need the money to survive. One million dollars, that was perhaps an eighth of what he had hidden away, but it rankled, being blackmailed in this way.
Arkitov pointedly looked at his wristwatch.
Zahidov cursed a second time, then moved to the desk, grabbing the telephone and dialing quickly, from memory.
“Give me the account number,” he spat at Arkitov.
Arkitov leaned forward, pulling a piece of paper from the yellow Post-It pad on his desk, and taking up a pencil. He scribbled out a sequence of numbers, and the name of his own bank in Bern.
It took Zahidov another twelve minutes to arrange the transfer, and three minutes more for Arkitov to confirm that the funds had made their way to him. Satisfied at last, the captain hung up the phone, rose, and smiled at Zahidov.
“Now, my friend,” he said, “let’s see about that helicopter for you.”
CHAPTER 45
Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”
29 August, 0747 Hours (GMT+5:00)
One journalist had labeled it the “Checkpoint Charlie of Central Asia,” and as Riess rode with Tower out toward the bridge in a filthy white Daewoo van, he thought the description both appropriate and painfully ironic. Termez itself had seen recent construction and renovation, attempts to repair and bolster its infrastructure in support of both the relief and military operations that were staged from the town. But as they left the city and followed the road down to the river, the already sun-blasted landscape dropped around them, flattening out as it ran to the water. Patches of scrub and weeds clung to the land, barely surviving.
The van rattled as they crossed the railroad tracks, continuing down toward the foot of the bridge. Approaching, Riess could see concrete slabs painted white and black positioned as roadblocks, in an attempt to channel and control approaching vehicle traffic. The bridge itself was ugly, pure Soviet in execution, white-painted steel and concrete, and the paint was faded and peeling. On the Uzbek side, the final access to the crossing was blocked by a gate, closed and electrified, another part of the fence that marked the border. Armed guards in camouflage uniforms patrolled the immediate perimeter.
Tower parked the Daewoo some fifty feet from the bridge, off the side of the road, and killed the engine. Riess wanted to question that decision. Not yet eight in the morning, and already the temperature had passed miserable and was well on its way to kiln. The air conditioner would be a relief.
“It’d overheat the engine,” Tower said, answering the unasked question, and then lowering their respective windows. The scent of fouled water wafted into the car.
Riess turned around in his seat, reaching into the rear for the backpack he’d brought along. From within he removed his binoculars and his camera, a Konica Minolta digital camera with telephoto lens. Tower had brought his own binoculars with him, but when Riess turned back, he found the other man had also brought a radio with him, and was raising it to his mouth.
“Ikki, this is Baloo, over,” he said, and Riess stared at him, because Tower had transmitted in Uzbek, not English.
“How do you read?”
“Over and out,” Tower said, and then set the radio on the dashboard, above the wheel.
Riess continued to stare, and Tower seemed not to mind, now producing his own set of binoculars. The CIA man raised his optics and looked out toward the bridge.
Seeing no explanation for his behavior forthcoming, Riess followed suit, pointing his lenses down to the foot of the bridge. There was movement from the guards, what he read as agitation, and two of the soldiers were beginning to make their way toward the Americans, slipping their rifles off their arms. But as Riess watched, he saw the pair turn even as the distant shouting made its way to him through the still air. An officer was running toward the soldiers, waving an arm angrily. The officer pointed at them in the van, and the soldiers snapped to attention, then ran hastily back to their posts.
The officer watched them go, then cast a glance back in the Americans’ direction. Through the binoculars, Riess could make out the man’s expression, the confusion and displeasure. Whatever he’d been told, whatever orders he’d just passed on to his men, he was uncomfortable with them.
Riess looked away to check his watch. Nine minutes to eight. He was raising the binoculars again when Tower spoke.
“West side. Blue Lada approaching, along the fence.”
Panning swiftly right, along what Riess thought of as a service road running parallel to the fence, was a late-model Lada, its wheels kicking up clouds of dust. He lost his view of it for a moment as it passed between him and one of the squat bunkers near the shore, but reacquired it immediately as it emerged, slowing to a stop. He could make out the driver behind the wheel.
“Hell,” Riess said. “I should have seen that coming.”
“Yeah,” Tower agreed, raising his radio once more. “You probably should’ve.”
CHAPTER 46
