Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition) (8 page)

An hour later, Avery discovered that
Dushanbe had an active nightlife. Near the hotels there were numerous
restaurants, bars, and clubs, with bright, flashy lights and loud music
blaring. An assortment of local Tajiks in Muslim-style clothing, Euro-trash
with popped collars and designer labels, Westerners in jeans and t-shirts, young
men from the Russian and French military contingents in the country, and local
prostitutes traversed the sidewalks and flowed in and out of these
establishments.

From the
outside, Port Said looked like a shabby, dirty dive bar. It was a small and low
white brick building with big red doors and no exterior lights. The signs
outside were in Tajik Persian, and Avery only recognized the building from
pictures he’d looked up on a tourist website. He paid the cover and was ushered
through the door.

Inside, the
latest European techno music blasted loud enough over a poor sound system to
become distorted. Young inebriated women, most of them prostitutes, in short, tight-fitting
dresses grinded their bodies against over-eager men pumping their fists in the
air and reeking of cigarette smoke, beer, and heavily lathered cologne. Local
Tajik men happily danced with each other. They weren’t gay; it was just how
Tajiks partied. A large throng of people surrounded the bar across from the
dance floor. There were tables hosting couples or groups of people eating and
chatting.

Avery pushed his
way through the crowd and got to a spot off the side of the bar offering him a
good vantage point. He didn’t know what Dagar Nabiyev looked like and had no
means of identifying him. He’d expected Port Said to be a quiet, local bar, not
a goddamned circus.

People started
eying Avery, so he ordered a Coke. He rarely consumed alcohol, never on a job
and never to excess. Last time he’d been drunk, two years ago, a rare breakdown
of discipline, he’d come close to blowing his brains out, and it had taken his
body three days to fully recover from the extreme intake of cheap convenience
store vodka. He tried hard, struggled, to not have another moment like that.

The Coke came in
a highball glass with two thin straws and packed with ice.

With a drink in
his hand, he could better blend in now. Drunken partygoers were inherently
suspicious and unwelcoming of a sober person in their midst. As he took a wad
of cash out of his pocket, counted out a few bills, and paid the bartender, he
was aware of a pair of tough-looking Russians seated nearby watching him. He
glanced their way and maintained eye contact with them until they averted their
glare, letting them know he knew what was up and warning them not to fuck with
him.

Once a stool
opened up, Avery sat down. He put his back to the bar and sipped his Coke and
scanned the crowd. A whore approached him with a fake smile. As she came up
between his legs, brushing her hands over his knees, he shook his head and sent
her away before she could even verbalize her solicitation. She pouted and moved
over to the Russians. One of them slapped her ass, while the other lasciviously
eyed her up and down, and she giggled.

Several minutes passed,
and Avery was soon nursing his second Coke and continued sweeping his eyes over
the crowd. He did a double take when he spotted the dark
pakol
hat. It
was a Pashtan hat worn by every man and his brother in Afghanistan. It was also
common among Tajiks from the Gorno-Badakhshan region. It was an obvious
recognition signal.

Damn, so that
meant Dagar had somehow managed to slip by him undetected.

Avery got up and
carefully squeezed and pushed through the sea of people. Near the dance floor,
a young and pretty Tajik girl came enthusiastically up to him, swaying with the
rhythm of the techno music. Avery smiled at her, flattered, but passed by her,
missing the disappointed, pouty look on her face once his back was to her.

The Tajik in the
pakol
hat watched Avery approach his table, sized him up, and gestured
for him to take a seat. He held a bottle of Stary Melnik, cheap and strong
Russian beer. Three more identical bottles, empty, had accumulated on the
table.

Avery took the
open chair across from the Tajik.

“You’re Dagar?”

“You’re the
fucking American spy?” Dagar Nabiyev looked Avery up and down, and shook his head.
“What the hell is wrong with you Americans? You ask for attention, coming to
Dushanbe like this and looking like a fucking American spy. The way you move,
the way your eyes take in everything around, the way you carry yourself, and
the clothing you wear to conceal your weapons and armor. Exactly like a goddamned
American spy. You think you blend in, but you do not. I can spot your kind anywhere;
you’re all over Afghanistan and Pakistan.”

Avery managed to
exercise restraint. “Are you finished?”

The Tajik shook
his head again, exhaled through his nose, and sipped his beer. “I spotted you
as soon as you walked in. How long did it take you to find me?”

“Look, asshole,”
Avery said through gritted teeth. “This isn’t my first rodeo. I know how to
cover my back, and I’ve never gotten anyone else compromised before. Jack said
you’d help me. Am I wasting my time here?”

