used to issue her orders to the soldier and tone she used on the boy was stark.
Stepan stared up at Chace, then spoke in response, so softly that, even if it had been in English, she doubted she’d have understood it.
President Malikov turned back to Chace, saying in English, “My nephew says he remembers you. You’re the one who tried to take Stepan and his father out of the country back in February?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You’re the one that Ahtam tortured.”
Chace looked at President Malikov-Ganiev, trying to read her expression behind the sunglasses, her tone. There was nothing in it one way or another to indicate approval of what had been done to her, or disapproval.
“One of the many,” Chace answered, and her voice was flat.
From the bridge, the officer came jogging back, delivering another salute and then speaking quickly. President Malikov-Ganiev frowned, and the officer stepped back.
“Where is my brother?” the President asked Chace. “Why can they not find him?”
“He’s waiting in Mazar-i-Sharif, Madam President. He was afraid of another attempt on his life.”
President Malikov-Ganiev’s frown went from annoyance to anger, and she hissed softly, cursing. Chace caught the name “Ahtam,” but nothing else.
“So you bring Stepan across, and then you two join my brother in Mazar-i-Sharif,” the President said to Chace.
“Yes, ma’am.”
For a moment, President Malikov-Ganiev didn’t move, and Chace was certain the woman was staring at her from behind her sunglasses. Then she bent back down to Stepan and spoke to him again. Stepan responded, just as quietly as he had the first time, and President Malikov-Ganiev seemed to repeat herself, her voice gaining an edge. The boy looked up at her with wide eyes, then to Chace, and then to the bridge.
The President turned to Chace. She held out the stuffed animal in her hand. “Take him and go.”
“Thank you, Madam President,” Chace said. She took the stuffed lion, and then she reached out for Stepan’s hand.
The boy hesitated, and President Malikov-Ganiev snapped at him, and the anger in her voice was unmistakable. Stepan flinched, then offered Chace his hand, and she took it, felt it small and a little cold in her own.
“It’ll be all right,” Chace told Stepan.
“Go,” President Malikov-Ganiev said. “Go, and never come back. Tell my brother, he never comes back.”
Chace turned away without answering, holding the boy’s hand. After a half-dozen steps, she stopped and took his backpack, slipping her arm through the strap, hoisting it onto her shoulder. She offered Stepan her hand once more, and this time he took it without hesitation.
Ahead of them, the border guards stepped aside, watching them advance. Chace heard the clack of a switch being thrown nearby. Another guard moved to the gates, pushing them apart.
Walking alongside the railroad tracks, Chace and Stepan stepped onto the bridge and began the thousand- meter walk into Afghanistan.
CHAPTER 49
Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”
29 August, 0800 Hours (GMT+5:00)
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than he had hoped.
Zahidov had thought he would get Ruslan and his turd offspring, but Ruslan was nowhere to be found on the Afghan side. That had disappointed him. He’d wanted Ruslan to witness what would happen, to see it with his own eyes.
But then he’d seen the blond woman, the British spy, the woman who had given him nothing but pain, physical and more, and it drove away the disappointment, replacing it with a joy he hadn’t felt since he’d last been in Sevara’s arms. This was justice, and if he had believed in God, he would have offered a prayer of thanks.
Perhaps Ruslan wouldn’t bear witness, but the bitch would, and maybe, if everything went very well and he was very quick, he could kill her, too. For a moment, he even toyed with hitting her first, but discarded the idea. The woman meant nothing to Sevara; it was Stepan who mattered to her. So it had to be Stepan first, and that was fine with Zahidov.
From his vantage point, lying in the dirt a half-kilometer or so from the bridge, just over one and a half kilometers from Afghanistan, watching through the spotting scope mounted on its squat little tripod, he felt no fear. Through his scope he could see the vehicle on the Afghan side, could see the pale black-haired man pacing beyond the closed gate. Every so often the man would stop, then raise a set of binoculars to his eyes, never once looking Zahidov’s way, simply tracking the progress of the British bitch and Stepan across the bridge. Then he would lower the binoculars and resume pacing.
Zahidov moved off the spotting scope, sliding to his right in the dirt, to where the weapon waited for him. He brought it to his shoulder, used the line of the bridge to guide his view, settling the crosshairs between the woman and the small boy. He would wait until they crossed, until they had stepped into Afghanistan.
All he needed now was a little more patience.
Behind and below him, the Mi-24v helicopter he’d bought from Arkitov—and that was how Zahidov viewed it, he had paid a million dollars for it, after all—waited, nestled in the bowl made by this series of hillocks, its pilot behind the stick, waiting for his word. The pilot had made no sound since they’d landed, apparently understanding the seriousness of Zahidov’s undertaking. His presence, a guarantee of escape, reassured Zahidov. Once his work here was done, he would board the helicopter, order the pilot to fly low and fast to Tajikistan. And if the pilot resisted or offered protest, then Zahidov would put his gun against his neck, to end that dispute.
Once in Tajikistan and on the ground, Zahidov would kill the pilot, something that he was sure Arkitov had understood was part of their transaction. He would have to; he couldn’t risk the pilot returning to tell the Americans where he had gone, or worse, have the pilot turn the helicopter’s guns on him.
Zahidov blinked, clearing his vision, then settled again behind the sight. The morning sunlight had been heating the weapon steadily since dawn, and it was already hot to the touch, burning against his cheek, waiting to be used.
The spy was still walking with the boy, walking so slowly, and Zahidov felt an almost unbearable frustration in his chest. They weren’t even halfway to Afghanistan yet, and what patience he had left was swiftly being stripped away.
But no, the spy, this bitch who had beaten him, this bitch who had hurt him, mocked him, humiliated him, she walked, letting a two-and-a-half-year-old boy’s legs set her pace. Holding his hand, and every so often her head
