happen, and after a moment spent to allow the follow car to catch up, the convoy resumed its journey, wending along the mountainside, descending again.

Then they were hit.

The explosion came first, just as the lead car began around a bend. Dirt and stone rained upward from the road, and the lead SUV veered wildly, fishtailing, then falling sideways, skidding to a halt, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air. Kostum slammed on the brakes, cursing. Chace didn’t have to turn around to know that the same thing was going on in the car behind them; it was why the lead vehicle had been hit first, to stop the convoy dead in its tracks.

She lunged for the passenger-side door, shouting, “Out! Get out!”

An RPG streaked down from above, fired from higher along the mountainside, and as Chace tumbled out of the car she heard the lead vehicle exploding, and she thought she heard the screams, too. Then the chattering of weapons fire began, the sounds of glass breaking and metal tearing, Kostum’s men desperate to exit their vehicles to return fire. Chace had been riding behind Lankford, and both had exited the Jeep along the downslope side, and she figured the drop had to be nasty, but it couldn’t be nastier than staying on the trail, exposed. She leaped over the edge just as she heard another explosion, quieter than the RPG blast, what she thought was a grenade.

It was a good drop, almost fifteen feet on the vertical, just enough of an incline that she could get her feet down and lie back, sliding on the rough terrain, feeling the rocks and earth tear at her clothes. When she came to a stop beside Lankford, he was already up, with his Browning in hand. Chace struggled to her feet, reaching around for her gun, and discovered it was missing. She looked up, saw the Walther snagged on the rocks above her, where it had been stripped from her back during the slide. She started to curse, then heard a third explosion, and above, on the road, another blossom of flame rolled skyward as the follow car took another RPG.

“Well, this isn’t good,” Lankford remarked.

Chace ignored him. It was a turkey shoot above, she was sure: Kostum’s men trapped in their vehicles, exposed as they exited, and the ambushers using the higher ground of the mountainside for cover. She couldn’t see any movement, but she could hear the weapons fire, and it didn’t sound right. Whoever had hit them wasn’t using Kalashnikovs. The bursts were becoming more controlled, more measured. Whoever was up there killing off Kostum’s men knew what they were doing.

“We can’t stay here,” Chace said.

Lankford nodded, checked around them, then indicated a direction farther downslope that would wind back around in the direction the convoy had come. Seeing no better route and no immediate reason not to take it, Chace began leading the way.

“Who do you think?” Lankford murmured, keeping his voice low. “Bandits?”

“Sounds too precise,” Chace answered, eyes on the slope. Calling the terrain treacherous was generous, and the last thing she wanted was a broken ankle. “Sounds more like a military strike.”

“Maybe the Americans? Removing another warlord?”

“Christ, let’s hope not.”

The gunfire from above had stopped, the last echoes bouncing away from them, off the mountains. Chace moved behind a substantial boulder, dropped down flat behind it.

“Sevara?” Lankford asked, dropping down beside her.

Chace shook her head. The timing didn’t fit, it wasn’t right. If this attack was courtesy of Sevara, she’d have had to move damn fast to make it happen. It hadn’t been twelve hours since Chace had spoken to Crocker in the Ops Room. Even if C had gone straight to the FCO and the FCO had agreed and gone straight to the U.K. Ambassador in Tashkent, there hadn’t been enough time. Not to mention that the Ambassador wouldn’t have wanted to bother the President of Uzbekistan in the middle of the night about this.

“It’s not Sevara,” she said. “Got to be someone else. Question is who?”

“It’s fucking Afghanistan,” Lankford muttered, peering around the side of the boulder, the Browning held in both hands. “Take your pick.”

For several seconds, neither of them moved, listening hard for more sounds of gunfire or combat. Nothing came back to them.

They couldn’t just sit and wait. Two of the convoy vehicles had been taken out, which meant, as far as she knew, the third was still intact. If it was a robbery, even if it wasn’t, whoever had sprung the ambush wouldn’t just leave it there. If they decided to withdraw, they’d take the vehicle with them, leaving Chace and Lankford stranded.

And if they weren’t withdrawing, it meant that it was a hunting party who had no intention of leaving the job half done.

She cursed the fact that she hadn’t moved the Walther to a front-carry this morning. She still had her knife, a folding Emerson blade she’d scored off Kittering in a bet years before, but it required getting very close, and from the sound of the weapons they’d heard, she didn’t think close would be terribly likely. She needed a gun of her own.

“We need to get back up to the road,” she said. “And fast. Come around behind them.”

“Don’t want to get stranded,” Lankford agreed. “Figure another hundred yards or so back the way we came, then up again?”

Chace nodded. “I lost my gun. You’ll have to lead.”

Lankford slid around her, swapping places. “Now,” he said.

They broke from their cover, Lankford leading, running low and as fast as they could along the mountainside. The ground was covered with a layer of loose earth and rocks, and the footing remained dangerously uneven. Another chatter of weapons fire bounced off the mountains, but the echo made its direction impossible to determine, and Chace couldn’t tell if the shots were targeted at them, at someone on the road, or at someone else, somewhere else altogether.

Lankford slid to a stop at the edge of a ravine running down from the road at almost ninety degrees, looked back over his shoulder to Chace. She nodded to him, and he wedged himself into the narrow space, using it to climb. Chace pushed herself into the crevice, trying to keep in cover as much as possible. She looked up toward the top of the ravine, saw Lankford disappear back onto the road, waited for him to reappear, to give her the signal that it was safe to climb.

Her heart was pounding, and she could feel perspiration running down her back, stinging the skin scraped during the downhill slide. Her mouth was dry from dust, it had filled her nostrils as well, and as soon as she realized that, she had to fight the urge to sneeze.

A pebble dropped down from above, bounced off her hand, and she looked up quickly to see Lankford sending hand signals her way, telling her to come up, and to stay quiet.

Chace pulled herself farther into the ravine, chimney-climbed her way to the top. Lankford pulled her the last three feet, onto the narrow road, and she rolled past him, then came up. They had backtracked far enough to be beyond the bend. Black smoke drifted from farther down the trail.

Lankford tapped her shoulder, started with the hand signals again. Three, no, six men, all armed.

Jesus Christ, six, Chace thought. We’ll have to draw them out.

She pulled out her knife, unfolded it, and Lankford raised an eyebrow at her, as if to question her sanity, and the look she gave him in return begged for a better option. Lankford inhaled, then pointed to himself, then down the trail, to the bend. Chace shook her head, indicated herself and the same direction, then indicated Lankford and the rising mountain slope. He saw the wisdom of it immediately, nodded, and began climbing again.

Chace took a moment to give Lankford time, watching the bend in the road, where she was certain that, any moment, a member of the ambush team would appear. She risked a glance away to track Lankford’s progress. He climbed swiftly, and as she looked he stopped ascending and began making his way alongside, following the bend.

There’d been a time, when Lankford had first joined the Section, that Chace had thought he wouldn’t make it, that he wouldn’t last. They’d done a job in St. Petersburg together, and he’d blown it, but then again, so had she, and Crocker had been quick to point that out when she’d returned to London complaining about Lankford’s performance. She’d wanted him out of the Section, and Crocker had refused to terminate him.

At this moment, she was very glad for Crocker’s refusal.

Lankford crouched down, working himself into cover behind another cluster of boulders, and she saw him glance back her way. She gave him a wait signal, then started along the road, the knife in her right hand, gripped for an upward thrust. She went as quietly as she could manage, which meant going slowly.

She heard voices as she approached the bend, and it took her a moment to understand the words being said as Uzbek, and not Pashto. So it hadn’t been just a robbery, just an ambush. Whoever this was, they’d come looking for either Ruslan or Lankford and Chace. But Chace was positive it couldn’t have been Sevara who had sent them; it didn’t make sense. The timing simply made it impossible, not unless Sevara had somehow known that Chace and Lankford were with Kostum.

Just shy of the bend, Chace held up. She took two deep breaths, filling herself with as much oxygen as she could, adjusting her grip on the knife. One of the voices sounded close, and she hoped it was very close indeed.