It took a lot to
get a rise out of Avery, but the fastest way was to accuse him of sloppy
tradecraft or question his intelligence. 

 “I suppose
there is no harm done this time,” Dagar finally relented. “Jack is well and
sends his regards, Mister Carnivore.”

He spoke
slightly accented English. He was rather soft-spoken, and it was immensely difficult
to hear him over the music and voices, so Avery leaned in across the table and
tilted his ear in Dagar’s direction. As the Tajik continued speaking, Avery
smelled the alcohol on his breath.

 “What do you
think of Port Said? Anytime I am in Dushanbe, I am sure to come here. It’s
great. The beer is cheap, so are the women. All you need to do is sit here with
a bottle of cognac, and Tajik women will flock to you. You just have to watch
out for Russians. They come in here, act like big shots, and take all the women
and look for fights.” He shook his head, then smiled. “If you’re interested, I
believe there is a bottle of
Gran Marnier
VSOP
behind the bar. I make sure you have good time in Dushanbe.”

“I’m not here
for women. I’m interested in Uzbeks, especially those of the Islamic variety.”

The reference to
the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan was not lost on Dagar. He frowned. “You are
better off chasing the pussy, my friend. Trust me.”

“I want to find
Otabek Babayev.”

Dagar looked
increasingly uncomfortable. “Keep your damned voice down, will you?”

“So you’ve heard
of him?” Avery asked.

“Of course, I
have heard of him. Everyone around has heard of him, and you’d be surprised how
many consider him a hero. He’s very dangerous. I fought against his forces in
Afghanistan. Tell me something, my new friend, what business do you have with
Uzbeks?”

“Babayev is
holding an American hostage and is threatening to execute him soon.”

“Ah, yes, the
CIA man. That explains much. And what is it you think I can do for you?”

“Let’s cut the
bullshit. There’s a reward for information leading to the American’s location,
not to mention the reward for Babayev’s head. I’m sure we can make this worth
your while.”

Dagar scoffed
and started hemming and hawing again. “Goddamn fucking American spy, look how
easily I spot you, and I’m a fucking old drunk man. You think you can stride in
here and just buy whatever you want, from anyone. Babayev has eyes and ears all
over this city. You think the Uzbeks don’t already know you’re here? Goddamn
it, now those dirty fucking Uzbeks will know you’ve come to me.”

Avery was losing
his temper. “Would you stop your bitching? I get it. You don’t like me. So far
I don’t like you much either, but I know Jack well, and if he can vouch for
you, then that’s good enough for me, to a point. If you don’t like it, I’ll
leave right now. It won’t be hard to find someone else interested in collecting
that reward. You’re probably full of shit anyway.”

Avery started to
get up, but Dagar stopped him. “Just wait, goddamn it. Don’t take things so
personally. Of course I don’t like it. Top fucking CIA spy here has just been
abducted and another killed. Why the hell should I trust you people? You can’t
even keep yourselves safe. Everyone who gets involved with CIA gets fucked over
or fucked up.”

Avery didn’t
respond to that. After all, he could hardly disagree. His eyes moved to the
exit, but then he thought that maybe the Tajik wasn’t so disagreeable when he
was sober. He trusted Jack not to put him contact with someone this volatile.

“Okay, okay,”
Dagar said. “Look, I may be able to help you. I do not do this for the reward money,
you understand, but if I am to place myself in danger, I will need to buy protection
or maybe relocate. Even if you didn’t offer money, I would still help you.”

“Whatever you
say.”  

“Babayev hides
in Gorno-Badakhshan Province.”

“Last time I
checked a map,” Avery said, “Gorno-Badakhshan is a pretty big place. You’ll
need to do better than that.”

“I passed though
there on my way into Dushanbe today. I have many ears there, and I heard some
things. A local warlord there, a Pamiri, captured an Uzbek trying to enter
Tajikistan from the Fergana Valley.”

So far Avery still
wasn’t impressed. Tribal and ethnic turf wars were commonplace here. So was
accusing someone of being a terrorist and turning them over to the Americans or
GKNB as means of settling a personal grudge.

“This Uzbek
belongs to Babayev. It isn’t difficult to surmise that he will be connected to
the IMU cell holding the American, which is apparently led by Babayev himself.
Babayev did claim responsibility for killing that man in Khorugh, did he not?”

“You have
friends in Gorno-Badakhshan, among the warlords?” Avery asked, trying to gauge
where exactly Dagar’s allegiances lay.

 “Yes, close
friends,” the Tajik replied. “Taranum and I fought together in Afghanistan,
with the Northern Alliance. I know him well. We are brothers.”

“If his Uzbek
prisoner knows something, why is your buddy keeping it to himself?”

