Private Wars (29 page)

CHAPTER 35

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—Yunus Rajabiy,
Ministry of the Interior

23 August, 1055 Hours (GMT+5:00)

It had taken him a while to decide
what he should do, how it was he could regain her favor, but when Zahidov hit upon it, the idea seemed so simple and so correct and so
right
that he was certain Sevara would have approved. He understood what she had tried to tell him in her office, that things had changed, and that he would have to change, too. She had accused him of being a thug, but if he could find a way to take care of her problem with Ruslan, and to do it right, to do it clear, without anything that could be laid at her feet, she would be able to forgive that. It wasn’t simply a question of how he picked his targets, as she had said, but of where.

The fact was, Sevara needed him to be a thug. But she was also correct in that he could have been more discreet in the past. Before her father had died, discretion had been unnecessary, even counterproductive. It diminished fear, and Zahidov had always felt fear was his most powerful tool. Now, however, Sevara Malikov-Ganiev was President of the Republic of Uzbekistan, and discretion was more than required, it was mandated. Whatever he did to remove Ruslan would have to remain far away from her, and far from the prying eyes of the Americans and their allies.

In Tashkent, Zahidov couldn’t be a thug. In Termez, perhaps. But in Afghanistan, where thugs were called soldiers or warriors and were as common as rocks, that was a different story.

So that was the solution, and it was all so very simple. He would take care of Ruslan for her once and for all, the way he should have done back in February, when he’d removed Dina. With the information he’d learned from Hazza, it wouldn’t be that hard to find Kostum’s stronghold, or that difficult to wait until Ruslan exposed himself enough to be killed. It could be done quite easily, he was sure of it.

What was harder to reconcile was his own participation in the matter. His preference was, of course, to go and do it himself. As a general rule, he preferred to handle these kinds of things personally. He told himself this was not because he enjoyed it, but rather because he was a perfectionist and wanted these sorts of things done right. It was why he participated in the most important interrogations, such as with Dina and, after that, the British spy.

But it was Wednesday morning before Zahidov resolved that, this time, he would have to delegate the task in its entirety. It would demonstrate to Sevara that he was
not
a thug, that he could keep his hands clean while still doing what needed to be done. Perhaps more important, it would allow him to remain in Tashkent, and close to her.

He remembered all too clearly the male secretary who had attended Sevara in her office, and he remembered, too, the way the man had looked at her.

So Zahidov would stay in Tashkent, close to Sevara, just in case she needed him. He would send Tozim and Andrei and some of Captain Arkitov’s men to go south of Mazar-i-Sharif, to murder her brother.

He
briefed them in his office at the Ministry of the Interior late Wednesday morning.

“Get yourselves to Termez by tomorrow morning,” Zahidov said. “I’ll let Arkitov know you are coming. Take four of his men, whatever weapons and ammunition you will need, and then head south tomorrow night.”

Andrei pinched his nose, cleaning his nostrils, thinking. Unlike Tozim, he was a deliberate man, more of a thinker, and it was one of the reasons Zahidov liked him. Smart, but not so smart as to be a problem, and with an easy handle for Zahidov to grab and control him. Andrei had money problems, most of it lost to online gambling, the rest to women.

“The crossing won’t be easy,” Andrei said. “They watch the border closely.”

“Leave it to Arkitov to arrange,” Zahidov answered, dismissing the concern. “He’ll be able to bribe your way across.”

“Where are we going?” Tozim asked.

“Someplace south of Mazar-i-Sharif. There’s a warlord there, Kostum. He’s harboring her brother.”

Andrei and Tozim swapped glances, then looked back to him, nodding in understanding.

“This is the General? The one with Uzbek blood?” Andrei asked.

“That’s him.”

“If the brother’s with him, he’ll be well protected.”

“That’s why you’ll take some of Arkitov’s rangers with you.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not enough,” Zahidov said. “So do whatever you need to.”

Tozim sighed. “I wish we had one of those missiles. That would help.”

“There were only the three, and all of them have been used,” Zahidov said. “Arkitov will be able to give you explosives, antitank weapons, even, if you think they will help. As I said, use whatever you need, but make damn sure he’s dead. I don’t want a repeat of the river.”

