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.