south side, far enough away that Chace couldn’t readily identify the make and model, but it was a safe bet it had been recovered from the Soviet occupation. Chace didn’t doubt the weapon was in working order, though she wondered where Kostum found the rounds for it.
They reached the canyon’s bottom, approached the gates at the wall. The earth down here was hard-packed, and Chace could make out tire tracks, the signs of heavy vehicles that had traveled along the canyon floor. She hadn’t seen a garage on their descent, and wondered where the vehicles were stored.
“Bloody hell,” Lankford murmured to her as they approached, and she knew why he’d said it and what he was thinking. If they were going to kill Ruslan Malikov, they’d have one hell of a time getting out again after the deed was done.
“They’re going to search us,” Chace said. “Don’t fuss.”
“We’re heavy.”
“I know. Don’t fuss.”
Lankford nodded, his lips tightening, and then they had reached the gates. The graybeard called out in Pashto, and a response came back from behind the wall, and the man laughed, rested his Kalashnikov against the gate, and turned back to face them. He spoke pleasantly as he approached, holding out his hand, gesturing for the bags they were carrying on their shoulders.
Chace handed hers over, watched as Lankford did the same. The graybeard was joined by the others who had accompanied them, one of the others taking Chace’s bag from him. For a moment, everyone’s attention was on the bags, and Chace took the opportunity to smooth the front of her shirt, and in so doing, to shove the Walther fully down the front of her pants. It was uncomfortable but not intolerable, and she feigned shifting impatiently, trying to move the gun into a more concealed position.
The graybeard laughed, brought out the pistol Lankford was carrying, a Browning, showing it to him. Lankford shrugged, and the graybeard laughed again, then spoke to the man who’d been helping him. The man approached Lankford, clearly apologetic, and gestured for him to raise his hands. Chace watched as Lankford did so, submitting to the search. It was brief and efficient, but Chace noticed that the searcher avoided checking Lankford’s crotch too carefully.
The two men searching her bag had finished, and were now looking from her to the graybeard, clearly uncomfortable. Graybeard indicated one of the two, then Chace, and the man sighed heavily, then approached her, shaking his head slightly as he did so. He gestured for her to raise her arms, and the discomfort on his face was blatant and so acute, Chace almost felt sorry for him.
He took all of six seconds to check her, doing her arms and legs first, before stealing himself to check her torso. He avoided actually touching the front of her body, and barely touched her back, more mime than actual search. He touched her hips, but nothing more, before stepping back and speaking to the graybeard.
Chace and Lankford were each handed their bags, and the gates opened, and they were allowed through into the courtyard.
“Kostum?” the graybeard said to them, directing his words primarily at Lankford. “Speak Kostum?”
“Malikov,” Chace said. “Ruslan Malikov.”
There was a sudden stillness in the yard, and the graybeard stared at her.
“No Ruslan.”
“Stepan,” Chace said. “Tracy.”
“Trahcee?”
Chace pointed to herself. “Tracy.”
From the shadow of the house stepped Ruslan Malikov, dressed in the vest and loose pants worn by so many of the others. Dirtier, wearier perhaps, wearing a white knit prayer cap and armed with a Kalashnikov of his own in his hand. He stared at her, as if trying to remember her face. He’d barely seen her in the light before, Chace thought, and a lot had been going on that night.
“It’s good to see you, sir,” Chace told him in English. “There are some matters we need to discuss.”
CHAPTER 37
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—Residence of the
U.S. Chief of Mission to Uzbekistan
25 August, 2011 Hours (GMT+5:00)
On 31 August 1991, Uzbekistan declared its independence from the disintegrating Soviet Union, following in the wake of the other newly forming independent states that surrounded it on all sides. In the grand scheme of nations and their histories, it hadn’t been that long ago at all, and for that reason, the Uzbek Government still made a deal of the day, and of the event. This year, the thirty-first fell on a Thursday, and for that reason, the Ambassador’s Reception in honor of Independence Day was scheduled at the end of the week prior, a Friday night.
Riess, who had been in the doghouse for so long now he’d almost grown accustomed to it, hadn’t expected that his attendance would be required, or, for that matter, welcome. Ever since Garret had been relieved of post, Riess had existed in a sort of semiexile, under McColl’s spiteful eyes. That Riess, too, hadn’t been shipped back to the States continued to surprise him.
It had been Garret who’d spared him, of course, a last act of gratitude before departing public service. The Ambassador had taken sole responsibility for opposing the White House and supporting Ruslan Malikov, and in the end, even if Garret hadn’t shouldered the load willingly, he’d have been made to bear it anyway. Garret was the Ambassador, and there were more than enough people back at State who had been willing to excuse Riess his indiscretions as a result. It wasn’t an uncommon thing for a poloff to be taken under an Ambassador’s wing, after all, and there had been some question as to how much of what had occurred had been of Riess’ doing, rather than Garret’s. FSOs were hard to come by, anyway. Measured against the difficulties in replacing Riess on post versus leaving him on station, it was easier to let him stay. His service record would reflect his involvement in Garret’s plot, and Riess knew that his next posting would be a junior desk back in D.C.
He would live in the wilderness for a long time to come.
For that reason, Riess had thought he’d spend Friday night working late in the Pol/Econ Office, finishing up the cables back to State, and putting the final report on the latest in the stream of demarches. It had been midmorning before McColl had corrected his assumption.
“It’s black tie,” McColl had said, passing by his desk without stopping.
“Sir?”
“The reception tonight, at the Residence. It’s black tie. I hope your tuxedo is clean.”
“I wasn’t aware you wanted me to attend.”
“I don’t, but the Ambassador does.” McColl sniffed, pulling a handkerchief from his trousers and wiping his nose. “See if you can resist the urge to play spy this time, all right?”
Riess had nodded, hiding his anger and his frustration. The wound was still open, the sense of failure