“President
Rahmon blamed the Badakhshan militias for what happened to the Americans. Two
days later, the Uzbeks take credit. Now Rahmon is trying to connect the
militias to the terrorists and preparing to launch another incursion into
Gorno-Badakhshan under the pretenses of searching for the American. Taranum is
using the Uzbek as leverage.”

Avery recognized
the name from the briefing packet Culler provided him.

Taranum Gurgakov—the
name meant wolf in Tajik—had sided with the rebels against President Emomalii
Rahmon during the civil war. As part of the peace agreement, Gurgakov was given
a position in the government’s agricultural ministry, but was later driven out
when Rahmon sought to consolidate his power. Gurgakov took refuge in
Gorno-Badakhshan. Later, Gurgakov’s band of Pamiris and Tajiks joined with the
Northern Alliance against the Taliban.

When Gurgakov
returned to his home in Gorno-Badakhshan Province, the government in Dushanbe
immediately saw him as a potential threat. GKNB sought to infiltrate, dismantle,
and disarm his forces. More recently Gurgakov has conducted guerilla strikes
against Tajik military and police targets in Gorno-Badakhshan Province with the
intention of forming that territory into an independent, sovereign state. Gurgakov
paid, equipped, and fed his men by smuggling drugs, tobacco, jewelry, and
humans across the Stans and ransoming the occasional European hostage.

The Tajik
government used this as further justification to crack down on the warlords.
But GKNB officials made their money in much the same manner. Transporting
Afghan heroin accounted for thirty percent of Tajikistan’s GDP.

 “Can you get me
into Gorno-Badakhshan?” Avery asked. “I want to see Gurgakov.”

Dagar made a
sour face. “Now that may be difficult.”

“No more
bullshit, remember, Dagar? I’m willing to pay cash.”

“Okay, okay,”
Dagar replied. “I will try to arrange it, but it may take time.”

“Unacceptable. I
need access to Gurgakov’s prisoner immediately. We leave tonight. Make it
happen.”

In response, Dagar
lifted the bottle to his lips, poured the remainder of its contents down his
throat, and belched.

Following Dagar’s directions, Avery took
the M41 highway east. Their destination was a remote village, thirty miles
north of Khorugh, where Gurgakov’s forces were held up. Dagar had offered to
drive, but Avery refused. He didn’t like being a passenger. He also would have
preferred going alone, but Dagar said there was no way that Gurgakov would see
the American if he came alone.

After parting
company with Dagar at Port Said earlier, Avery had returned to the Dayrabot safe
house and gave Poacher a complete SitRep. Poacher provided him with a GPS
transceiver that would transmit his location, so they could track him. Poacher
and Flounder would travel discreetly to Gorno-Badakhshan as backup, while Mockingbird
and Reaper remained behind in Dayrabot. This way, Avery would have operators in
both Gorno-Badakhshan and in Dushanbe, if something went down.

It was 3:36AM.  

During the
drive, Dagar gave the full history of Gorno-Badakhshan. Prior to the province’s
creation in 1929, the land was divided up amongst various self-governing territories
claimed by both Russia and China. While part of the Tajik Soviet Republic, the
province received subsidiaries directly from Moscow. Even in Soviet times,
Dushanbe had little control over the region. The province was home to Tajik Pamiris,
an Indo-Iranian people who adhere to the Ismaili sect of Shia Islam.

Although
Gorno-Badakhshan compromised nearly half of Tajikistan’s landmass, twenty-five
thousand square miles, barely two hundred thousand people lived here, less than
5% of the country’s population. With only two roads connecting the province to
the outside world, this was one of the most isolated places in the world. With
limited modern infrastructure and development, Avery thought it must look much
the same as it had centuries ago.

Dagar played
tour guide, occasionally pointing out towns or land features near impossible to
see in the dark of night. Avery thought it was simply a contrived means to
break the silence. Never one to make light conversation, Avery kept his mouth
shut and eyes on the road. He knew that his propensity for silence tended to
make others uncomfortable, and he didn’t mind if this was the effect on Dagar.

After an hour,
Dagar’s voice gradually slowed down, replaced within twenty minutes by loud
snoring. When Avery took a glance, Dagar’s head was slumped forward. Too much
crap Russian beer for him.

Avery had
started to feel tired earlier, too, but he’d chugged a Monster and devoured a
couple high calorie protein bars before leaving the safe house and had a second
Monster with him now in case he needed it. He rarely consumed caffeine or other
stimulants, so he quickly felt its effects in his system.

They neared Khorugh
before first light.