She looked up above her, to where Lankford crouched waiting, watching, and gave him the go signal. He returned it, began moving again, this time much more cautiously. The idea was that he’d take a position around the bend but well above the road, preferably one in strong cover. As soon as he had position, he’d open fire, and Chace would move. She licked dust from her lips, waiting. He didn’t have a lot of bullets. He’d have to make them all count, and she would have to work fast.

Then the Browning spoke, two shots, and someone cried out, and immediately upon that, there was shouting in Uzbek, and a barrage of return fire. Chace shoved off the slope and sprinted, the knife in her right held low and ready.

The lead and follow cars had been the ones to burn, their carcasses still smoldering on the trail as Chace came around the bend. There had been six in the ambush team, but Lankford had dropped one with his opening shots, and the man’s death had achieved the desired result. Along the trail, the remaining five were all facing the mountainside, looking up, three of them with M-16s at their shoulders, laying down a spray that chewed the rocks and earth above. Their clothing was closer to Chace’s and Lankford’s than to what Kostum and the others sported, and it confirmed it for her that these men had come from Tashkent.

The nearest of them was fifteen feet away when she made the turn. He was firing furiously at the mountainside above, and Chace made straight for him. He caught her motion in his peripheral vision at the last second, too late, trying to turn toward her and bring the rifle down at the same time. The result was that he turned into her knife as she drove the blade into him, punching above his stomach, then thrusting up with all her might. His eyes bulged and his arm came down, and Chace yanked both her knife and the M-16 from the man, then dropped her blade, turning the automatic rifle in her hand.

There was a shout from down the road, one of the gunmen spotting her, and the firing stopped abruptly, and in that split second the scene seared itself into her mind. She tasted her sweat and the cordite and the acrid smoke from the two burning vehicles, saw the man she’d stabbed doubled over, facedown. She saw the others, the bodies of Kostum’s men burnt and shredded by the RPGs or the M-16s, and the gunman that Chris had hit, flat on his back, his left leg tucked awkwardly beneath him, his blood sucked up by the thirsty earth. She saw Kostum himself, slumped against the rear wheel of the Jeep, bloodied and beaten, in the shadow of two men, each with pistols in their hands.

Two men she knew in her nightmares, one young and big who had grown erect at the sight of her pain and fear, the other older and shorter and disinterested to the point of inhuman. She saw Tozim Stepanov and Andrei Hamrayev, and they saw her at the same moment the other gunmen saw her, and perhaps they recognized her then, perhaps they didn’t, but Chace had no doubts, and she understood it all in that fraction of a second; this hadn’t been Sevara’s doing, it had been Zahidov’s, and that explained everything.

Then Lankford sprang up from behind his cover and laid down another three shots from the Browning, and another of the gunmen flailed and fell. Chace ducked low, scurrying behind the wreckage of the last car in the line. She brought the M-16 up, butt into her shoulder, and she fired. Tozim was turning and trying for cover but Andrei wasn’t as fast, and the burst caught both of them, cutting across the big man’s thighs and then tearing into the older man’s belly. Both went down.

Chace advanced around the side of the wreck, M-16 still to her shoulder, and she saw the last gunman crouching in the road, by the Jeep, fumbling to reload his rifle, and she put a burst in his chest. He flopped back, gagging, as the M-16 went dry, and she dropped the rifle as the man fell silent.

The gray-bearded guard lay on his side near her feet, face half-missing from shrapnel, Kalashnikov still in his bloodied hand. She took the AK, began walking through the bodies, checking for life.

“All clear?” Lankford called from above.

“Clear,” Chace shouted back.

She heard him begin to descend toward her, rattling more rocks down the mountainside.

Kostum stared at her from where he was slumped against the wheel, holding his right hand in his left, and she saw that one of them, Tozim or Andrei, had put a bullet through it. As she dropped to her haunches beside him, the General smiled at her weakly, saying something in Pashto through bloodied lips, and she nodded, then looked past him.

Andrei Hamrayev was dead, eyes wide and mouth opened, saliva visible at the corner of his mouth, mixed with his blood. But her eyes were on the bloody smear on the ground, tracking the path of a wounded man as he tried to crawl away.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Kostum softly, then stood, adjusting her grip on the Kalashnikov.

Tozim had made it halfway to the ruins of the lead car, dragging himself along, and from the amount of blood he was losing, Chace figured he didn’t have much time. He was sobbing in pain, trying to keep the noise to himself, and she saw a pistol in his right hand, and she almost laughed. It was a Sarsilmaz, maybe the same one they’d recovered from her over six months earlier.

She watched him crawling, and his progress steadily degraded, less and less ground covered with what seemed greater and greater effort. Finally she set the Kalashnikov silently on the ground at her feet, then moved to him. She kicked him hard in the face with her boot, snapping him onto his side, then brought the same foot down on his gun hand, stomping. Tozim cried out, lost the grip on the gun.

She picked the pistol up, still looking down at him. There were tears of pain in his eyes. There was recognition on his face.

Chace thought of all the things she wanted to say, as she checked the pistol, and she was almost positive it was the same Sarsilmaz, and it was loaded and ready, so she pointed it at his right foot. She decided there were no words to say.

She pulled the trigger.

Tozim screamed.

She pointed it at his left foot and fired again.

He screamed again.

She tucked the pistol into the back of her pants, leaned down, and searched him. She found his wallet, a pack of American cigarettes, and a plastic lighter. She took all of them, shoving them into her coat pockets. Tozim was babbling at her, a torrent of Uzbek, and when she began dragging him, he tried to break her grip with his bloodied hands. There was almost no strength to his efforts, and when he did finally succeed in grabbing Chace’s wrist, she punched him in the face before she resumed pulling him.

“You don’t ever touch me again,” she told him.

She was aware of Lankford watching her, crouched beside Kostum, trying to tend his wounds, as she manhandled Tozim to the side of the trail. The slope was severe here and she looked back down at Tozim Stepanov, and she knew he was begging her not to do it, not because she understood his words, but because she heard the garbled desperation in them.

It was another sound from her nightmares, and she would have relented then, she would have spared him then, if only, in her dreams, it hadn’t been her doing the begging.

“Try to land on your feet,” Chace told him, then pitched him over the edge.

They reached Mazar-i-Sharif seven hours later, and three hours and fifty-four minutes after that, Chace was on a NATO-staffed helicopter bound for Termez.

CHAPTER 41

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—438–2 Raktaboshi,

Residence of Charles Riess

27 August, 0917 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Riess answered the door in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, the day’s first cup of coffee in his hand. He’d have been better dressed if he’d been expecting a caller, but it was Sunday morning, there was no need for him at the Embassy, and he’d been up late the night before, watching the better part of a television series he’d ordered off of Netflix, concerning cowboys with extraordinarily foul mouths. He’d dreamed of saloons and the Wild West, and perhaps because it was still so fresh in his mind, the first words out of his mouth when he saw Tracy Carlisle at his door were “Cock-sucking motherfucker.”

“Delighted to see you, too,” she replied, and then Tracy Carlisle, whose name wasn’t really Tracy Carlisle, smiled at him like they were old friends. She smiled like she was happy to see him. “May I come in?”

Riess thought about that for a moment, wondering what in hell he’d tell Tower when he was no doubt asked about this, then sighed. He moved back and waved her in, then looked out over his tiny yard to the street, seeing nothing that alarmed him. He almost laughed.

As if I’d know what I’m looking for, he thought.

“Coffee’s fresh,” he told her as he moved past, heading back to the kitchen. “I get it from a friend in San Francisco. The beans, I mean, not the coffee.”

“Coffee would be delightful,” Tracy Carlisle said, following him.

“You take cream? Sugar?” Riess opened the cabinet, pulled out a mug.

“Black, like my heart.”

“Uh-huh.”

He set the mug down, filled it from the pot, handing it over. She was looking at him with what he interpreted as vague amusement, and as he stood there, she ran her eyes the length of him, down, then up, then smiled again.

“I just woke up,” Riess explained.

“So I see.”

