“You believed this man?”
“Yes, I did.”
Sevara frowned, shook her head slightly, then waved past him at the secretary standing in the doorway of the office, dismissing the man. Zahidov watched him go. The secretary was in his mid-twenties, and far too attentive to the President for Zahidov’s comfort.
“Could there be another reason?” she asked him when they were alone.
“Why else take the heroin, Sevya? He’s selling it and keeping the money, using it to fund his eventual offensive. There is no other explanation.”
She shook her head again, this time with more certainty. “No. It would be too foolish.”
“Why?” He struggled, managing to keep the frustration from his voice.
“In 2000, there was no ISAF, no Coalition. In 2000, it was possible to come from the south and meet little to no resistance. Now if you come from the south, you meet the Germans in Termez and the Americans in Karshi. No—it makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Zahidov countered. “For just those reasons. Think how such a move would humiliate you, think how it would look to the rest of the world. It would make us—you—look insecure, even incompetent. And if Americans or Germans died as he came north?”
“Then the Americans and the Germans and all the rest, they would join us in destroying him.”
“And every extremist from Pakistan to Chechnya would come and join him. There is no way this is good, Sevya, there is no way we can continue to ignore this! We must act.”
“How? How do you suggest we do that, Ahtam? You let him get away once, and now he’s in Afghanistan. Are you going to send one of your men after him? You think that man would stand even the slightest chance of success, assuming he could find Ruslan, assuming he still is somewhere around Mazar-i-Sharif? If you know all these things about his plans, then surely Ruslan must have considered that. No. As long as he remains in Afghanistan, we cannot touch him.”
Zahidov stepped closer to where she stood by the windows of her office, looking out at the courtyard of the Presidential Residence in the Tashkent suburb of Dormon. It was late afternoon, the sunlight slanting through the glass and making her hair burn like copper.
“If we wait for him to leave Afghanistan, it will be too late,” Zahidov said. “You could use Stepan.”
Sevara shot him a look of warning. “No.”
“Just take him out in public with you, have pictures taken of the two of you together. The President and her beloved nephew. Ruslan will get the message.”
“I won’t use the boy that way,” she said. “Bad enough that he was photographed at the concert last week.”
“It does him no harm—”
“He wakes crying every night, Ahtam! He has nightmares, he still calls for Dina, he calls for my brother! I won’t hurt him any more, I can’t do it. He’s my nephew, he’s the only family I have left.”
It struck at Zahidov, and he spoke before he meant to, saying, “So divorce Deniska instead of promising me that you will. Let me give you the child you want, let us make the family we talk about having! It’s been three months since you were elected, you can do it now, no one would dare say anything!”
“Soon, not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon,” she repeated sharply. “And we will not discuss using Stepan again, Ahtam. Is that clear?”
“Then we have nothing to hold over Ruslan.”
Sevara moved away from the window, nearer to him. “There must be a way to remove him.”
“If you had let me, I would have removed him long ago,” Zahidov reminded her. “You would never be threatened like this. I could remove Denis, too.”
She slapped him, and the blow surprised more than it hurt, knocking his glasses askew, and he stepped back, shocked.
“Don’t even think of it,” she hissed at him. “Do you know what trouble you have made for me already? Do you know how the Americans watch me now? Watch us? You cleared the way for me to sit in this office, but you left a mess behind you, Ahtam.”
He touched his cheek, feeling it burn. The first time she had touched him in weeks, and it was to strike him, and for a moment, he thought he felt tears trying to rise, and that both shamed and enraged him.
“I did it for you, Sevara.”
She took a breath, then spoke to him again, her voice softer. “The man from the American Embassy, the one who took the woman spy away. Do you know what would have happened if he had arrived five minutes later? Or ten? Or an hour? Can you imagine the nightmare for me that would have been? The Americans and the British both, can you imagine it?”
She touched his cheek where she’d struck him, her fingertips light on his skin. He could feel the cool of her enameled nails against the burning of his cheek.
“You pick your targets badly, Ahtam,” Sevara said. “It makes you look like a thug.”
She pulled her hand away. “Go back to work,” she told him. “I’ll find a way to handle Ruslan. I’ll speak to the Americans; they don’t want to see him opening the south to extremists.”
Zahidov stood for a moment, reeling, in the grand space of her office, then did as she’d instructed. He looked back to her as he went through the door, hoping she would raise her eyes to his, that he would see some forgiveness, some sign of her love.
But Sevara never looked up.
CHAPTER 33
London—Victoria Street, Number 75b, Pret a Manger
22 August, 1301 Hours GMT
“Salmon or Thai chicken?” Seale asked.
“Salmon,” Crocker said.
“The salmon’s for me.”
“Then why’d you offer?”
“I was being polite.” Seale handed the Thai chicken sandwich over, along with a can of Coke. “You want to eat here?”
“We could find a bench.”
“It’s air-conditioned in here.”
“You’re offering me choices where you’ve already determined the response,” Crocker observed, following the American to one of the square metal tables in the corner of the eatery.
The table had just been vacated, and Seale swiped crumbs from its surface with his left hand, holding his own sandwich and soda together in his right. Satisfied the surface was now clean enough to eat off, he sat, spreading a paper napkin like a small tablecloth, then unfolding another onto his lap before tearing open the plastic container that held his meal.
“You keep making the wrong choice,” Seale said.
“Story of my life.” Crocker sat opposite, cracked open his soda. “What’s up?”
“Ruslan Malikov is in Afghanistan, somewhere in the northern part of the country, we think near Mazar-i-Sharif.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Chace will be pleased,” Crocker said, tucking into his sandwich. It wasn’t bad, just not what he’d have chosen for himself.
“She won’t be for long,” Seale said, around his own mouthful. “We’ve got a problem, Paul. It looks like Ruslan’s recruiting and arming his own militia in an attempt to overthrow his sister. He’s been cozying up to one of the local warlords, Ahmad Mohammad Kostum, as well as working with some of the dope peddlers, selling heroin for financing.”
“Someone should tell him to knock it off.”
“Yeah, we’re thinking the same thing.” Seale wiped his mouth with the napkin from his lap. “So who are you going to send?”