“I need a favor.”
“I don’t do those kinds of favors anymore.”
“This one won’t cost you anything. You might even like it.”
Riess laughed tersely. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
“It’s a favor for Ruslan, Charles.”
“Ruslan’s in Afghanistan.”
“At the moment, yes. He wants his son back. I’m here to fetch him.”
“Oh, God,” Riess said, his mind filling with visions of the Dormon Residence, where the President lived, erupting in flames, collapsing from a missile strike. “The way you fetched them the first time?”
Carlisle laughed. “You really think I’m a monster, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what to think of you,” Riess answered honestly. “You show up on my doorstep with bloodstains on your boots, telling me that you need a favor but it’s okay because it’s semiofficial, and it’s about Ruslan, and it’s about Stepan, and the last time I saw you, you were headed for the shower and I was headed out the door. So, no, Tracy, I don’t know what to think of you.”
“My name’s Tara,” Tracy Carlisle said.
“What’s this favor?”
Tara-not-Tracy tasted the coffee he’d poured for her, and he saw her expression brighten in pleasant surprise. She took a second gulp before saying, “Late yesterday afternoon, the U.K. Ambassador met with President Sevara Malikov to discuss the possibility of returning Stepan Malikov to his father’s care. The Ambassador carried a message from Stepan’s father, the details of which are largely unimportant, but the gist was this: Ruslan gets Stepan back, Sevara never has to worry about her brother again. Ruslan will stay far away from her and Uzbekistan, and that will be that.
“President Malikov, after some deliberation, agreed. The exchange is set for the day after tomorrow, early Tuesday morning, to take place at the border crossing in Termez. Sevara will make the visit ostensibly to examine the security at the border and to meet with the United Nations staff for the relief effort. Ruslan will await on the Afghan side of the bridge, and Sevara will deliver Stepan on the Uzbek side. A third party will escort the boy across the bridge to his father.”
“Sevara’s agreed to this?”
“So I’ve been told. You seem surprised.”
Riess shrugged. Nothing about Uzbekistan surprised him anymore. “So far I’m not hearing anything about a favor.”
“I’m coming to that.” Tara-not-Tracy finished her coffee, then placed the mug on the counter. She reached into an outside pocket of her coat, removing two wallets, both leather, one black, the other tan. She set them beside her empty mug. Riess noted that the tan one was spattered with dried blood, too.
“I took these off two men in Afghanistan,” she told him. “They were reluctant to part with them.”
Riess hesitated, then picked up the black wallet, flipping it open. An ID card stared back at him, printed in Uzbek, and declaring the bearer an officer of the NSS. The officer in question’s name was Tozim Stepanov. He glanced up from the wallet to her, and she inclined her head, indicating that he should examine the second one as well. He did so, reading the ID of a second NSS officer named Andrei Hamrayev.
“You got these off two men in Afghanistan?”
“About eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif, in fact.”
“What were two NSS officers doing eighty klicks south of Mazar-i-Sharif?”
“I believe they were leading a hit squad in an attempt to kill Ruslan Malikov. The hit squad consisted of four Uzbek Army soldiers in addition to these two.”
“You have proof of this?”
From the another pocket, Tara-not-Tracy removed a zip-top plastic bag. She jiggled the bag before handing it over, causing the metal contents inside to ring lightly. Riess took the bag.
Four sets of dog tags.
“The question is, of course, whether or not President Malikov authorized this hit squad or not,” she told him. “Given that this was an armed incursion by one sovereign nation upon another, I find that doubtful, especially considering Uzbekistan’s cozy relationship with your government, not to mention your government’s relationship with Afghanistan. I find it very doubtful indeed.”
“She didn’t,” Riess said. “Not in a million years, not just to kill her brother.”
“Then someone else must have initiated the action. And considering the nature of the IDs in those wallets, I think we both know who that someone would be.”
“I should bring this to the attention of my Ambassador.”
“I’m certainly not about to tell you how to do your job,” she said cheerfully. “But if you were to ask me, I’d say that was a fine and proper course of action.”
Riess considered her again, her smile, her manner. “You’re setting up Zahidov?”
“Am I?”
“At the least, President Malikov demands Zahidov’s resignation. At the most, he disappears and the body is never found.”
Something flickered behind her eyes, almost like a shadow moving from one darkness to another.
“That would be a pity,” Tara-not-Tracy said. “That would be a great pity indeed.”
Ambassador Norton was reluctant to meet with Riess on such short notice, but the mention of an Uzbek incursion into Afghanistan dispelled that reluctance quickly. They met in the Ambassador’s office at the Embassy, and while it certainly wasn’t the first time that Riess had been inside it since Norton took over for Garret, he was again surprised by how little things had seemed to change. Only the photographs on the glory wall and the desk, and even those were remarkably similar to the ones that Garret had hung.
Aaron Tower attended the meeting as well, which surprised Riess initially, but in retrospect he thought it really shouldn’t have. Tara-not-Tracy was SIS, he knew that, and this time the Brit was here on official business. COS Tashkent would have been notified, if not via London, possibly via Langley. It helped Riess in making his case, because Tower was able to provide some missing details—namely, about the Uzbek soldiers, where they’d been stationed, and how Zahidov most likely arranged things.
“And we’re positive that President Malikov didn’t authorize the action?” Ambassador Norton asked when Riess and Tower had each finished their respective reports. He gazed at them over the top of his glasses.
“As positive as we can be,” Tower answered. “It flies in the face of everything President Malikov’s done since winning the election, Mitch, especially the steps she’s taking to improve relations with the Afghanis. Add to that the fact that she’s been working extremely hard to stay on our good side, easing up on the religious restrictions and press issues, even reining in the NSS.”
“She still has a long way to go,” the Ambassador pointed out mildly. “But I take your point. It’d be a hell of a risk for her, sending troops into Afghanistan, at least like this.”
“I think we’re safe in assuming that it was done without her knowledge or permission.”
“Then I’ll put a call into her office at once, see if she isn’t available to discuss this potential diplomatic incident.” The Ambassador sat back in his chair, removing his glasses. He folded them closed, but held them in his hand. “Mr. Riess.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re aware the British have brokered a deal between President Malikov and her brother?”
“I am, sir.”
“Have you been to Termez before?”
“Three times, yes, sir, though not in the last eight months or so.”
“You’re about to make it four times. I want the handoff audited. Anything goes wrong, I’d like to have an American eyewitness to what transpired. Get yourself to Termez by tomorrow night. The exchange, as my colleague at the British Embassy has informed me, is set for eight o’clock Tuesday morning. I want you there.”
“How close should I get?”
“Close enough that if anything goes sour, you’ll be able to give me an accurate report, son.” The Ambassador seemed vaguely annoyed. “You know both Ruslan and the boy, or so I understand.”