Riess returned the look, and had to admit he liked what he was looking at. She wore jeans and a black T-shirt, a loose linen jacket, tan. He could smell the hint of soap, saw that her hair appeared to still be damp. Fresh from the shower, he assumed, and straight to his doorstep, but God only knew why. Then he saw what looked like dried blood on the toes of her boots, and had to wonder if the shower had been about more than just hygiene.

“You probably shouldn’t be here,” he told her.

“I need a favor.”

“I don’t do those kinds of favors anymore.”

“This one won’t cost you anything. You might even like it.”

Riess laughed tersely. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“It’s a favor for Ruslan, Charles.”

“Ruslan’s in Afghanistan.”

“At the moment, yes. He wants his son back. I’m here to fetch him.”

“Oh, God,” Riess said, his mind filling with visions of the Dormon Residence, where the President lived, erupting in flames, collapsing from a missile strike. “The way you fetched them the first time?”

Carlisle laughed. “You really think I’m a monster, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what to think of you,” Riess answered honestly. “You show up on my doorstep with bloodstains on your boots, telling me that you need a favor but it’s okay because it’s semiofficial, and it’s about Ruslan, and it’s about Stepan, and the last time I saw you, you were headed for the shower and I was headed out the door. So, no, Tracy, I don’t know what to think of you.”

“My name’s Tara,” Tracy Carlisle said.

“What’s this favor?”

Tara-not-Tracy tasted the coffee he’d poured for her, and he saw her expression brighten in pleasant surprise. She took a second gulp before saying, “Late yesterday afternoon, the U.K. Ambassador met with President Sevara Malikov to discuss the possibility of returning Stepan Malikov to his father’s care. The Ambassador carried a message from Stepan’s father, the details of which are largely unimportant, but the gist was this: Ruslan gets Stepan back, Sevara never has to worry about her brother again. Ruslan will stay far away from her and Uzbekistan, and that will be that.

“President Malikov, after some deliberation, agreed. The exchange is set for the day after tomorrow, early Tuesday morning, to take place at the border crossing in Termez. Sevara will make the visit ostensibly to examine the security at the border and to meet with the United Nations staff for the relief effort. Ruslan will await on the Afghan side of the bridge, and Sevara will deliver Stepan on the Uzbek side. A third party will escort the boy across the bridge to his father.”

“Sevara’s agreed to this?”

“So I’ve been told. You seem surprised.”

Riess shrugged. Nothing about Uzbekistan surprised him anymore. “So far I’m not hearing anything about a favor.”

“I’m coming to that.” Tara-not-Tracy finished her coffee, then placed the mug on the counter. She reached into an outside pocket of her coat, removing two wallets, both leather, one black, the other tan. She set them beside her empty mug. Riess noted that the tan one was spattered with dried blood, too.

“I took these off two men in Afghanistan,” she told him. “They were reluctant to part with them.”

Riess hesitated, then picked up the black wallet, flipping it open. An ID card stared back at him, printed in Uzbek, and declaring the bearer an officer of the NSS. The officer in question’s name was Tozim Stepanov. He glanced up from the wallet to her, and she inclined her head, indicating that he should examine the second one as well. He did so, reading the ID of a second NSS officer named Andrei Hamrayev.

“You got these off two men in Afghanistan?”

“About eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif, in fact.”

“What were two NSS officers doing eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif?”

“I believe they were leading a hit squad in an attempt to kill Ruslan Malikov. The hit squad consisted of four Uzbek Army soldiers in addition to these two.”

“You have proof of this?”

From the another pocket, Tara-not-Tracy removed a zip-top plastic bag. She jiggled the bag before handing it over, causing the metal contents inside to ring lightly. Riess took the bag.

Four sets of dog tags.

“The question is, of course, whether or not President Malikov authorized this hit squad or not,” she told him. “Given that this was an armed incursion by one sovereign nation upon another, I find that doubtful, especially considering Uzbekistan’s cozy relationship with your government, not to mention your government’s relationship with Afghanistan. I find it very doubtful indeed.”

“She didn’t,” Riess said. “Not in a million years, not just to kill her brother.”

“Then someone else must have initiated the action. And considering the nature of the IDs in those wallets, I think we both know who that someone would be.”

“I should bring this to the attention of my Ambassador.”

“I’m certainly not about to tell you how to do your job,” she said cheerfully. “But if you were to ask me, I’d say that was a fine and proper course of action.”

Riess considered her again, her smile, her manner. “You’re setting up Zahidov?”

“Am I?”

“At the least, President Malikov demands Zahidov’s resignation. At the most, he disappears and the body is never found.”

Something flickered behind her eyes, almost like a shadow moving from one darkness to another.

“That would be a pity,” Tara-not-Tracy said. “That would be a great pity indeed.”

Ambassador Norton was reluctant to meet with Riess on such short notice, but the mention of an Uzbek incursion into Afghanistan dispelled that reluctance quickly. They met in the Ambassador’s office at the Embassy, and while it certainly wasn’t the first time that Riess had been inside it since Norton took over for Garret, he was again surprised by how little things had seemed to change. Only the photographs on the glory wall and the desk, and even those were remarkably similar to the ones that Garret had hung.

Aaron Tower attended the meeting as well, which surprised Riess initially, but in retrospect he thought it really shouldn’t have. Tara-not-Tracy was SIS, he knew that, and this time the Brit was here on official business. COS Tashkent would have been notified, if not via London, possibly via Langley. It helped Riess in making his case, because Tower was able to provide some missing details—namely, about the Uzbek soldiers, where they’d been stationed, and how Zahidov most likely arranged things.

“And we’re positive that President Malikov didn’t authorize the action?” Ambassador Norton asked when Riess and Tower had each finished their respective reports. He gazed at them over the top of his glasses.

“As positive as we can be,” Tower answered. “It flies in the face of everything President Malikov’s done since winning the election, Mitch, especially the steps she’s taking to improve relations with the Afghanis. Add to that the fact that she’s been working extremely hard to stay on our good side, easing up on the religious restrictions and press issues, even reining in the NSS.”

“She still has a long way to go,” the Ambassador pointed out mildly. “But I take your point. It’d be a hell of a risk for her, sending troops into Afghanistan, at least like this.”

“I think we’re safe in assuming that it was done without her knowledge or permission.”

“Then I’ll put a call into her office at once, see if she isn’t available to discuss this potential diplomatic incident.” The Ambassador sat back in his chair, removing his glasses. He folded them closed, but held them in his hand. “Mr. Riess.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re aware the British have brokered a deal between President Malikov and her brother?”

“I am, sir.”

“Have you been to Termez before?”

“Three times, yes, sir, though not in the last eight months or so.”

“You’re about to make it four times. I want the handoff audited. Anything goes wrong, I’d like to have an American eyewitness to what transpired. Get yourself to Termez by tomorrow night. The exchange, as my colleague at the British Embassy has informed me, is set for eight o’clock Tuesday morning. I want you there.”

“How close should I get?”

“Close enough that if anything goes sour, you’ll be able to give me an accurate report, son.” The Ambassador seemed vaguely annoyed. “You know both Ruslan and the boy, or so I understand.”

Riess glanced to Tower, who shot him a grin in return. “I’ll recognize them, yes, sir,” he replied.

“That’s all I need. I’ll make sure McColl knows where you’re going and why; you won’t have to worry about him.” The Ambassador swept the hand holding his glasses across his desk, indicating the wallets and dog tags. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention so promptly.”

Riess took that as his cue to exit, said, “Thank you for your time, sir,” and started out of the office.

“Mr. Riess,” the Ambassador called after him. “One more thing.”

“Sir?”

“No cloaks and daggers for you.” It seemed to Riess that the Ambassador was rather pointedly not looking at Tower. “I’ve got enough people with those running around this country already.”

“I understand, sir.”

Tower hefted himself from his chair, saying, “I’ll walk Charles out, if you don’t mind, Mitch.”

The Ambassador grunted assent, already reaching for the phone. Tower settled a hand on Riess’ upper arm, guiding him the rest of the way out of the office and through the secretarial bunker, into the hallway. They cleared the security doors, and Tower dropped the hand, walking alongside Riess silently until they reached the entry hall.

“Didn’t get a second roll in the hay?” Tower asked him.

“I don’t think she was that interested.”

