23 August, 1055 Hours (GMT+5:00)
It had taken him a while to decide what he should do, how it was he could regain her favor, but when Zahidov hit upon it, the idea seemed so simple and so correct and so right that he was certain Sevara would have approved. He understood what she had tried to tell him in her office, that things had changed, and that he would have to change, too. She had accused him of being a thug, but if he could find a way to take care of her problem with Ruslan, and to do it right, to do it clear, without anything that could be laid at her feet, she would be able to forgive that. It wasn’t simply a question of how he picked his targets, as she had said, but of where.
The fact was, Sevara needed him to be a thug. But she was also correct in that he could have been more discreet in the past. Before her father had died, discretion had been unnecessary, even counterproductive. It diminished fear, and Zahidov had always felt fear was his most powerful tool. Now, however, Sevara Malikov-Ganiev was President of the Republic of Uzbekistan, and discretion was more than required, it was mandated. Whatever he did to remove Ruslan would have to remain far away from her, and far from the prying eyes of the Americans and their allies.
In Tashkent, Zahidov couldn’t be a thug. In Termez, perhaps. But in Afghanistan, where thugs were called soldiers or warriors and were as common as rocks, that was a different story.
So that was the solution, and it was all so very simple. He would take care of Ruslan for her once and for all, the way he should have done back in February, when he’d removed Dina. With the information he’d learned from Hazza, it wouldn’t be that hard to find Kostum’s stronghold, or that difficult to wait until Ruslan exposed himself enough to be killed. It could be done quite easily, he was sure of it.
What was harder to reconcile was his own participation in the matter. His preference was, of course, to go and do it himself. As a general rule, he preferred to handle these kinds of things personally. He told himself this was not because he enjoyed it, but rather because he was a perfectionist and wanted these sorts of things done right. It was why he participated in the most important interrogations, such as with Dina and, after that, the British spy.
But it was Wednesday morning before Zahidov resolved that, this time, he would have to delegate the task in its entirety. It would demonstrate to Sevara that he was not a thug, that he could keep his hands clean while still doing what needed to be done. Perhaps more important, it would allow him to remain in Tashkent, and close to her.
He remembered all too clearly the male secretary who had attended Sevara in her office, and he remembered, too, the way the man had looked at her.
So Zahidov would stay in Tashkent, close to Sevara, just in case she needed him. He would send Tozim and Andrei and some of Captain Arkitov’s men to go south of Mazar-i-Sharif, to murder her brother.
He briefed them in his office at the Ministry of the Interior late Wednesday morning.
“Get yourselves to Termez by tomorrow morning,” Zahidov said. “I’ll let Arkitov know you are coming. Take four of his men, whatever weapons and ammunition you will need, and then head south tomorrow night.”
Andrei pinched his nose, cleaning his nostrils, thinking. Unlike Tozim, he was a deliberate man, more of a thinker, and it was one of the reasons Zahidov liked him. Smart, but not so smart as to be a problem, and with an easy handle for Zahidov to grab and control him. Andrei had money problems, most of it lost to online gambling, the rest to women.
“The crossing won’t be easy,” Andrei said. “They watch the border closely.”
“Leave it to Arkitov to arrange,” Zahidov answered, dismissing the concern. “He’ll be able to bribe your way across.”
“Where are we going?” Tozim asked.
“Someplace south of Mazar-i-Sharif. There’s a warlord there, Kostum. He’s harboring her brother.”
Andrei and Tozim swapped glances, then looked back to him, nodding in understanding.
“This is the General? The one with Uzbek blood?” Andrei asked.
“That’s him.”
“If the brother’s with him, he’ll be well protected.”
“That’s why you’ll take some of Arkitov’s rangers with you.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not enough,” Zahidov said. “So do whatever you need to.”
Tozim sighed. “I wish we had one of those missiles. That would help.”
“There were only the three, and all of them have been used,” Zahidov said. “Arkitov will be able to give you explosives, antitank weapons, even, if you think they will help. As I said, use whatever you need, but make damn sure he’s dead. I don’t want a repeat of the river.”
“We’ll bring you his head,” Tozim vowed.
Ahtam Zahidov thought he might like that, then shook his head.
“No, Tozim,” he said. “We are not thugs.”
CHAPTER 36
Afghanistan—Mazar-i-Sharif
24 August, 1707 Hours (GMT+4:30)
It meant “Tomb of the Chosen One,” the city named after the Great Blue Mosque that had been built both as a house of prayer and as a tomb to Hazrat Ali, the Fourth Caliph of Islam, son-in-law and cousin of the Prophet Mohammed. Sometime in the thirteenth century, as Genghis Khan had ravaged his way through Central Asia, the mosque had been buried in dirt in an attempt to preserve it—no small undertaking—and apparently those who’d buried it had been slaughtered and Mazar-i-Sharif razed, because the mosque remained hidden for over two hundred years. In the late fifteenth century, reconstruction of the city began, the ancient mosque was rediscovered, excavated, and restored.
It was, to Chace’s knowledge, the first great slaughter in the city’s history, but by no means the last. Much as Mazar-i-Sharif was known for its Afghan rugs and its fine horses, it was known mostly for death.
In the years leading up to Operation Enduring Freedom, when the taleban had been opposed solely by the Northern Alliance, Mazar-i-Sharif was a Northern Alliance stronghold. Or at least it was until 8 August 1998, when the taleban finally succeeded in sacking the city. By many accounts they came into town shooting anything that moved, including women and children, before deciding on a more systematic approach. They targeted the male members of the various ethnic groups that had lived in the city, specifically pursuing the ethnic Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Hazara. The Hazara saw the worst of this persecution—they were a Persian-speaking Shi’a sect, and thus anathema to the taleban regime. When all was said and done, at least 2,000 people had been murdered.
Compounding this infamy came another incident, this time at the Jala-i-Qanghi prison on 25 November 2001, where taleban and al-Qaeda fighters were being held by members of the Northern Alliance. What has been alternatively described as both an uprising or a riot broke out, and the prisoners engaged in a pitched battle with their captors, one that lasted several days until U.S. and U.K. Special Forces arrived on scene and brought with them air strikes that resulted in the deaths of over four hundred. Among the Northern Alliance forces had been two CIA officers. One of them, Johnny Michael Spann, was killed in the riot.
Chace remembered that fact especially, because it was the first time that the CIA had disclosed to the media the death in the line of duty of one of its officers. There was still some question as to whether the Company had actually wanted that information disclosed, or if it was released as the result of an overzealous White House Press Secretary. Spann became a martyr, the first American casualty of the War in Afghanistan. Apparently, there was now a memorial marker at the site of the prison, commending his soul to God.