“He knows the terms?”
“He likes being Chairman, Ahtya. He wants to stay being Chairman, he’ll do what we want.”
Zahidov got out of the bed himself, began pulling on his clothes. “What about your husband and Ruslan?”
“I’ll call Denis from the hospital, ask him to join me there, so we can put on a good face for the media. He’ll need to be with me for the vote this afternoon, but after it goes through I’ll ask for his resignation and then name you to take over the Interior Ministry as his replacement.”
He had his shirt on now, tucking it into his trousers. He grabbed his necktie, draping it around his neck, then moved into the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. Sevara was beneath the water, visible behind the glass doors, wrapped in steam.
“And Ruslan?” Zahidov asked again.
“Keep your babysitters on him, Ahtya, nothing more. After the vote it’ll be too late for him to do anything.”
“I’m worried about what happens before the vote.” He managed to look away from her long enough to check that his tie was properly knotted, and when he looked back, she was shutting off the water. He took one of the white towels from the heated stand, wrapped her in it as she stepped out of the shower.
“What’s he going to do?” Sevara asked him, taking hold of the towel and passing him, heading back into the bedroom. “You’re fretting about nothing.”
The cockiness in her voice made Zahidov frown. “I don’t know what he’s going to do. But I don’t want to find out after he’s done it.”
Sevara moved to the closet, began pulling down clothes from the hangers, a long black skirt, a black blouse, mourning colors. “You have him under surveillance. There’s not much more you can do.”
“I can bring him in, hold him at the Ministry.”
“I don’t want to antagonize the Americans,” Sevara said. She dropped her clothes on the bed, moved to the bureau, began picking out her lingerie. “I’ll have to meet with Ambassador Garret after the vote, and I don’t want the first topic of discussion to be how unhappy the White House is with the way we’ve handled things. I don’t want to start that relationship on the wrong foot, you understand?”
Zahidov didn’t answer, pulling on his coat, then taking his holster from where it lay on the nightstand at his side of the bed and clipping it onto his belt at his right hip.
“Ahtam,” Sevara said, her tone sharpening.
“I think you worry too much about the Americans,” he said. “They need us more than we need them.”
“You’re wrong.” It was declarative, and her expression now matched her tone. “It is a mutually beneficial relationship, that’s what it’s called. I won’t antagonize them, not yet. I want this to go smoothly.”
“It will go smoothly.”
“It
He nodded, trying not to appear reluctant, then turned to the telephone and dialed the number of the Chairman of the Oliy Majlis, watching Sevara continue dressing from the corner of his eye. When Abdukhallim answered, Zahidov spoke quickly, relaying Sevara’s instructions. The Chairman didn’t hesitate before swearing he would do what was asked.
Zahidov hung up. Sevara was at the makeup table now, and he watched as she quickly traced her mouth with lipstick, then studied herself in the mirror. Her expression fell into one of convincing sorrow, then lifted, and when she turned to face him once more, she was smiling again, satisfied that her mask of grief would be convincing.
“You want me to come with you?” Zahidov asked.
“No, go to the Ministry, start making your arrangements.” She stepped closer, fixed his tie, then appraised him. “Deputy Prime Minister Zahidov.”
“Madam President.”
Her smile was radiant, and he bent to kiss her. She turned her head, sparing her makeup, offering her cheek instead.
The first thing he saw was that someone had stolen his fucking car.
The second thing he saw was that someone had broken the gate to do it.
“What in the hell happened?” Sevara asked.
“Go to the hospital.” He turned, taking her arm, guiding her to the BMW. “Go to the hospital, do what you planned, everything as you planned.”
Sevara twisted, puzzled, staring at him. “Someone stole your car?”
“Yes,
She didn’t grasp the significance, he could see it on her face, and he didn’t think there was time to explain.
“Go,” he repeated. “Just as you planned, please, love.”
Sevara hesitated a moment longer, the question in her eyes, then nodded, slipping behind the wheel. “You’ll take care of it?”
“Whatever it is, yes.”
“Smooth, love. It must be smooth.”
“With everything in my power,” he promised her, then moved to the gate. He stepped back, onto the ramp, watching as the BMW passed, and Sevara didn’t turn to look at him as she drove.
As soon as the car was out of sight on the street, Zahidov went back into the garage, to the chain piled on the ground. He crouched, examining it, finding flecks of cinder block scattered nearby. He rose, peering closer at the motor and the pulleys, running a hand along the wall, until he felt the texture beneath his finger turn from rough to smooth, the scoring left by the bullet.
He stepped back, thinking quickly. Whoever had taken his car, they’d come for it specifically, he was certain, and perhaps for what it carried as well. He didn’t know why, he couldn’t even guess yet at who, but it was more than just alarming. Malikov finally dead, and someone had stolen the Audi, and worse, the missile.
He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket, hit the fourth number on his speed dial, calling Ruslan’s home, waiting for one of the guards to answer. The call refused to connect, and Zahidov thought that maybe the garage was causing the interference, moved up farther along the ramp, swearing as he redialed. Again, there was no connection, nothing, just a radio silence.
Zahidov heard a car coming along the silent street, raised his head to see a Mercedes slowing as it approached. He switched the phone to his left hand, moved his right to his hip, ready to draw his pistol. The car came to a stop, its window hissing down, and Zahidov let his fingers close around the butt of his gun, then released his grip as he recognized the driver.
“Get in,” Aaron Tower said, speaking in Uzbek.
Zahidov covered his surprise with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“Ensuring an orderly transfer of power. Now get in the fucking car, Ahtam.”
“Why?”
“Because Ruslan’s being lifted,” Tower told him. “And if you don’t move fast, you’ll have a fucking coup on your hands.”