Tower stopped, tucking his hands into his pockets. The CIA Chief of Station was looking toward the exit, brow creasing, apparently in memory.

“No, I don’t imagine that she was,” he said after a second, then moved his look back to Riess. “Mind if I ride down to Termez with you?”

“You need to audit the handover as well?”

“Something like that.”

“But not quite like that.”

Tower grinned by way of answer, then said, “DPM of the Interior Zahidov’s going to have a very bad day tomorrow, I think.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”

“If you knew half of what I know, Chuck, you’d be drinking a toast.”

“You think she’ll do it? Have him killed?”

“President Malikov? He was useful to her before she won the election, but he’s a major liability now. Her problem is, he knows too much. All of her dirty laundry. What do you think?”

Charles Riess remembered the videotapes Dina Malikov had passed to him of the NSS interrogations, of the men and women, young and old, beaten and brutalized to coerce confessions. He remembered Dina Malikov, the photographs of her naked body, the burns, the shattered bones, the blood. He remembered the story, that Zahidov had sent for Ruslan so he could identify his wife’s body, a request that might have been interpreted as Zahidov warning Ruslan, but was in truth nothing more than pure sadism.

“I think it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he said.

CHAPTER 42

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—488 Chimkent

27 August, 2022 Hours (GMT+5:00)

He didn’t sleep at the penthouse on Sulaymonova any longer, not since Sevara had become President. She kept the penthouse, of course, and Zahidov knew she still used it on occasion, but now she lived in the Residence in Dormon, and it had taken him time to understand that she had no intention of letting him join her there. Not unless he could convince her otherwise, convince her that the love between them was still strong, and still served their nation’s best interests.

It bothered him no small amount that Ruslan’s brat slept there instead. Sevara doted on the child, inasmuch as she had the time to dote on anyone. But why she seemed to focus on her nephew, on the boy’s comfort and happiness, he didn’t understand.

So Zahidov lived alone, in his apartment on Chimkent, an apartment appropriate for a man who was both the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior and the Head of the NSS. It had everything he could want, all the finest fixtures and appliances and electronics, from a flat-panel television to a mighty stereo and a king-size waterbed. It had an eighteen-hundred-dollar secure refrigerator made especially to hold his collection of fine wines, and even a secret room with a cabinet safe, where he kept those things most important to him and his job: the documents used for blackmailing other members of the Government, his favorite handguns, some of his money—half of it in gold, the other half in American dollars.

It had everything he could want, except her, and Zahidov knew he was lovesick, and despised himself for being so weak. But he couldn’t change his heart.

He hated coming home.

And this was why he was inattentive when he parked his newly purchased Audi TT in the lot that night, returning from the Interior Ministry, where he’d spent the day, waiting for word from Tozim or Andrei. This was why he didn’t notice that the lights at the entrance to the stairwell from the car park seemed to be out, and why he wasn’t as careful as he perhaps should have been when he exited his car and then leaned back in to reach across to his briefcase, sitting on the passenger’s seat, to retrieve it.

“What is it with you and Audis?” a woman asked Zahidov softly, from behind.

He reached for the pistol at his hip, trying to straighten as he did so, but before he could even begin the move, he felt pain slicing across the backs of his legs, the Audi’s door slamming closed on him. He cried out in surprise as much as in pain. Then the door opened and slammed a second time, and this time there was only pain in his cry.

Then he was being pulled from the car, felt the cement of the garage floor on his face and a dull pain from his front teeth, and he knew he’d been pulled free, that he’d hit the ground face-first. A flower of light bloomed behind his eyes, blinding him with its intensity, and he tasted blood in his mouth and felt its warmth running over his face. Hands stripped the pistol from the holster at his hip, then his other gun from his ankle.

Nausea surged through him, rising from between his legs, and he couldn’t breathe, and the blossom of light faded to points that swirled and weaved in front of his eyes. He saw the woman then, and despite his disorientation and his suffering, he made the connection. This woman here and the British bitch spy then, the cunt that Tower had stolen from him, the one Sevara blamed him for. She had him by the throat, yanking him toward her, and he saw the flash of her hand, his pistol in it, and she struck him across the mouth with the barrel. His front teeth, already loosened from his impact with the garage floor, broke free in his mouth, and he tasted a new flood of blood.

She slammed him back against the Audi, still holding him by the throat, choking him. With her other hand, she shoved the end of his pistol against his lips, pushing hard, harder, until he had no choice but to open his mouth. The barrel cut across his raw gums, and he couldn’t keep himself from voicing his pain.

At that, her face came in close to his, her hands gripping him, and he felt her hair brush his cheek. He lost track of his pain in the swell of sudden fear, certain from her expression alone that she was about to pull the trigger.

“Remember me?” she asked. “Remember what you did to me?”

Zahidov stared at her, his vision still swimming with light and, now, with tears.

“Answer me,” she said, softly.

He nodded.

“Good,” she said, sounding satisfied. “Tozim remembered me, too, just before he died. Andrei, though . . . Andrei never had the chance before I killed him.”

She paused, to let her words sink in. The barrel of the gun was cutting into the roof of Zahidov’s mouth, and he felt his gag reflex trembling, and he was afraid what would happen if he couldn’t control it.

“Ruslan’s alive,” she whispered. “He wasn’t even in the convoy, you dumb fuck. You blew it, and anytime now, sweet little Sevya’s going to know you blew it, too. The President’s going to know you sent soldiers into Afghanistan to murder her brother, and that you did it without her permission. And what do you think she’s going to do?”

The urge to gag was unbearable, and Zahidov’s head came off the roof of the car involuntarily, and she slammed him back down with the gun. He couldn’t breathe, her figure blurring from the tears in his eyes.

“What do you think she’s going to do with an embarrassment like you, Ahtam? With someone as crude and stupid as you? You’re way past your expiration date, mate. What do you think she’s going to do now that she’s found a way to make peace with her brother?”

The spy, the British cunt spy, smiled at him then. She smiled.

Then she pulled the gun from his mouth, and at the same time, drove her right knee into his crotch.

Zahidov crumpled, pitching forward to the floor once more. This time he managed to get an arm in front of himself to cushion the fall.

“I don’t need to kill you, Ahtam. Do you know why?” The woman’s slightly husky voice came from above him. “Because your little Sevya’s going to do it for me. You’re already dead, Zahidov. You just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”

Then he felt his ribs threatening to break, and the little air he’d recovered fled, and the bright light consumed his vision a second time. This time it grew, and he heard the roar of a river, deafening in his ears.

When he came back to himself, he was on his side beside his car, still in the garage, still in darkness. He didn’t know how much time he’d lost, and, for a moment, he didn’t know how he’d come to be there, like this.

Then it came back to him, the pieces falling together, and he remembered the woman. He remembered the pain she’d given him. He remembered what she’d said, and he knew it had been true. Tozim and Andrei had failed, and Sevara did not abide failure.

Instead of proving Sevara wrong, he’d proven her correct. Worse—he wasn’t merely a thug. Now she had no choice but to see him as a dangerous and out-of-control one as well.

He pulled himself to the side of his car, then used the open door to struggle to his feet. Halfway up he had to stop, doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach onto the floor and his shoes.

Zahidov caught his breath, ran the back of one arm across his eyes. He’d lost his glasses, he had no idea where they were. He wiped the tears and blood from his face, touched his leaking gums with the tip of his tongue. He hurt more than he’d ever before, not just his body, but his heart.

It was over between Sevara and him. Everything else crashing down, and the finality of that, more than anything, took root and sparked his rage. He could surrender to her and face what would happen next, or he could run.

He fumbled around inside the Audi, found his keys and his briefcase. He shut the door, staggering toward the stairs.

He would run. Leave the country, go far away. He had connections, he could disappear. Moscow first, Paris after. He would leave and recover and then, when he had the strength and the people, he would repay this British spy. He would repay her in kind, and he would make her wish with all her soul that she had pulled the trigger on him, and he would make her know what he’d done to her in the interrogation room at the Ministry had been a mercy.