Avery could make
out enough from the Tajik-Farsi street signs to know they were getting near. He
woke up Dagar, who, after looking around to gather his bearings, provided Avery
with directions off the highway and eventually onto a rough, unpaved road that
led to the village.

Eventually,
Dagar instructed him to slow down.

A man in a
gho
robe stepped out of a decrepit hut and motioned for them to stop.

Avery lowered
his window. Dagar spoke over him and exchanged words with the man in Tajik
Persian, and the man stepped aside and allowed them to pass.  

“One of
Gurgakov’s men?” asked Avery.

“Yes,” Dagar
answered. He yawned. “Gurgakov still needs to be cautious. No one has reason to
come here, so any outsider is automatically subject to suspicion. They are
expecting us, but Gurgakov is concerned that the GKNB may be following you,
that you will lead his enemies to him.”

“But Gurgakov
trusts the local villagers and peasants not to turn on him?”

“But of course
he does. They are loyal to him here. These people are very poor, and Gurgakov
supports their village with money and food, insulating homes, repairing roofs,
and digging wells and irrigation systems. That is more than the Tajiks in
Dushanbe has ever done for them. There are other villages just like this one
throughout this entire province, and Gurgakov has their support, too. This is
why he is a threat to Emomalii Rahmon’s power.”

The village
consisted mostly of similar ramshackle huts and tiny dilapidated houses packed close
together. Most of them looked like they could have three, four rooms at the most.
Many appeared on the verge of collapsing beneath their own weight. There were limited
power lines, and many homes lacked electricity. Vehicular traffic was sparse,
almost non-existent. Most people were peasants and got around on foot and
rarely, if ever, even ventured outside of the village. Others wandered around
with donkeys in tow. Avery saw mostly old people, children, and lots of women.

Dagar explained
that there were no jobs here, and most of the men went to Russia or Kazakhstan
to find menial work in manual labor and sent the money back to their families,
or they joined Gurgakov’s ranks. Less than three thousand people lived here

Tajikistan was
the poorest country in the region. Farmers, whose crops failed due to years of
drought, sold most of their possessions, including the tin roofs of their
houses and their livestock, for cash, while children dug up rat holes to
scavenge for food and skipped school because they didn’t have shoes.

“Stop here,”
Dagar instructed. “We go the rest of the way on foot.”

Avery complied.
He grabbed his liter-bottle of water and got out of the car. Local Pamiris
walked by and looked at him curiously, but kept their distance. Dagar led the
way, and Avery followed. It was a thirty-five minute hike through the steep
hills and wide valleys. Avery estimated the temperature at eighty degrees, and
was soon sweating. The sky was clear of clouds, and the morning sun radiated
over them, the air dry and hot.

The path they
took eventually led to a long, narrow rope bridge crossing a deep river valley.
The bridge looked old and decrepit. Avery let Dagar go first and followed him across.
The Gunt River flowed a hundred feet below, its banks steep and precipitous,
with a rocky bed. A small group of men from the village fished there. On the
other side of the bridge, there were wide open fields of tall grass blowing
against the light breeze, and a herd of goats curiously watched them pass. Avery
scanned the overlooking mountain ranges. Maybe four hundred feet high, he saw a
machine-gun nest occupied by two tiny, dark figures.

They next
traversed a dirt road carved through the field. Big tire treads ran down the
length of it. Soon, in the distance, Avery could make out a farmhouse, and a
wide, dusty road leading to it. Dagar took Avery down this road. Within minutes,
two figures emerged from the farmhouse and began walking down the road in their
direction.

They met almost
halfway down the road. The Pamiris were dressed in tracksuits and carried AK-47s.

Following
Dagar’s example, Avery stopped in his tracks and slowly raised his hands
halfway up into the air, palms forward. He remained calm and showed no
intimidation as the two Pamiri militants eyed him up and down and spoke quietly
to each other. One of them laughed, and the mockery and derision were apparent
in his laughter.

Dagar spoke with
one of the men in the Pamiri language. They seemed to recognize each other,
probably from Dagar’s travels through here the previous day, Avery surmised. After
a few more words, Dagar turned his head to Avery and said in English, “He asks
that we hand over to him any weapons we are carrying. They will be returned to
us when we leave.”

Avery reluctantly
complied. There was no point in arguing or turning around and going back. He slowly
reached beneath his windbreaker and produced his Glock. He extended his hand,
holding the Glock by its barrel with the butt pointed out. The Pamiri, keeping
his eyes locked on Avery, stepped forward, and took the pistol. He then padded
Avery down and searched through his backpack, while the second Pamiri stood
back and kept his rifle trained on him.

