“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Riess asked as he took another two shots, then moved his focus to the Benz, now coming to a halt perhaps ten yards from the checkpoint.
“You know what’s going on,” Tower said.
“What’s with all the code names? Who’s Bagheera?”
“He’s with Shere Khan, on the Afghan side. Take a look across the bridge.”
“And Kaa? Ikki?”
“Just take a look at the Afghan side, Chuck, tell me what you see.”
Riess panned the lens from the Benz, its doors still closed, to the foot of the bridge, then followed its line across the muddy water of the river to the Afghan side, settling his view again on the cluster of newly painted buildings there. He’d maxed the telephoto and could make out figures, but not much detail. There was a fair amount of activity, Afghan border guards at their posts, and an SUV of some sort, what he thought might be a Jeep Cherokee, parked near the gate at the far side of the bridge. A thin black-haired man in civilian clothes was speaking to one of the border guards, another man with him, Afghani from the way he was dressed. Riess could make out a smear of white around the man’s right hand, as if it was wrapped in a scarf or otherwise bandaged.
“I’ve got two men, one of them could be Ruslan if he’s gone native,” Riess said.
“It’s not Ruslan,” Tower told him. “He’s in Mazar-i, lying low.”
Riess lowered the camera slightly, puzzled. “He thinks it’s a setup?”
“He’s got a reason to be paranoid.”
“
“Yeah, but Ruslan’s not the target.”
“Who’s Ikki?”
Tower grinned. “Uzbek military. I was talking to an Army captain named Arkitov.”
“About?”
“Security. Eyes on the road, Chuck, c’mon. You’re supposed to be documenting this for the Ambassador.”
Riess bit back more questions, brought the camera up once more, locating Tara-not-Tracy again, still strolling toward the Uzbek checkpoint. He snapped off three pictures in quick succession.
“One for the scrapbook?” Tower asked him.
“Bite me,” Riess said. “Sir.”
Tower laughed.
Riess next moved the camera to the bridge, where the border guards had all come to attention. The soldiers in the Jeeps had already leaped down, fanning out to form a perimeter. For a second, it seemed vaguely silly to him, until Riess remembered where they were, and that to the right sniper with the right rifle, one thousand meters could be considered an easy shot to make.
An aide jumped out from the front of the Benz, running around to the passenger door and opening it, and Riess snapped another set of photographs as he watched Sevara Malikov-Ganiev emerge from the vehicle. She’d adopted a more conservative style of dress since ascending to the Presidency, wearing a tailored business suit that Riess guessed was linen, her hair up, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She took the man’s offered hand, and Riess saw that she was holding a small, plush lion in her other. Once she was out of the car, she turned back to help Stepan out of the vehicle.
The boy looked confused, Riess thought, and frightened. Stepan had been dressed in what Riess supposed were his best clothes, very Western, and for a moment he had to wonder if Sevara ordered from Baby Gap or the like. Stepan sported toddler chinos and a blue button-down shirt, and he tugged after him in one hand a backpack, made for a child at least five years older than he, with the image of a Disney character large on its outward side.
As Riess watched, Sevara crouched down on her haunches, setting her free hand on the boy’s shoulder, speaking to him, and he could tell she was trying to reassure the boy. She clasped his hand and began walking him toward the bridge.
Riess moved his view back toward the Lada, trying to find Tara-not-Tracy, and saw that she was already halfway to the checkpoint. Her pace hadn’t increased. Three soldiers were heading toward her, and they intercepted her with twenty feet to go, two of the three leveling their weapons at her.
“What the hell . . . ?”
“Easy, Chuck. It’s a search, that’s all.”
Tower was right, and Riess snapped off another half-dozen shots, filling the camera’s data card, as the third soldier searched Tara-not-Tracy, hands efficiently running over her body. He swapped cards quickly, and when he brought the camera back up again, she was continuing toward President Malikov and Stepan, the soldiers following after her.
Tara-not-Tracy slowed, then stopped, leaving ten feet between herself and Stepan, President Malikov, and the foot of the bridge.
“Moment of truth,” Tower said.
CHAPTER 48
Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”
29 August, 0758 Hours (GMT+5:00)
Chace stopped, keeping her hands loose at her sides, palms open. She could see that the boy had been crying, and she thought about how often she’d seen him cry, and she sincerely hoped that this would be the last time. He held the oversized backpack by its strap. It only made the child seem smaller, more vulnerable.
She smiled at Stepan, and, without looking away from him, said, “Madam President.”
“You’re the one taking him across?” President Malikov-Ganiev’s English was flawless.
“Yes, ma’am.”
President Malikov tilted her head, issued an order in Uzbek. One of the soldiers, an officer, stepped forward, and she spoke to him again. The officer saluted, then sprinted back to the foot of the bridge, calling out. Chace looked away from Stepan long enough to confirm what the officer was doing, watched as he was handed a set of binoculars and then climbed up onto one of the checkered cement roadblocks to get a better view of the Afghan side.
Chace put her attention back on the child, the boy still watching her warily.
“Hello, Stepan,” she said to him in English. “My name’s Tara. I don’t know if you remember me.”
Beside the boy, President Sevara Malikov-Ganiev tilted her head slightly, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. Then she looked down to Stepan and spoke in Uzbek softly, and the contrast between the voice she’d