He reached his apartment, moved to unlock the door, then realized the lock was broken and the door itself ajar. He pushed inside, then stopped cold, staring at the wreckage. His apartment had been tossed, as viciously and thoroughly as any search he himself had ever performed. The lock on his wine refrigerator had been smashed, the bottles shattered, and even the cabinet in the secret room had been opened, his weapons strewn across the floor, his money gone.

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, because 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 transfer, 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.

“It’d overheat the engine,” Tower said, answering the unasked question, and then lowering their respective windows. The scent of fouled water wafted into the car.

Riess turned around in his seat, reaching into the rear for the backpack he’d brought along. From within he removed his binoculars and his camera, a Konica Minolta digital camera with telephoto lens. Tower had brought his own binoculars with him, but when Riess turned back, he found the other man had also brought a radio with him, and was raising it to his mouth.

“Ikki, this is Baloo, over,” he said, and Riess stared at him, because Tower had transmitted in Uzbek, not English.

“Baloo, this is Ikki.”

“How do you read?”

“Five by five.”

“Over and out,” Tower said, and then set the radio on the dashboard, above the wheel.

Riess continued to stare, and Tower seemed not to mind, now producing his own set of binoculars. The CIA man raised his optics and looked out toward the bridge.

Seeing no explanation for his behavior forthcoming, Riess followed suit, pointing his lenses down to the foot of the bridge. There was movement from the guards, what he read as agitation, and two of the soldiers were beginning to make their way toward the Americans, slipping their rifles off their arms. But as Riess watched, he saw the pair turn even as the distant shouting made its way to him through the still air. An officer was running toward the soldiers, waving an arm angrily. The officer pointed at them in the van, and the soldiers snapped to attention, then ran hastily back to their posts.

The officer watched them go, then cast a glance back in the Americans’ direction. Through the binoculars, Riess could make out the man’s expression, the confusion and displeasure. Whatever he’d been told, whatever orders he’d just passed on to his men, he was uncomfortable with them.

Riess looked away to check his watch. Nine minutes to eight. He was raising the binoculars again when Tower spoke.

“West side. Blue Lada approaching, along the fence.”

Panning swiftly right, along what Riess thought of as a service road running parallel to the fence, was a late-model Lada, its wheels kicking up clouds of dust. He lost his view of it for a moment as it passed between him and one of the squat bunkers near the shore, but reacquired it immediately as it emerged, slowing to a stop. He could make out the driver behind the wheel.

“Hell,” Riess said. “I should have seen that coming.”

“Yeah,” Tower agreed, raising his radio once more. “You probably should’ve.”

CHAPTER 46

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0753 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Chace had left Tashkent just after midnight, arriving in Termez on a flight run by a charter service contracted to the British Embassy. The Lada had been waiting for her at the airfield, and Chace didn’t want to know who Fincher had bribed to get it for her, and she made a mental note to thank him when she had the chance. He may have stunk as a Minder, but she was rapidly gaining new respect for the man as an HOS.

She’d spent the night in the car, which wasn’t to say she’d slept in it. Rather, she’d driven out to a vantage point overlooking the bridge and parked there for almost an hour, watching the floodlights on the Uzbek side as they ran along the length of the fence and shone off the water, trying to understand the terrain. She’d emerged from the car a few times to smoke the cigarettes she’d taken from Tozim’s body, to stretch her legs, to try to calm her mind. Neither the nicotine nor the movement had done the trick.

Before dawn, she’d started the Lada up again, easing it back into Termez proper, such as there was a Termez proper, and then made her way west, out of town, watching the odometer and counting out five kilometers. She’d passed the airfield the Germans were using, then turned back again, toward the Amu Darya, until the fence had once again become visible in her headlights, then reversed the direction. She’d passed plenty of places where a man could hide with a MANPAD, and it didn’t give her much comfort that she’d seen no signs of the same.

The sun had been rising by then, at which point she abandoned the hunt. She had no guarantee that Zahidov was going to make a play to begin with, and searching for him in the dark had been just shy of foolish. Had she found him, there would have been a very good chance that he’d have seen her coming first. And if he did have the MANPAD, she suspected that both herself and the Lada would have ended in a fireworks of light and flames.

For the best, then, that she lie low for the time being.

She’d driven down to the river, parking in time to watch the remainder of the sunrise. The warmth had reached her through the car’s windows, and despite herself, she’d dozed off, thinking of home and Tamsin and wondering for how much longer she could expect Val to come when called. If it was hard on Tamsin for Chace to go away, it was, in its fashion, harder for Val. Val knew just enough to be aware that, like Tom, Chace might not return.

She’d started awake with a panic then, afraid she’d blown the pickup. By her watch, she’d slept for all of two minutes. She’d gotten out of the vehicle again, smoked more of Tozim’s cigarettes, and by then it was time to get moving. She’d climbed back behind the wheel, turned the nose of the car east, and found a dirt track used by the border guards that took her back to the bridge.

She saw the van, parked on the slope, before she stopped the Lada. Her watch read exactly nine minutes to eight, and when she looked south, across the river, she could see the Afghan checkpoint. She shut off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition, then pulled out the radio set, fitting the earpiece into place before switching the unit on and slipping it into her pocket. She climbed out of the car, and had to fight to keep herself from gagging. The air was rank from the river, fouled with a mix of chemical runoff and human waste, an odor that invaded the sinuses and clung to the back of her throat. The heat augmented it, and Chace hoped the stench wouldn’t be quite so strong from the bridge, but expected that it would be worse.

There was a crackle in her ear, and then a man’s voice, gravelly and American. “Shere Khan, this is Baloo, respond.”

She keyed her radio, watching the activity of the guards on the Uzbek side of the bridge, walking their patrol along the concrete roadblocks. “Go ahead.”

“Proceed as planned.”

“You have a location on Kaa?”

There was a hiss in her ear as the CIA man, Tower, paused while keeping the line open. “We have overwatch on Kaa. You may proceed as planned.”

Chace moved around to the hood of the car, only marginally relieved by the news. She glanced again to the van parked off the main road leading to the bridge, saw the flash of a lens. She wondered who was in the vehicle with Tower, handling the camera. Perhaps it was Riess, and she liked that idea. Riess had been a part of it the last time; it seemed right to her that he participate again now.

“Should I say cheese?” she asked. “Where’s Bagheera?”

Lankford’s voice broke in, choppier than Tower’s had been. “We’re in position, holding.”

She turned her attention back to the bridge, following it across the river to the Afghan side, over a kilometer away. She could see movement at the checkpoint, vehicles, but without optics had no hope of making out Lankford and Kostum’s position.

“Understood,” Chace said.

“Here they come,” Tower said.

Chace heard the cars coming along the main road first, the helicopter second, coming from the center of Termez. The helo looked like another Sikorsky, or perhaps it was the same Sikorsky that had pursued her when she’d run in the Audi, she couldn’t be certain. She watched as two Uzbek Army Jeeps led a black Mercedes-Benz, a third Jeep following, off the main road at the summit of the slope, where the helicopter was lovingly settling to the earth, blowing clouds of dust as it came in to land. For a second time, she wished she had optics, could confirm that the boy was in the helo.

The Sikorsky’s rotors slowed, then stopped, and she saw activity around the Benz, figures moving, passengers shifting from the helo to the car. She imagined, rather than heard, the sound of the vehicle doors slamming, the engines starting, and then the convoy was moving again, the two Jeeps again taking the lead back to the road, the Benz close behind. The line of cars started down the road, past the parked van, toward the foot of the bridge.

Trying to ignore the stench from the river, Chace began walking toward the checkpoint.

CHAPTER 47

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0754 Hours (GMT+5:00)

The windows on the Benz were tinted, and Riess couldn’t see who rode inside as the minor motorcade passed them, making its way down to the bridge. He’d switched to the camera, and as soon as the last Jeep passed, put the lens back on Tara-not-Tracy, now walking slowly along the access road to the foot of the bridge. She was wearing the same clothes he’d last seen her in, right down—he suspected—to the blood-spattered boots, but with the addition of sunglasses.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Riess asked as he took another two shots, then moved his focus to the Benz, now coming to a halt perhaps ten yards from the checkpoint.

“You know what’s going on,” Tower said.

