Private Wars

“The river,” Zahidov told him. “Fast as you can, get us to the river, and then start following it south.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fast as you can.” Zahidov repeated, and before he’d even hung up, the rotors above were again gaining speed, the engine whine growing louder once more. He helped the last of his men in, slamming the door shut just as the Sikorsky begin to rise. The helicopter banked sharply, tilting as it gained altitude, then rocking forward as it gained speed. Zahidov swayed on his feet as if riding a wave. One of his men stumbled, falling against the couch and dropping his M-16.

Then the Sikorsky settled on its path, and Zahidov turned his attention to the crate and began preparing the Starstreak for launch.

CHAPTER 26

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,

Office of the Political Counselor

21 February, 0443 Hours (GMT+5:00)

Riess sat, staring blankly at his monitor, not seeing and not much caring for the work that required his attention. He’d been unable to sleep following Tower’s visit, wandering around his home in the small hours, unsure of what to do, unsure of how to proceed. He’d tried reaching the Ambassador at the Residence just after two-thirty in the morning, had been surprised when his wife, Michelle, had answered the phone instead, telling him that Garret wasn’t in, that she thought he was at the Embassy.

He’d hung up and changed clothes, then headed for the Chancery. The gate Marines checked his pass, let him through, and he’d made his way to the Ambassador’s office, through corridors that weren’t nearly as empty as they should’ve been at a quarter to three in the morning. Riess had passed the Press Office, seen the lights on inside, and his mood had soured further. Lydia Straight was burning midnight oil, and the only reason he could see for that was damage control. What damage she was controlling was the only real question, and he hoped it wasn’t his or Garret’s.

He was stopped at the Ambassador’s office by one of the Marines, some kid from Georgia with the accent to prove it. “I’m sorry, sir, the Ambassador is not to be disturbed.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“Yes, sir. He’s not to be disturbed, sir.”

“You know what he’s doing in there?”

“I believe he’s on the phone, sir, but I’m afraid I don’t really know. He’s not to be disturbed, sir.”

Riess wanted to ask what the kid did know, if, in fact, the Marine knew anything at all, but he didn’t, just turned and made his way to the Pol/Econ office, doing time-zone math in his head. Past three in the morning in Tashkent put it past five in the previous day’s evening in D.C. With Lydia Straight in the Media Office and the Ambassador on the phone, Riess was sure that Garret was talking to Washington, getting lashed by either S or D or the White House itself.

Not good. None of it was good, and Riess felt something he hadn’t since the days following the bombing in Dar es Salaam. Not just lost, but adrift.

He’d brewed a pot of coffee, started on his first cup, when Lydia Straight came through the door, out of breath and looking like she’d sprinted the halls to reach him.

“There’s been a bombing,” she said.

Riess lunged for his desk, spilling coffee all over his hand, swearing. He flicked the radio on, hoping to find the news, saying, “Anyone injured?”

“Fuck if I know,” Straight said. “It literally just came on, I just heard it on the radio in my office. No idea how long ago it happened.”

“Suicide? Car? Both?”

She shrugged at him, and beyond her, down the hall, Riess saw a Marine run past, probably headed out to the gate to double up the watch. He shook coffee off his hand, reached for the secure telecom unit on his desk, started dialing the Operations Center at the State Department.

“The Ambassador’s in his office,” Riess told Straight. “Let him know what’s happened, I’ll deal with it here.”

“Right,” Lydia Straight said, and bolted off down the hall.

The radio babbled Uzbek at him, and he dropped the handset long enough to grab a pen and scrap paper, taking notes as fast as he could. Bomb. Uzbekiston. East part of the city. Unknown casualties. Home of a government official. More to come.

Jesus Christ, he thought. Ruslan. It’s Ruslan’s home.

He dropped the pen and went back to the phone. There was the hiss and ping of the satellite connecting, and the phone rang, or rather, beeped, and then the Duty Officer at the State Department Operations Center came on the line. Riess identified himself, his post, then gave the bullet on what he knew, which was, as yet, too little.

“Any American casualties?” the Duty Officer asked.

“Unknown.”

“How many dead?”

“Unknown.”

“It was a residence?”

“That’s what the radio is reporting. I’m going to head out, see if I can find something concrete.”

“Keep us posted.”

Riess killed the connection, dialed McColl, waking him with four rings. When the Political Counselor came on the line, he said, “Sorry to wake you, sir, but there’s been reports of a bombing on east Uzbekiston. You might want to come in.”

“Dammit to hell,” McColl grumbled, thoroughly annoyed. “You’re in the office?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, then McColl said, “I’ll be there shortly.”

Riess grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he went out the door, stopping only long enough to close and lock it behind him. He was trying to keep his head clear, trying not to make too much of the news, to not let his imagination run away with him, but all he could think was that it was Ruslan’s home, it had to be Ruslan’s home, and he wondered if this, too, wasn’t somehow his fault, the way he felt Dina Malikov’s death was his fault.

At least now he had something to do, something he could do, instead of sitting and waiting and dining on his liver.