Chace nodded, waiting.
“I do not want to be the President of Uzbekistan,” Ruslan said. “In truth, I never did.”
“You told the Americans—”
“My wife had been murdered, and my son and I were in peril.” He was studying her, as if trying to measure her understanding of his motives. “You have a daughter. Is there anything you wouldn’t do to protect her?”
“No,” Chace said immediately. The question didn’t merit any thought.
“If I went to the Americans and I said I would be their man, I thought perhaps they would protect me and my boy. Instead, they went to the British, and they sent you. If we had escaped Uzbekistan, I would have been content.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted to return?”
“Why would I?” He seemed perplexed by the question.
“It’s your home.”
“I would make a new home. Would it have pleased me to leave Uzbekistan forever? No. But that is a small loss to bear if measured against the loss of one’s child.”
“You want Stepan back,” Chace said, realizing. “This is all about your son.”
“I want Stepan,” Ruslan agreed. “And I trust you to bring him to me.”
Chace laughed softly, pulled the ball cap from her head, ran a hand through her hair.
“You are amused?” Ruslan asked.
“At myself. At them.” She gestured vaguely in the direction she thought was the West. “My understanding is that Stepan has been well looked after by your sister, that Sevara takes very good care of him.”
“That is my understanding also.”
Chace looked at him, and for a moment saw the man as he had been when she’d found him in Tashkent. Sleeping alone in a bed made to be shared, on the side nearest his son’s room. She felt the familiar ache in her chest that came with the reminder that Tom had died never knowing they’d made a daughter, never seeing Tamsin’s face. She thought of how much she missed Tamsin at the best of times, when she wasn’t traveling, when she wasn’t away from home for days on a job. She wondered how much more it hurt to be Ruslan Malikov, unable to see his son for almost seven months now.
“Is there a phone?” Chace asked, finally. “A satellite phone?”
“Kostum has one. He does not like to use it, because the CIA, they can detect it. They send the Predator drones out, believing he is a terrorist. Kostum does not wish a missile shot into his home.”
“No, I can see why he wouldn’t.” She leaned forward. “Could I use it? It wouldn’t take long.”
“I can ask him.”
Chace nodded, fell silent and into her thoughts once more. Ruslan watched, frowning, as if trying to read her thoughts.
“Does Zahidov have another missile?” Chace asked. “Like the one I used, like the one that brought down the helicopter?”
“I do not know. Why?”
“There were four missiles in the set. Three have been accounted for, but the fourth is still missing. They were stolen here in Afghanistan, then sold again, probably several times. We think the last buyer was Zahidov, that’s how they came to be in Tashkent.”
“And you want this fourth missile?”
“We want it back.”
Ruslan scratched his chin beneath his beard, turning away in thought. “Kostum might know something of this.”
“Any information on the whereabouts of the last missile would be very helpful.”
He arched an eyebrow at her. “Yes, but for whom?”
“We want the missile. You want your son. There may be a way to get both.”
“You will help me?” Chace saw hope flicker across Ruslan’s face.
“If I can.”
“Why?”
Chace thought of the best way to answer the question, of all the things she could say, all the ways in which she could appeal to him, convince him. The plan stirring in the back of her mind was ill formed at this stage, but it had potential, she was certain. The problem was, it required not only her participation, but that of Ruslan, a two- year-old boy, and the Americans as well.
“Because you’re not the only person that Ahtam Zahidov has stolen something from,” Chace told him.
The name had an immediate effect on Ruslan. His expression darkened with encroaching memories. He looked at Chace again, and the realization was there, and then it was replaced with understanding.
“He had you? Tortured you?”
“I was fortunate,” Chace replied. “Someone came for me in time.”
“My wife was not fortunate.”
Chace was silent.
“And you think there is a way to return my son to me, to appease my sister, and to punish Zahidov?”
“Perhaps.”
“I would like to see them pay, Tracy. More than you can imagine.” Ruslan Malikov bit back a laugh, more bitter than incredulous. “All right. I will listen to what you have to say.”
CHAPTER 39
London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room
25 August, 1709 Hours GMT
Crocker blew into the Ops Room, cutting off Mike Putnam before he could announce his presence on the floor.
“What’s happened?”
“Minder One on Sundown, sir,” Danny Beale said, turning at the Mission Control Desk. “Satellite link, duration seven seconds. Open code, says she needs to speak with you, that she’ll be calling back in . . .” He looked to the plasma wall, checking the clock there. “One minute, eighteen seconds.”
“No idea where she is?”
“Presumably still in Afghanistan, sir.”
“Is it a flap?”
“Didn’t sound like it, sir.”
“Then what the bloody hell is she calling in for?”