“What’s with all the code names? Who’s Bagheera?”

“He’s with Shere Khan, on the Afghan side. Take a look across the bridge.”

“And Kaa? Ikki?”

“Just take a look at the Afghan side, Chuck, tell me what you see.”

Riess panned the lens from the Benz, its doors still closed, to the foot of the bridge, then followed its line across the muddy water of the river to the Afghan side, settling his view again on the cluster of newly painted buildings there. He’d maxed the telephoto and could make out figures, but not much detail. There was a fair amount of activity, Afghan border guards at their posts, and an SUV of some sort, what he thought might be a Jeep Cherokee, parked near the gate at the far side of the bridge. A thin black-haired man in civilian clothes was speaking to one of the border guards, another man with him, Afghani from the way he was dressed. Riess could make out a smear of white around the man’s right hand, as if it was wrapped in a scarf or otherwise bandaged.

“I’ve got two men, one of them could be Ruslan if he’s gone native,” Riess said.

“It’s not Ruslan,” Tower told him. “He’s in Mazar-i, lying low.”

Riess lowered the camera slightly, puzzled. “He thinks it’s a setup?”

“He’s got a reason to be paranoid.”

“Is it a setup?”

“Yeah, but Ruslan’s not the target.”

“Who’s Ikki?”

Tower grinned. “Uzbek military. I was talking to an Army captain named Arkitov.”

“About?”

“Security. Eyes on the road, Chuck, c’mon. You’re supposed to be documenting this for the Ambassador.”

Riess bit back more questions, brought the camera up once more, locating Tara-not-Tracy again, still strolling toward the Uzbek checkpoint. He snapped off three pictures in quick succession.

“One for the scrapbook?” Tower asked him.

“Bite me,” Riess said. “Sir.”

Tower laughed.

Riess next moved the camera to the bridge, where the border guards had all come to attention. The soldiers in the Jeeps had already leaped down, fanning out to form a perimeter. For a second, it seemed vaguely silly to him, until Riess remembered where they were, and that to the right sniper with the right rifle, one thousand meters could be considered an easy shot to make.

An aide jumped out from the front of the Benz, running around to the passenger door and opening it, and Riess snapped another set of photographs as he watched Sevara Malikov-Ganiev emerge from the vehicle. She’d adopted a more conservative style of dress since ascending to the Presidency, wearing a tailored business suit that Riess guessed was linen, her hair up, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She took the man’s offered hand, and Riess saw that she was holding a small, plush lion in her other. Once she was out of the car, she turned back to help Stepan out of the vehicle.

The boy looked confused, Riess thought, and frightened. Stepan had been dressed in what Riess supposed were his best clothes, very Western, and for a moment he had to wonder if Sevara ordered from Baby Gap or the like. Stepan sported toddler chinos and a blue button-down shirt, and he tugged after him in one hand a backpack, made for a child at least five years older than he, with the image of a Disney character large on its outward side.

As Riess watched, Sevara crouched down on her haunches, setting her free hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking to him, and he could tell she was trying to reassure the boy. She clasped his hand and began walking him toward the bridge.

Riess moved his view back toward the Lada, trying to find Tara-not-Tracy, and saw that she was already halfway to the checkpoint. Her pace hadn’t increased. Three soldiers were heading toward her, and they intercepted her with twenty feet to go, two of the three leveling their weapons at her.

“What the hell . . . ?”

“Easy, Chuck. It’s a search, that’s all.”

Tower was right, and Riess snapped off another half-dozen shots, filling the camera’s data card, as the third soldier searched Tara-not-Tracy, hands efficiently running over her body. He swapped cards quickly, and when he brought the camera back up again, she was continuing toward President Malikov and Stepan, the soldiers following after her.

Tara-not-Tracy slowed, then stopped, leaving ten feet between herself and Stepan, President Malikov, and the foot of the bridge.

“Moment of truth,” Tower said.

CHAPTER 48

Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—

Termez, “Friendship Bridge”

29 August, 0758 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Chace stopped, keeping her hands loose at her sides, palms open. She could see that the boy had been crying, and she thought about how often she’d seen him cry, and she sincerely hoped that this would be the last time. He held the oversized backpack by its strap. It only made the child seem smaller, more vulnerable.

She smiled at Stepan, and, without looking away from him, said, “Madam President.”

“You’re the one taking him across?” President Malikov-Ganiev’s English was flawless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

President Malikov tilted her head, issued an order in Uzbek. One of the soldiers, an officer, stepped forward, and she spoke to him again. The officer saluted, then sprinted back to the foot of the bridge, calling out. Chace looked away from Stepan long enough to confirm what the officer was doing, watched as he was handed a set of binoculars and then climbed up onto one of the checkered cement roadblocks to get a better view of the Afghan side.

Chace put her attention back on the child, the boy still watching her warily.

“Hello, Stepan,” she said to him in English. “My name’s Tara. I don’t know if you remember me.”

Beside the boy, President Sevara Malikov-Ganiev tilted her head slightly, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. Then she looked down to Stepan and spoke in Uzbek softly, and the contrast between the voice she’d used to issue her orders to the soldier and tone she used on the boy was stark.

Stepan stared up at Chace, then spoke in response, so softly that, even if it had been in English, she doubted she’d have understood it.

President Malikov turned back to Chace, saying in English, “My nephew says he remembers you. You’re the one who tried to take Stepan and his father out of the country back in February?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re the one that Ahtam tortured.”

Chace looked at President Malikov-Ganiev, trying to read her expression behind the sunglasses, her tone. There was nothing in it one way or another to indicate approval of what had been done to her, or disapproval.

“One of the many,” Chace answered, and her voice was flat.

From the bridge, the officer came jogging back, delivering another salute and then speaking quickly. President Malikov-Ganiev frowned, and the officer stepped back.

“Where is my brother?” the President asked Chace. “Why can they not find him?”

“He’s waiting in Mazar-i-Sharif, Madam President. He was afraid of another attempt on his life.”

President Malikov-Ganiev’s frown went from annoyance to anger, and she hissed softly, cursing. Chace caught the name “Ahtam,” but nothing else.

“So you bring Stepan across, and then you two join my brother in Mazar-i-Sharif,” the President said to Chace.

“Yes, ma’am.”

For a moment, President Malikov-Ganiev didn’t move, and Chace was certain the woman was staring at her from behind her sunglasses. Then she bent back down to Stepan and spoke to him again. Stepan responded, just as quietly as he had the first time, and President Malikov-Ganiev seemed to repeat herself, her voice gaining an edge. The boy looked up at her with wide eyes, then to Chace, and then to the bridge.

The President turned to Chace. She held out the stuffed animal in her hand. “Take him and go.”

“Thank you, Madam President,” Chace said. She took the stuffed lion, and then she reached out for Stepan’s hand.

The boy hesitated, and President Malikov-Ganiev snapped at him, and the anger in her voice was unmistakable. Stepan flinched, then offered Chace his hand, and she took it, felt it small and a little cold in her own.

“It’ll be all right,” Chace told Stepan.

“Go,” President Malikov-Ganiev said. “Go, and never come back. Tell my brother, he never comes back.”

Chace turned away without answering, holding the boy’s hand. After a half-dozen steps, she stopped and took his backpack, slipping her arm through the strap, hoisting it onto her shoulder. She offered Stepan her hand once more, and this time he took it without hesitation.

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 messy 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 saw 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.

She lowered the binoculars, and saw Kostum watching her, and then she understood, and the humiliation and betrayal that burst open inside her at having been played so well and so effectively was sickening. It all made sense, then, what Ruslan had done and why he had done it. Why he had demanded that she be the one to bring Stepan across, why Ruslan had claimed that the fear for his own life was greater than his concern for his son’s. Chace understood it all, and worse, understood just how effectively Ruslan had found her blind spot and exploited it.

She saw it all, and she saw the reason for it, but Kostum had seen the realization coming, too, and the pistol was coming out from the folds of his shirt, held in his left hand. With his other, Kostum held Stepan with an open palm on the little boy’s chest, pressing him against the backseat, keeping him still. The bandage around his hand was filthy and stained, and looked like a tumor where his hand pressed against the little boy’s breast.