The two Pamiris
then escorted Avery and Dagar the rest of the way down the road, around the
farmhouse, and to a large barn where another armed man stood, smoking a
cigarette. This man opened the doors into the barn and allowed them inside. Two
of the Pamiris followed them in, but they kept their distance and stayed out of
the way of Gurgakov and his visitors.

Gurgakov was in
his fifties, but his face appeared older, from a lifetime spent living in the
mountains and waging war. He looked strong and fit, with straight, erect
posture. An aged AK-47 hung at his side from a strap over his shoulder. He wore
a loose fitting dirty white robe that fell to his knees and baggy tan cargo
pants, with a Pamiri hat resembling a turban. He had a long, scraggly gray
beard. His skin appeared dark tan, cracked and leathery, and deep lines
extended from around the narrow slits of his eyes.

 Gurgakov
cordially greeted Dagar and embraced him. He eyed Avery with suspicion.

The fact that he
didn’t know how much, if at all, he could trust Dagar and that he was now alone,
unarmed, in the sanctuary of a Pamiri warlord and surrounded by armed militants
was not lost on Avery. The possibility that Colonel Ghazan was right, and the
rebels were complicit with the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, also occurred to
Avery, in which case Dagar had just delivered a third American victim to the
terrorists. The IMU hated President Rahmon as much as Gurgakov and this was a
region where “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” went a long way toward
shaping alliances.

Gurgakov
beckoned for his guests to sit down on knee-high stacks of hay arranged in a semi-circle
in the middle of the barn. They did so, and a girl soon appeared with a tray of
bread, goat meat, and water. Avery knew he should show respect to Gurgakov’s
hospitality, and he was hungry anyway, so he piled some meat between two pieces
of bread. He ate in silence while Dagar and Gurgakov continued conversing in
rapid fire Pamiri. From their tone and the few words he was able to discern, he
presumed Dagar was explaining his American companion and establishing the
context of the meeting. Gurgakov frequently glanced at Avery while they spoke,
but his face gave nothing away.

After several
minutes, Dagar brought Avery into the conversation.

He spoke to
Gurgakov through Dagar, who acted as interpreter. Without providing his
affiliation, he explained why he came here, that he sought those responsible
for the actions taken against two of his country’s citizens. He emphasized that
he did not believe the official story coming from President Rahmon’s offices and
that his quarrel was with Otabek Babayev and the Islamic Movement of
Uzbekistan. It was important to plant the seed in Gurgakov’s mind that he was
not collaborating with GKNB. Plus IMU was a mutual enemy. Or at least he hoped
they still were this week.

Gurgakov seemed placated
by this, but Avery sensed that suspicion still hung in the air. But that was
understandable. That’s how Gurgakov managed to survive this long in this part
of the world. He knew Gurgakov didn’t care for how the Americans operated in
Afghanistan, freely purchasing allies and loyalty with suitcases full of cash.

Gurgakov and
Dagar conferred for several more minutes in their native tongue, leaving Avery
out of it.

Avery patiently drank
some water and made another sandwich. He never knew when he’d get to eat again,
so he always took advantage of food when it was readily available. The bread
was a little stale, but the meat was tender and seasoned, and he fit as much as
he could down his throat. He noticed Gurgakov watching him closely each time he
went to build a new sandwich.

Finally, Dagar turned
away from Gurgakov and spoke to Avery, “He says that he will sell you his Uzbek
prisoner for twenty thousand dollars, US, in cash. His prisoner is from the
Islamic Movement and was complicit in the murder of the American in Khorugh.
His friends are harboring the American’s killer.”

Gurgakov interrupted
Dagar, and they had another quick exchange.

Dagar added,
“This man also knows the location where the other American is being held by the
IMU. He is with Babayev.”

That caught
Avery’s attention, but his face gave nothing away, instead taking another bite
of his sandwich. He didn’t want to appear too excited or interested in front of
either Dagar or Gurgakov. Besides, there was the possibility that it could be a
false lead anyway, or Gurgakov simply wanted to scam the dumb American. That
type of thing happened all the time.

“I need access
to the prisoner first, say ten minutes, to verify his story and see if he’s
worth it,” Avery finally said after thinking it over. “One of Gurgakov’s men
can be present.”

Gurgakov
listened to Dagar’s translation and nodded his head once.

“He said you
have a deal.”

___

One of the Pamiri militants showed Avery
and Dagar to a locked cellar behind the barn. When the Pamiri flung open the
cellar door, the tiny, windowless space immediately filled with sunlight. The
Uzbek lay naked on a pile of hay. He immediately jumped up, startled and
frightened. He cowered at the sight of the Pamiri militant, as if he
anticipated another beating, and squinted against the bright intensity of the
sun.