“We’ll bring you his head,” Tozim vowed.

Ahtam Zahidov thought he might like that, then shook his head.

“No, Tozim,” he said. “We are not thugs.”

CHAPTER 36

Afghanistan—Mazar-i-Sharif

24 August, 1707 Hours (GMT+4:30)

It meant “Tomb of the Chosen One,” the
city named after the Great Blue Mosque that had been built both as a house of prayer and as a tomb to Hazrat Ali, the Fourth Caliph of Islam, son-in-law and cousin of the Prophet Mohammed. Sometime in the thirteenth century, as Genghis Khan had ravaged his way through Central Asia, the mosque had been buried in dirt in an attempt to preserve it—no small undertaking—and apparently those who’d buried it had been slaughtered and Mazar-i-Sharif razed, because the mosque remained hidden for over two hundred years. In the late fifteenth century, reconstruction of the city began, the ancient mosque was rediscovered, excavated, and restored.

It was, to Chace’s knowledge, the first great slaughter in the city’s history, but by no means the last. Much as Mazar-i-Sharif was known for its Afghan rugs and its fine horses, it was known mostly for death.

In the years leading up to Operation Enduring Freedom, when the
taleban
had been opposed solely by the Northern Alliance, Mazar-i-Sharif was a Northern Alliance stronghold. Or at least it was until 8 August 1998, when the
taleban
finally succeeded in sacking the city. By many accounts they came into town shooting anything that moved, including women and children, before deciding on a more systematic approach. They targeted the male members of the various ethnic groups that had lived in the city, specifically pursuing the ethnic Tajiks, Uzbeks, and Hazara. The Hazara saw the worst of this persecution—they were a Persian-speaking Shi’a sect, and thus anathema to the
taleban
regime. When all was said and done, at least 2,000 people had been murdered.

Compounding this infamy came another incident, this time at the Jala-i-Qanghi prison on 25 November 2001, where
taleban
and al-Qaeda fighters were being held by members of the Northern Alliance. What has been alternatively described as both an uprising or a riot broke out, and the prisoners engaged in a pitched battle with their captors, one that lasted several days until U.S. and U.K. Special Forces arrived on scene and brought with them air strikes that resulted in the deaths of over four hundred. Among the Northern Alliance forces had been two CIA officers. One of them, Johnny Michael Spann, was killed in the riot.

Chace remembered that fact especially, because it was the first time that the CIA had disclosed to the media the death in the line of duty of one of its officers. There was still some question as to whether the Company had actually
wanted
that information disclosed, or if it was released as the result of an overzealous White House Press Secretary. Spann became a martyr, the first American casualty of the War in Afghanistan. Apparently, there was now a memorial marker at the site of the prison, commending his soul to God.

These were the things Chace knew about Mazar-i-Sharif, the things she remembered about the city as she stepped off the RAF Tristar transport and onto the airport tarmac. The sun was already up, as was the temperature, yesterday’s heat rising from the concrete beneath her feet. She heard Lankford cursing softly behind her as he fumbled for his sunglasses.

Mazar-i-Sharif,
Chace thought.
An appropriate place to come for a murder
.

She’d
traveled in the Islamic world enough to dress for it, with long sleeves and long pants, and a tan ball cap she could tuck her hair into to preserve her modesty. There were places where it wouldn’t have been enough, and God knew that before the
taleban
had gone, Afghanistan had been one of them.

Just before 9/11, there’d been a job to come up in the south, in Kabul. Operation: Morningstar, and Crocker had refused to send Chace, dispatching instead Wallace and Kittering. Chace had been bitter about it at the time, but Crocker had been right; she’d have been useless on the ground then, a woman surrounded by the
taleban
.

It struck her as vaguely ironic that here she was now, herself Minder One as Wallace had been then, with Lankford, Minder Three as Kittering was at the time. Even the operation names—Morningstar and Sundown—seemed to parallel one another. She wondered if there was a significance in that, some subtle computer error back at Vauxhall Cross that needed to tie stellar phenomena and time of day with the word “Afghanistan.”

