election at the end of her term, the term that she completed now only at her father’s specific behest. They most likely would have an election, too, to appease the Americans and the British, but that was no matter. Like the two elections President Malikov had won already, this, too, would be a formality.
This time, Zahidov mused, perhaps they would give Sevara a little less of the vote. The last time President Malikov had run, he’d “won” office with over ninety-six percent of the vote in his favor, and that after having outlawed the opposition parties.
Sometimes, Zahidov wondered why the President hadn’t just claimed ninety-nine percent of the vote. If he was going to be that obvious, what was another three percent? Or even four?
If Sevara won with, say, sixty-five percent, that would be more than enough. And if they arranged it right, it might even look moderately legitimate, too.
So that was the first part, getting the President aboard, and Ahtam Zahidov had to admit that his handling of Dina Malikov had gone a good distance toward bringing that to pass. It had been tricky to negotiate, and Sevara had warned him as much.
“One thing to remove an extremist,” she’d told him, watching Zahidov as he dressed at the foot of her bed. “Another thing entirely to kill the mother of his only grandchild.”
“You should have children,” Zahidov had responded. “Show him that his dynasty can spring from you as easily as from your brother.”
“That would require Deniska’s cock. Which, unfortunately, would also require the rest of him.”
“Put a bag over his head.”
Sevara had laughed at the thought, then pulled back the bedsheet and come toward him on her hands and knees. Zahidov had stopped dressing, watching her approach, drinking in the sight of her. Sevara Malikov-Ganiev would have been beautiful even if she didn’t work at it, even if she didn’t use spas and personal trainers and stylists. Under the warm light of the chandelier her skin seemed lustrous, her hair as rich a red as the petals on a rose, her eyes shining. They’d made love twice already, and watching her coming toward him, the smile playing at her mouth, her tongue touching her lower lip, he wanted her again.
When she reached him, he took her in his arms, fastened his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the passion, all the love he had, feeling each returned. She touched his cheek when their lips parted, stroked a lacquered nail over his mouth.
“Our children,” she’d promised. “Our dynasty. In time.”
“In time,” he’d echoed. After she was President, when Malikov was gone, and beyond caring about things like marriage and divorce and paternity.
She was his biggest weakness, and each of them knew it. It gave Zahidov shallow comfort to know that he was hers, too.
Sex was so easy to come by at the worst of times, and in Uzbekistan even the lowest official could slake that thirst. But whores did nothing for Zahidov, no matter how beautiful, how willing, how young, how expensive. Even the rape of Ruslan’s wife had done nothing for him; it was just another method of interrogation, a way to break the bitch’s will, to demonstrate his absolute power over her. In truth, he wouldn’t have even bothered, instead leaving it to two or three of his men to have their way with her.
But Dina had threatened Sevara, and that had angered Zahidov. More, Dina had feared him, and so Zahidov had felt it was important that he take her, just to set the proper direction to the interrogation.
When he’d brought the video of the interrogation to Sevara, she asked him to stay and watch it with her. It had aroused her, and that had in turn aroused him. She’d taken him then and there, in her husband’s office at the Interior Ministry, bending over the desk, looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Like Dina,” Sevara had commanded.
It wasn’t as if the Americans didn’t know how business was done in Uzbekistan, the same way it hadn’t bothered anyone—at least, not anyone who mattered—when Ambassador McInnes had gone weeping and wailing to the press. Certainly, President Malikov had felt the displeasure from each country, had felt the pressure to loosen his grip, but in the end, everyone involved understood the stakes. There was a war on, after all, a Global War on Terror, a conflict that now raged around the world, and one that required new rules. The Coalition might not approve of how the NSS acquired its intelligence, but disapproval didn’t stop the FBI or the CIA or the SIS from using it all the same.
But McInnes, and Dina, and now that new American Ambassador, Garret—they could make things difficult for President Malikov. Every time a tape was released, every time a new report of so-called human rights abuses was filed, the pressure built and kept building until someone, either U.S. or U.K., decided something had to be done. If not to actually redress the perceived problem, to at least appear to be doing so.
This redress took the form of sanctions, more often than not, and that, in turn, meant the withholding of promised aid. In the last four years alone, the U.S. had held back over fifty million dollars in promised funds, all in the name of encouraging President Malikov to improve his record on human rights. The hypocrisy of it made Zahidov want to spit. As if the Americans weren’t just the same, as if the British weren’t just the same. Abu Ghraib and Camp X-Ray and countless other facilities, Zahidov was certain they were all the same. But when someone pointed a finger at America or at Britain, who sanctioned them?
Just like the rape of Dina Malikov, it was an exercise in power, nothing more.
In the end, the money would come again. Uzbekistan was just too important to the war.
And everyone knew it.
But that didn’t keep President Malikov’s ego from being bruised each time he was pilloried in the eyes of the world. When the Old Man saw the proof that it was Dina Malikov who had been responsible for the latest round of editorials, angry letters, and sanctions, when he heard her talking about just how much she had given the Americans, it made the loss of his grandson’s mother that much easier to bear.
It was a small thing, then, to suggest that perhaps his son had known all along what his wife was doing. That he had perhaps if not encouraged it, certainly permitted it. And if Ruslan had encouraged it, well, the reasons behind such treachery were easy enough to see.
Sevara, the dutiful daughter, devoted to her father, found it hard to say the words.
“He wishes to replace you, Father.”
If only it were that simple, and that easy. But Zahidov knew from experience that Mihail Malikov wasn’t a fool. The Old Man wouldn’t have survived for this long if he were. He knew the ulterior motives in bringing this incident to his attention. He knew that Sevara coveted his power just as greedily as Ruslan did.
It would take more than simple suspicion to fix the ascension.
But this was a start, Zahidov had to admit, and a strong one. Before Dina’s confession, Ruslan had been the clear choice, his father’s favorite, and male, to boot.
Now, at least, Sevara stood a chance at gaining her father’s blessing.
The rest, Zahidov was certain, would come in time.
President Malikov was the first part. The second, more easily handled in a fashion Zahidov preferred, were the Deputy Prime Ministers of the various and sundry offices who held power throughout the country. If they opposed Sevara’s ascension, it would make things difficult.
Fortunately, there were three easy ways to deal with the DPMs. Threats, which, Zahidov knew from experience, worked remarkably well when properly delivered. These could be delivered by himself or by his agents. He preferred video for this tactic, because he felt the moving image provided much more immediacy, and thus a greater sense of peril. Played for a recalcitrant DPM in a darkened room, two or three minutes of footage showing a loved one, spouse or lover or child, as the person went about his or her daily business, oblivious, could be all it took. If more pressure was needed, some physical evidence, perhaps, a particular piece of jewelry, or—Zahidov found this particularly effective if there was a romantic attachment—an undergarment of some sort. Presented to make the point perfectly clear: see how close we can get, see how you cannot protect your son/daughter/wife/mother/lover/friend.