“Chris—” Chace started to say, but the pistol was already pressing into the back of Lankford’s head, and it was too late for any move.

“Stop,” Kostum said.

Lankford stopped the Cherokee in the middle of the road.

“I take son to him now,” Kostum said. “You both out.”

“Where is he?” Chace asked. “Where’s Ruslan?”

“Out.”

“He’s going to kill his sister. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Kostum pushed the barrel of his pistol harder into the back of Lankford’s head, and in her peripheral vision, Chace could see Minder Three wince, his hands still tight on the wheel. The gun was a Makarov, a Russian pistol, and from the looks of it, acquired during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Not the best gun in the world, and not the most accurate outside of fifteen meters or so, but here and now, perfectly suited for its job.

“Out,” Kostum repeated, then slid his eyes to Chace, and his expression softened, almost to a plea. “Please.”

“Where’d he get the Starstreak? From you?”

Kostum’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t move, and neither did the pistol, and Chace could see him struggling with the conflict. She and Lankford had saved his life on the road to Mazar-i-Sharif, when Zahidov’s men had ambushed them, after all. There was a debt to be paid.

“You’re the one who sold them to Zahidov in the first place, aren’t you?” Chace persisted. “Kept one for yourself?”

“Please.” Kostum spoke through clenched teeth. “I take son now.”

“You gave us protection. Pashtunwali.”

Kostum turned his head to Chace. Trapped beneath his palm, Stepan seemed frozen in place, staring straight ahead, at nothing, young eyes dead, a witness already of too much violence. Beneath their voices, the engine idled softly, waiting.

“He asks my help for his revenge. You do not understand—”

Lankford twisted his neck to the left, wrenching himself about in the seat, the Makarov slipping from his head, and when he did, Chace lunged. The interior of the car exploded with the sound of the pistol’s report, the windshield shattering, and Chace felt something slap her face, a hot line burning across her cheek. She bore down on the weapon, hearing Stepan’s screams as if her head were inside a bucket of water, her ears ringing from the gunshot, and she kept her grip on the Makarov, twisting it with both hands, turning it away from Kostum’s finger trapped inside the trigger guard, refusing him a second shot.

Then Lankford had his Browning out, pointed at Kostum’s face, and Chace had the Makarov in her hand, and Stepan was wailing, and Kostum was falling back against his seat, shaking his injured left hand. The look on his face was devoid of anger, even of pain, just an acknowledgment of his failure, and already Chace could see him finding his resolve. This wasn’t what Kostum had wanted, but in its way, it satisfied his obligations. He had tried, and he had failed.

Lankford was saying something, but Chace couldn’t hear him. She saw Kostum start slightly in his seat, glance down at his shirt, then look back to them. With the pistol in one hand, pointed at him, Chace leaned forward, digging into the folds of his shirt with the other. Kostum’s expression tightened with anger, but he didn’t move, and she found the phone nestled near his hip. When she pulled it out, her hearing had returned enough that she could dimly make out the trill of an incoming call.

“Get him out of the car,” Chace said to Lankford, then turned her attention to the phone.

It was another satellite model, not unlike the Iridium she’d brought with her to Tashkent in February. She set the Makarov in her lap, pulling the earpiece from the radio free while using her teeth to extend the antenna on the phone. She punched the receive button with her thumb and put the unit to her ear.

“Hello, Ruslan,” Chace said, and she hoped she wasn’t shouting.

There was a moment’s pause. “You have my son with you?”

Chace looked at the boy, his face stained with tears, snot bubbling over his upper lip, miserable in the backseat.

“I do. Where are you? I’ll bring him to you.”

“In a few minutes. After Sevara has boarded her helicopter.”

“Now,” Chace disagreed. “Or I don’t bring him to you at all.”

There was a second pause, Ruslan hesitating, trapped between conflicting desires.

“You kill her, you’ll never see your son again, Ruslan. Even if you do manage to disappear into Afghanistan for the rest of your life, you’ll never see Stepan again.”

“You will kill him?”

“I’ll take him back to Uzbekistan. Your sister’s husband is still there.”

His muttered curse came over the line.

“You’re running out of time, Ruslan.”

“Come toward the water,” he told her. “Quickly.”

He hung up.

Chace shifted the Makarov to her coat pocket, then opened her door and moved around the hood to the driver’s side, to climb back in. Lankford stood with Kostum, now at the side of the road, the Browning still pointed at him.

“Where are you going?”

“Ruslan’s down by the river. I’m going to get the missile.”

Lankford didn’t look away from Kostum. “You’re taking the kid with you?”

“He wants his son.”

“And Ruslan will just hand the Starstreak over in trade, will he?”

“For the boy’s sake, let’s hope so,” Chace said.

He’d taken a position another half-kilometer away, along a dried wash at the edge of the water, and Chace saw him from a distance, and thought that he’d picked a fine place to stage an assassination. She’d expected him to take higher ground, but instead, he’d gone for lower, using the shelter cut from the earth by the water long ago. It was a good spot, not unlike the one Chace had picked for the failed rendezvous with Porter nearly seven months earlier, and well within the maximum range of the Starstreak.

He had the MANPAD deployed, resting on his shoulder, nose to the ground. Chace guided the Cherokee toward him along the river’s edge, closing the distance as quickly as she could manage without giving him the impression she would run him down. When he thought she’d come far enough, he lifted the missile and pointed it at the car, indicating that she should stop.

Chace killed the engine, stared out at Ruslan through the shattered windshield. Behind her, still belted into his seat, she heard Stepan snuffle as the latest bout of his tears finally subsided.

“Step out of the car,” Ruslan called to her.

From the backseat she heard Stepan cry out, surprised and frightened and delighted all at once, hearing his father’s voice. Chace could hear the child moving, straining against the lap belt, caught a glimpse of the little boy’s reflection in the rearview mirror as he struggled against the safety restraint.

Chace got out of the car, slamming her door, then looking again to Ruslan. He was dressed much as he had been the last time she’d seen him. About two meters past him, resting in the dirt, was the crate for the Starstreak, opened and empty, and propped against it, a Kalashnikov. She wondered idly how he’d gotten himself and the missile into position, then realized there would have been a thousand ways to do so, that all it took was money to bribe the right people and the will to make it happen.

“You killed Kostum?” Ruslan asked.

She shook her head. He was still holding the Starstreak as before, the launch tube roughly parallel to the ground, but skewed away from her, his eye clear of the aiming unit. Chace turned, looking in the direction Ruslan faced. Across the water, the Uzbek minefield sloped upward, toward the electrified fence. She could see the bridge in the distance, and a couple of vehicles parked near the checkpoint, but not the Sikorsky.

“You’re waiting until she takes off,” Chace said.

“If my son had not been aboard, I would have shot her down before she landed.”

Stepan called out from inside the Cherokee, his voice climbing in volume and pitch. Ruslan didn’t answer, but she saw him look to the vehicle, and for a moment thought he might actually lower the Starstreak and go to his son.

But he didn’t.

“Then what?” Chace asked him. “You and Stepan disappear into Afghanistan, never to return?”

“It is a country made for hiding,” he answered.

“Zahidov’s dead.”

“A good start, but not enough.”

“Put it down, Ruslan.”

He shook his head. “I must do this.”

“Forget that she’s your sister. She’s the President of Uzbekistan.”

“She killed my father. She killed my wife!”

“Zahidov killed your wife.”

“At her request! At her pleasure! She is a monster, you know this!”

His voice was shaking now, churning with anger and desperation, with his need for Chace to understand. And she did understand—too well she understood. Blood cried for blood.

“She’s the President of Uzbekistan,” Chace repeated. “I can’t let you kill her. Please, put it down, Ruslan. You have your son, let that be enough.”

“It isn’t enough!” He glared at her, then turned his head slightly, suddenly, and she knew he was listening for the rumble of the helicopter lifting off from across the river. So far, there was only the running water of the Amu Darya and their own voices.

“It isn’t enough,” he repeated.