With Lankford beside her, Chace fell in with the cluster of personnel moving off the airfield, toward the collection of prefab buildings and huts assembled in support of the military’s operations. Mission Planning had arranged cover for them as a BBC team, with the MOD in on it, of course, just to make their entry into the country that much easier. They went through without a hitch, the RAF Staff Sergeant who reviewed their papers finding them both appropriately permissioned and permitted.

“First time to Mazar-i?” he asked as he handed Chace’s passport back.

“Yes, it is.”

“You’ve arranged for a guide?”

She looked accusingly at Lankford, who said, with convincing defensiveness, “I tried, I did, but everyone I contacted fell through on us.”

Chace snorted, looked back to the sergeant, leaning forward slightly over his desk. “Do you think you could recommend someone? Or someplace to hire someone, perhaps?”

She watched the man struggle, trying to decide if he would focus on her chest or her face. Her chest won.

“If you’ll wait a moment, miss, I’ll see what I can do.” He raised his gaze, earnest and helpful.

Chace gave him her friendliest smile. “I’d be very grateful.”

The sergeant mumbled something unintelligible, then rose from his desk and headed around the corner, calling for one of the other soldiers. Chace glanced to Lankford, saw that he was looking at her, grinning.

“Wish that trick would work for me,” he said.

“Try a tighter shirt,” Chace suggested.

An
hour and twenty minutes later they had not only a guide but a guide with a car, or more precisely, a taxi and its driver. They negotiated a fee of sixty pounds per day with a long-faced Pathan named Faqir, whose English was weak but “improving,” and whose French was not quite as good. The first thing Faqir did was drive them to his home, to meet his family, and offer them dinner. There were seven, including Faqir, living beneath one roof in a modest but well-kept new house. As Chace stepped out of her boots, she found herself wondering how much of a windfall the British troops in the region had been for Faqir.

They accepted the hospitality offered them graciously, mindful of where they were and of the customs of the land, sitting around a low table with Faqir’s wife, his younger brother, his father, and his three children, two boys and a girl. Chace let Lankford do most of the talking, remaining modestly silent, and from Faqir they got what was, without a doubt, a better briefing on the lay of the land than they had received in the Ops Room. She used the camera in her photo bag to take pictures, with permission first, of course, trying to get used to carrying the thing and using the bag. In it she had several rolls of film, as well as a loaded Walther P99 with two spare magazines.

The conversation was lively, Faqir and his brother, Karim, doing most of the talking. Faqir’s eldest son was missing his left arm below the elbow, replaced with a prosthesis that didn’t quite fit. Faqir explained that the boy had lost the arm during the Northern Alliance assault on the city post-9/11. The prosthesis had been courtesy of the British, though clearly the boy needed a new one.

Lankford used English and French alternately to eke out more and more information, little by little, until finally, as the meal was finished, he slid up to the name Ahmad Mohammad Kostum and gave it a nudge into the open.

“Have you heard of him? An Agence France Presse team spoke with him a month or so ago, and said he was quite friendly.”

Faqir and Karim exchanged hasty words.

“I know this man,” Faqir told Lankford. “But he is not . . . not . . .
très amiable
? Yes?”

“Perhaps it was someone else, then. The one we’re looking for, he’s not Pathan, but Uzbek.”

“No, that is Kostum.”

“We’re hoping to interview him.”

Faqir ran his fingers through his beard, pulling at it, apparently deep in thought. “Kostum is south, Samangan. Up in the mountain, Kargana, I think. Far away. Very dangerous to travel there.”

“Hmm,” Chace said. “Perhaps we should hire some guards?”

Faqir looked at her and smiled, putting an arm around Karim’s shoulder. “My brother would make excellent guard.”

“When can we leave?” Lankford asked.

“Oh, tomorrow,
in’shallah,
” Faqir replied almost absently. “Tomorrow, yes. You can stay here,
dormez
. Tonight. Please stay with us here.”

The table was cleared, leaving Chace and Lankford alone. Outside, they heard a muezzin call from one of the nearby mosques for the last prayers of the day.

“What do you reckon?” Lankford asked her.

“He knows where he is,” Chace said. “Kostum isn’t trying to hide. Few of these warlords do. It’s just a matter of finding someone who can take us to him. Either Faqir can, or Faqir knows how to reach someone who can.”

“He’s just figuring how much to charge us, then.”

