Private Wars

It was not the first choice, but should it be required, he had no doubt of its efficacy.

The second option was money, of course, and this was likely to be the most successful tactic. President Malikov had, for obvious reasons, filled the posts of the DPMs with men of like mind, and thus, like the President, their greed was abundant. Payoffs in cash, transfers to Swiss or Cayman Islands bank accounts, these things could be easily arranged, and Sevara had the money to spare. This would not be a wasted expenditure for her, but rather an investment on future gains. In the last two years alone, she had cleared something in the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars American by using the Interior Ministry to facilitate the transport of heroin from Afghanistan into the ever-hungry veins of Moscow.

The poppy had returned with a vengeance with the fall of the taleban to the south, and all that was needed was a way to bring it to market. Uzbekistan, with its unique position bordering no less than five other countries, was an ideal transfer point. Unlike her father, Sevara had no qualms about moving the drugs through the country, and Zahidov had no doubt she would continue to work with the drug lords in Afghanistan when her ascension came to pass.

There was but one rule when dealing with the heroin, and it was inviolate, and Zahidov himself had proposed it to Sevara, who instantly saw the wisdom in it. The rule was this: heroin could enter Uzbekistan, and it could leave Uzbekistan, but it could never be sold in Uzbekistan. This was done for no reason associated with the health and well-being of the Uzbeks, but rather out of sheer self-preservation and protection. Should the heroin find its way into the arms of the American soldiers stationed in the country, the Americans would respond with a vengeance, a headache Sevara most certainly didn’t want, or for that matter, need.

Which, in its way, brought about the third method of dealing with the DPMs. This was by far the most cost effective, and the most efficient, but also the hardest to achieve.

If the Americans supported Sevara Malikov-Ganiev as the next President of Uzbekistan, the DPMs would fall into line like eager soldiers on a parade ground. If the White House backed Sevara, that would be all it took.

If.

This was why, on the morning of February, Ahtam Zahidov found the surveillance report he was reading so very alarming. After demanding why it had taken four days—four days!—for it to reach him, he had the officer responsible for the report brought in to speak with him. It took another forty-seven minutes to locate the man, but only three minutes after that to get a positive identification from a photograph.

Concerned, Zahidov left his office in the Ministry of the Interior on Yunus Rajabiy, quickly making his way across town to the Oily Majlis, the Parliament Building, on the west side of Alisher Navoi National Park, named after the famed Uzbek humanist and artist who had died over five hundred years ago. It took Zahidov another twenty minutes of searching before he found Sevara, locked in a meeting with the State Customs Committee. He interrupted, knocking twice on the conference room door before entering, and Sevara, seated at the head of the table, her papers around her, an aide standing to the side, turned sharply at the unprecedented interruption.

When she saw it was him, though, she smiled, and despite the message he was bearing, the smile lifted him as well.

“Excuse me, please,” Sevara said, and rose from the table, the committee members all sliding their seats back in response, getting to their feet. “No, sit—we’ll continue in just a moment.”

Zahidov held the door for her as she stepped past, into the corridor. The carpet had been replaced recently, a deep blood-red color, still new enough that it gave slightly beneath his feet. When she was out and beside him, he put a hand on her elbow, taking her another few feet down the hall, making certain they would not be overheard.

“Ahtam? What is it?” The concern in her expression and her voice made it clear her first thought was for him.

“Ruslan is reaching out to the Americans.”

The concern on Sevara’s face dissipated, replaced by a sharper intensity. “How do you know this?”

“He had an automobile accident on Saturday, and it wasn’t an accident. He nearly ran over one of the men from the American Mission.”

Her brow creased. “The same man?”

Zahidov nodded. “Charles Riess.”

“They spoke?”

“According to my man’s report, not more than a few words. But I am certain it was no accident, not the day after his wife’s body was found.”

“You think he passed a message?”

“He must have.”

Sevara made a noise, sucking on her lower lip for a moment as she thought, and Zahidov cursed himself silently, because it made him desire her there and then, even with this problem, even with what it could mean for them. She seemed to know it, too, because she met his eyes, and her smile was sudden and pleased.

“You look so worried, Ahtam. But my brother’s given us just what we need. We bring proof that he’s trying to move things along with the Americans to my father, my position will be secured.”

“Unless he’s gone to the Americans to secure his own position.”

“With what? What does he have?”

“He won’t need much if the Americans support him.”

Her smile faded as she considered his response. “You’re still watching him?”

“Three men. They’re old KGB, so they know what they’re doing.”

“Dina was one thing,” Sevara said softly, and he could tell from her tone that she was still thinking, albeit aloud. “My father could accept that. But removing Ruslan . . . that would be much harder.”

“Not that much harder.”

“No?”

“Not if the extremists set off another bomb in the marketplace.”

“Something to consider.”

“I can arrange it.”

She shook her head. “No, not yet.”

“Sevya,” Zahidov said, using the diminutive of her name, “if Ruslan gains the support of the White House, we will not be able to oppose him.”

“But he can’t have it yet, and he has nothing to offer them but his good word. And the Americans no longer support rulers on the basis of the promises they make, alone. If Ruslan wants their support, it will take time to arrange it.”

“And while he is arranging his support?”

“We arrange ours.” She paused. “You deal with the Embassy, the CIA. Talk to your contact, make sure he knows how well I can fill my father’s shoes. Make it clear that we are the other option, that Ruslan is only one choice.”

“And if, having done that, the Americans decide they prefer your brother?”

Sevara shrugged, then pushed up on her toes, to brush Zahidov’s cheek with her lips.

“Then you can have your bomb,” she said, and returned to her meeting.