Chace turned, walking around the rear of the vehicle to the passenger side. She looked back toward the bridge as she did, thinking again that Ruslan had done an excellent job of picking his spot. The helo would be visible in the air as it turned back toward Termez. Fired from here, the Starstreak could hit it in mere seconds, and there was even a chance that the missile would never be seen coming.

When she reached Stepan’s door, Ruslan snapped, “Leave him inside.”

Inside the Cherokee, Stepan was looking at her, wide-eyed. Chace turned.

“Put it down.”

“I cannot.”

She opened the passenger door, reaching across the little boy to unfasten his seatbelt.

“Please,” Ruslan pleaded. “Leave him in the car!”

Chace finished unfastening the boy, caught him beneath the armpits, and swung him out of the vehicle. She set Stepan down on the rough sand, facing his father.

“Don’t do this!”

“Ota,” she told the little boy. She needn’t have said anything.

As soon as her hands left him, Stepan was off, a full toddler run, arms flailing, legs pumping, making straight for Ruslan. Chace straightened, watching the little boy as she pulled the Makarov from her pocket. She followed after him, slower, the gun in her right hand.

“For pity’s sake, Ruslan,” she said, “put the damn thing down.”

She thought she saw him consider it, saw the launch tube of the missile dip toward the earth once more just as Stepan reached him. The little boy threw his arms around his father’s legs, and Ruslan looked down at his son, then up at Chace, and there was no escaping the pain on his face.

“Put him back in the car! I am begging you!”

Chace continued to approach, shaking her head. From across the river, she could hear the Sikorsky, the echo of the rotors spinning up. She saw Ruslan’s head jerk to the right, hearing it as well.

“You have to decide what’s more important, Ruslan,” Chace told him. “Your son or your revenge.”

“She raped and murdered his mother!”

“And you’re about to murder his aunt.”

“Tell me! You tell me! Tell me that you wouldn’t have killed the man who murdered the father of your child.”

Chace brought the Makarov up, holding it in both hands, placing the sights high on Ruslan’s body, as far away from his son as she dared.

“I did kill him,” she answered.

He wasn’t looking at her now, looking instead past her, focusing on where the Sikorsky would rise into sight. The noise of the helicopter went from faint to suddenly much louder, and without needing to turn and look, Chace knew it was off the ground. The window was open for his shot, would only remain so for a few more seconds.

Ruslan looked down at his son, still clinging tightly to his legs, then to Chace. He hoisted the Starstreak back into firing position on his shoulder, turned his face to settle his right eye against the sight.

“You are the mother of a child,” Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov reminded her. “You will not shoot me in front of my son.”

“You’re wrong,” Chace said, and then she shot him four times in the chest.

CHAPTER 54

London—Camden—Chace Family Residence

1 September, 0033 Hours GMT

She’d sent a message from Mazar-i-Sharif before she and Lankford had caught the transport to Turkey, telling Val that she was on her way home, and that she hoped to see her and Tamsin in London on her return. It was a break in protocol to send any such communication while on a job, and if Crocker had known about it he’d have gone into fits, but after seeing Stepan back to Uzbekistan and returned to Sevara Malikov-Ganiev’s care, Chace didn’t really give a damn. They had the last Starstreak back and Ruslan Malikov was no longer a problem for anyone except perhaps his son.

If that didn’t make Crocker happy, Chace had no interest in performing whatever task would.

The little boy had looked at her with eyes devoid of any comprehension or soul when she’d pulled him from his father’s body. There had been no more tears and no more sobs, there had been no sound at all. There had been nothing because, Chace suspected, Stepan Malikov no longer had anything.

She told herself that he would forget, that he would recover, and on the plane to Frankfurt, Lankford tried to tell her the same thing.

Both of them knew it for the lie it was.

Her house was quiet and still and the lights were all off when Chace came through the door, and she wondered if Val had received the message. She shut and locked the front door behind her, hung her coat on the stand, dropped her go-bag at its foot. She would have to replace its contents, substitute clean clothes for the dirty, replace those things she had used.

Then she saw her mail piled neatly on the table beside the couch.

She checked in the guest room, parting the door just enough to confirm that Val was indeed asleep there, then made her way to the bedroom. She stripped, changed into pajamas, and then went to look in on Tamsin, finding her sixteen-month-old daughter awake and on her feet in her crib, waiting quietly in the darkness.

“Mama,” Tamsin said.

“That’s right,” Chace agreed, taking the child in her arms. “Mama.”

GLOSSARY

Article Five

Referring to NATO signatories; Article Five declares that an attack against any one of the member nations is an attack against all of the signatories; further, that member nations shall, in the instance of such attack, render assistance and aid to fellow members.

BOX

Used to refer to the Security Services, more commonly known as MI-5 (U.K.)

C

Head of SIS; also Chief of Service

CAO

Cultural Affairs Officer

CENTCOM

United States Central Command, oversees U.S. security interests in 25 Middle Eastern and Arab nations

Chancery

The principal office of an Embassy, housing the Ambassador’s office

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency (U.S.)

CIS

Confederacy of Independent States

COB

“Close of Business”

COM

Chief of Mission (U.S. State Department); generally refers to the Ambassador

conops

Concept of Operations—official document describing parameters and goals assigned to a prospective operation, and securing necessary permissions to pursue the undertaking

COS

Chief of Station (CIA)

CQC

Close Quarters Combat

D

Deputy Secretary of State (U.S.)

D-Int

Director of Operations (SIS); sometimes Director Intelligence

D-Ops

Director of Operations (SIS); sometimes Director Operations

DC

Deputy Chief of Service (SIS); also Deputy Chief

DCM

Deputy Chief of Mission (U.S. State Department)

DOO

Duty Operations Officer

DPM

Deputy Prime Minister, DPMs plural

EIJ

Egyptian Islamic Jihad, Al-Jihad al-Islami; founded late 1970s, merged with al-Qaeda in June 2001. Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri one of its founders.

FCO

Foreign and Commonwealth Office (U.K.)

FSB

Forward Support Base (U.K. Military)

FSO

Foreign Service Officer (also FO); indicates a career State Department Officer (U.S. State Department)

GSPC

Groupe Salafiste pour la Predication et la Combat (The Salafist Group for Call and Combat); violent religious extremist group based in Algeria

GWOT

Global War on Terror

Hizb-ut-Tahir

The Islamic Party of Liberation, a banned Uzbek opposition party seeking greater religious freedom in Uzbekistan

HOS

Head of Station; also Station Number One (SIS)

IMU

Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan; terrorist organization with ties to al-Qaeda, responsible for terror attacks in Uzbekistan. Often confused with Hizb-ut-Tahir

JI

Jemaah Islamiyah (Islamic Community); extremist terror organization operating in Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, and the Philippines. Has ties to al-Qaeda.

JIC

Joint Intelligence Committee (U.K.)

LNG

Liquefied Natural Gas

LS

Landing site

MANPAD

Man-portable air defense system; a surface-to-air missile capable of being launched by a lone individual

MCO

Mission Control Officer (SIS); Ops Room post responsible for oversight of actual mission execution; also Main Communications Officer (SIS); responsible for recording and coordinating communications between the Ops Room and the field

Mission

Generic term used interchangeably with “post” or “embassy,” referring to the entirety of the official representation made to a host country (U.S. State Department)

MOD

Ministry of Defense (U.K.)

NCTC

National Center for Counterterrorism (U.S.)

NVG

Night-vision goggles

PA

Personal Assistant

PRC

People’s Republic of China

PUS

Permanent Undersecretary

RSO

Regional Security Officer (U.S. State Department)

RV

Rendezvous

S

Office of Secretary, Department of State; Secretary of State (U.S.)

SAS

Special Air Service (U.K.)

SIS

Secret Intelligence Service (U.K.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

GREG RUCKA has worked at a variety of jobs, from theatrical fight choreographer to emergency medical technician. The author of A Gentleman’s Game, A Fistful of Rain, and five previous thrillers, he resides with his family in Portland, Oregon. He is currently working on the next Atticus Kodiak crime novel, Patriot Acts, which Bantam will publish in fall 2006.

ALSO BY GREG RUCKA

Keeper

Finder

Smoker

Shooting at Midnight

Critical Space

A Fistful of Rain

A Gentleman’s Game