Riess glanced to Tower, who shot him a grin in return. “I’ll recognize them, yes, sir,” he replied.
“That’s all I need. I’ll make sure McColl knows where you’re going and why; you won’t have to worry about him.” The Ambassador swept the hand holding his glasses across his desk, indicating the wallets and dog tags. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention so promptly.”
Riess took that as his cue to exit, said, “Thank you for your time, sir,” and started out of the office.
“Mr. Riess,” the Ambassador called after him. “One more thing.”
“Sir?”
“No cloaks and daggers for you.” It seemed to Riess that the Ambassador was rather pointedly not looking at Tower. “I’ve got enough people with those running around this country already.”
“I understand, sir.”
Tower hefted himself from his chair, saying, “I’ll walk Charles out, if you don’t mind, Mitch.”
The Ambassador grunted assent, already reaching for the phone. Tower settled a hand on Riess’ upper arm, guiding him the rest of the way out of the office and through the secretarial bunker, into the hallway. They cleared the security doors, and Tower dropped the hand, walking alongside Riess silently until they reached the entry hall.
“Didn’t get a second roll in the hay?” Tower asked him.
“I don’t think she was that interested.”
Tower stopped, tucking his hands into his pockets. The CIA Chief of Station was looking toward the exit, brow creasing, apparently in memory.
“No, I don’t imagine that she was,” he said after a second, then moved his look back to Riess. “Mind if I ride down to Termez with you?”
“You need to audit the handover as well?”
“Something like that.”
“But not quite like that.”
Tower grinned by way of answer, then said, “DPM of the Interior Zahidov’s going to have a very bad day tomorrow, I think.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
“If you knew half of what I know, Chuck, you’d be drinking a toast.”
“You think she’ll do it? Have him killed?”
“President Malikov? He was useful to her before she won the election, but he’s a major liability now. Her problem is, he knows too much. All of her dirty laundry. What do
Charles Riess remembered the videotapes Dina Malikov had passed to him of the NSS interrogations, of the men and women, young and old, beaten and brutalized to coerce confessions. He remembered Dina Malikov, the photographs of her naked body, the burns, the shattered bones, the blood. He remembered the story, that Zahidov had sent for Ruslan so he could identify his wife’s body, a request that might have been interpreted as Zahidov warning Ruslan, but was in truth nothing more than pure sadism.
“I think it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” he said.
CHAPTER 42
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—488 Chimkent
27 August, 2022 Hours (GMT+5:00)
He didn’t sleep at the penthouse on Sulaymonova any longer, not since Sevara had become President. She kept the penthouse, of course, and Zahidov knew she still used it on occasion, but now she lived in the Residence in Dormon, and it had taken him time to understand that she had no intention of letting him join her there. Not unless he could convince her otherwise, convince her that the love between them was still strong, and still served their nation’s best interests.
It bothered him no small amount that Ruslan’s brat slept there instead. Sevara doted on the child, inasmuch as she had the time to dote on anyone. But why she seemed to focus on her nephew, on the boy’s comfort and happiness, he didn’t understand.
So Zahidov lived alone, in his apartment on Chimkent, an apartment appropriate for a man who was both the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior and the Head of the NSS. It had everything he could want, all the finest fixtures and appliances and electronics, from a flat-panel television to a mighty stereo and a king-size waterbed. It had an eighteen-hundred-dollar secure refrigerator made especially to hold his collection of fine wines, and even a secret room with a cabinet safe, where he kept those things most important to him and his job: the documents used for blackmailing other members of the Government, his favorite handguns, some of his money—half of it in gold, the other half in American dollars.
It had everything he could want, except her, and Zahidov knew he was lovesick, and despised himself for being so weak. But he couldn’t change his heart.
He hated coming home.
And this was why he was inattentive when he parked his newly purchased Audi TT in the lot that night, returning from the Interior Ministry, where he’d spent the day, waiting for word from Tozim or Andrei. This was why he didn’t notice that the lights at the entrance to the stairwell from the car park seemed to be out, and why he wasn’t as careful as he perhaps should have been when he exited his car and then leaned back in to reach across to his briefcase, sitting on the passenger’s seat, to retrieve it.
“What is it with you and Audis?” a woman asked Zahidov softly, from behind.
He reached for the pistol at his hip, trying to straighten as he did so, but before he could even begin the move, he felt pain slicing across the backs of his legs, the Audi’s door slamming closed on him. He cried out in surprise as much as in pain. Then the door opened and slammed a second time, and this time there was only pain in his cry.
Then he was being pulled from the car, felt the cement of the garage floor on his face and a dull pain from his front teeth, and he knew he’d been pulled free, that he’d hit the ground face-first. A flower of light bloomed behind his eyes, blinding him with its intensity, and he tasted blood in his mouth and felt its warmth running over his face. Hands stripped the pistol from the holster at his hip, then his other gun from his ankle.
Nausea surged through him, rising from between his legs, and he couldn’t breathe, and the blossom of light faded to points that swirled and weaved in front of his eyes. He saw the woman then, and despite his disorientation and his suffering, he made the connection. This woman here and the British bitch spy then, the cunt that Tower had stolen from him, the one Sevara blamed him for. She had him by the throat, yanking him toward her, and he saw the flash of her hand, his pistol in it, and she struck him across the mouth with the barrel. His front teeth, already loosened from his impact with the garage floor, broke free in his mouth, and he tasted a new flood of blood.
She slammed him back against the Audi, still holding him by the throat, choking him. With her other hand, she shoved the end of his pistol against his lips, pushing hard, harder, until he had no choice but to open his mouth. The barrel cut across his raw gums, and he couldn’t keep himself from voicing his pain.
At that, her face came in close to his, her hands gripping him, and he felt her hair brush his cheek. He lost