“That, and how dangerous the trip is. There’s still a lot of banditry about. Weighing his options.”

“As long as they’re not planning on robbing us.”

“The least of our worries, I should think,” Chace said.

Chace
slept in the daughter’s room that night. The girl was perhaps eleven years old, maybe twelve, and very shy. When Chace removed her ball cap, she made friends with her by leaning forward and letting the girl touch her hair.

The next morning she woke early, the daughter still asleep, and took the momentary privacy to open the camera bag and retrieve the Walther. She tucked the weapon into her pants, again at her waist, covering the butt with her shirt, then ventured out to find that Lankford, Faqir, and Karim were already up and waiting for her. They shared a quick breakfast, dried fruit and goat cheese, then made their way out to Faqir’s cab, which was in actuality a rather sad and beaten Jeep Cherokee, dented and bruised by use. Karim and Faqir both carried Kalashnikovs, and Karim brandished his for their benefit, demonstrating his effectiveness as a bodyguard, before they climbed into the vehicle and set off.

They drove out of Mazar-i-Sharif, heading south on a freshly repaired road that served them well for fifteen kilometers before beginning a steady deterioration that ended some thirty kilometers after it began. They passed herds of goat and sheep, watched over by shepherds with Kalashnikovs dangling from straps at their shoulders. The lowlands surrounding Mazar-i-Sharif fell away behind them, and they began to climb. The greenery disappeared and the heat intensified, and the earth around them grew hard and yellow, as if baked one too many times. Chace supposed that it had been, at that.

Faqir switched over to four-wheel drive, and they began a torturous series of switchbacks, alternately climbing and falling, so Chace felt her teeth rattling in her skull. They passed clusters of houses, seemingly built of the same stone as the mountains. Once, Chace looked out her window into a valley, saw a shock of green below, dotted with buds of red and pink, small figures moving among the poppies, collecting the opium from the still-closed buds. A chatter of Kalashnikov fire rose up at them, warning them to mind their own business and move on.

The mountains began to rise around them, and beside Faqir in the front passenger seat, Karim fingered his own rifle, hunching forward, peering out the windows on all sides, leery of an ambush. Beside her, Lankford mirrored the action, and she was tempted to follow suit, but then saw no point in it. This was what Afghanistan was known for, this terrain, this unforgiving land, with its thousands upon thousands of places to hide, cliffs and ravines and canyons. If there was an ambush coming, they wouldn’t see it until it was upon them.

After four and a half hours and perhaps eighty-odd kilometers of travel, the road ran out on them altogether. Faqir slowed, exchanging words with his brother, and beside her, Lankford leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“There’re tracks,” he said. “You see them?”

“Problem is telling how recent they are.”

“Too right.”

The Jeep stopped abruptly, and Chace looked up to see both Faqir and Karim raising their hands. Twenty feet ahead, four men had emerged from the boulders, all with their Kalashnikovs pointed at the car. All wore white knit prayer caps to cover their heads, some with vests over their heavy shirts, some with robes. For a moment, Chace feared they’d wandered into an ambush by
taleban
remnants, but their garb was wrong, for lack of a better word, not
devout
enough, or at least she hoped so.

One of the men, his beard beginning to show gray, shouted at them, and Faqir and Karim opened their doors slowly, and Chace and Lankford followed suit. Chace caught Lankford’s eye as they moved to their own doors, shook her head slightly, warning him to keep off his weapon.

Fariq and the graybeard were speaking, the remaining three watching them, their weapons still leveled, but casually now, as if they’d quite forgotten they were doing it. That Karim hadn’t been asked or ordered to drop his own gun gave Chace hope they were on the right track, and then she heard the name “Kostum” in the litany of Pashto spoken between them. Fariq gestured back in her direction with his right hand, then at Lankford.

“You want to speak to Kostum?” the graybeard asked Lankford. “For BBC?”

“That’s right,” Lankford said.

There was more conversation in Pashto, this time between Fariq, the graybeard, and two of the others. Finally the graybeard pointed to one of the gunmen, a younger one that Chace couldn’t imagine as older than eighteen. The young man set off nimbly, up the trail, disappearing behind the boulders almost immediately.

Fariq looked at Chace, then at Lankford, saying, “We are waiting now.”