Enemy of the Good Page 32

  “And that works?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’ll take those odds.”

  “There’s one more thing,” her uncle said. “You’re going in there as an American diplomat, not as an avenging angel. I know what you want. And whether you believe it or not, I want the same thing. But we’re professionals. I can’t have pictures of you dressed up in battle gear, carrying a weapon and standing in formation with the Boldu fighters. I don’t want videos of you handing out stewed mutton to demonstrators, or playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’ on a piano that some septuagenarians hauled in on the back of a yak. You are a dispassionate observer and a representative of the United States of America. Do you think you can handle that?”

  Kate took a deep breath and exhaled.

  “Yes, I can,” Kate said, although she had her doubts. “Wish me luck.”

  Harry leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You be careful, Kate. If things look like they’re getting out of hand, you get out of there. Right away. If anything happened to you, my brother’s ghost would strangle me in my sleep.”

  “Thanks, Uncle Harry. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  The checkpoint was manned by a pair of ridiculously young police officers, regular beat cops, Kate noted, rather than Special Police. She waved her American diplomatic passport in their general direction as though it represented some kind of authorization. This seemed to confuse them enough that they let her through without subjecting her to any kind of inspection.

  The Boldu encampment in the center of the square was sprawling and chaotic. The core of the miniature city was a roughly circular walled-off area dominated by the statue of Manas. The walls themselves were a mix of overturned vehicles, lumber, and brick. It was makeshift but formidable looking, and Kate could see Scythians patrolling along platforms and battlements that had been built along the top of the wall. Outside the walls, more demonstrators had gathered, setting up yurts and market stalls selling food and drink, jackets and blankets. The Boldu-led revolution already had its own economy.

  Most important, Kate saw at least half a dozen camera crews scattered about the square. The international media had arrived in force. There was a BBC van, a CNN crew, and al-Jazeera, among others.

  The gate to the inner keep was a van with metal plates welded to the side. Two Scythians stood guard. One had been with Kate on the prison raid. She clapped Kate on the shoulder in welcome.

  “Seitek will be happy to know you’re alive,” she said.

  “Where can I find him?” Kate asked.

  “Try one of the yurts.”

  The camp was a hive of activity. Some of the protestors were working on strengthening the walls. Others were cooking. A small group of older men sat on a carpet playing backgammon and sipping tea. Many of the people she saw were wearing traditional Kyrgyz dress, which was unusual. Kate suspected Val had something to do with that.

  She found Ruslan in the larger of the two yurts, bent over a computer with Val and Murzaev looking over his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” Kate said. “I’m looking for the leader of the revolution. Have I come to the right place?”

  Ruslan looked up and his expression was one of profound relief.

  “Katie! Thank god.”

  He almost knocked over the table in his urgency. He held Kate tightly, as though she otherwise might slip away, and kissed her, heedless of the others in the tent.

  “I love you so,” he said. “And I thought I might have lost you.”

  “I’m only free because you let Askar reach out to the CIA. Thank you for taking that risk.”

  Kate hugged Val and Murzaev in turn.

  “I knew you’d come back to us,” Val said.

  “How are you feeling, Askar?” Kate asked Murzaev. The last time she had seen him he had been drugged up and badly battered. He still had some bruises on his face, but they were already starting to fade.

  Murzaev flashed her a smile, showing off his new crowns.

  “One hundred percent better. Thank you for coming for me, Kate. I won’t ever forget that.”

  “It looks like you all have made good use of the time I was away,” Kate said.

  “It’s pretty amazing,” Ruslan agreed. “Let me show you around.”

  He gave Kate a tour of the compound and recounted the story of Boldu’s takeover of the square.

  “Has the army gotten involved yet?” Kate asked.

  “Not yet. It’s all police so far. But I think Eraliev missed his opportunity to crush us with force. The first few hours were critical, and the Special Police didn’t bring enough to the fight. Now, the terms are almost even. And Val keeps them honest by making sure the whole world can follow what’s happening here. I don’t think he dares call out the tanks. His rule is brittle and he’s afraid the whole country would rise up against him.”

  “And what about you? Why haven’t they come after you directly?”

  “It’s too late for that. I’m out in the open now. People know who I am. We don’t need the mystery of Seitek anymore, even though many people still call me that. The movement has outgrown me. And as a symbol, I’d be more dangerous to the regime dead. I’ll tell you though, Kate. Things might have gone differently if Malinin had still been the head of the Special Police. We’ve been able to reach something of an understanding with his replacement, Kayrat uluu, that’s helped us keep things from getting too violent. It’s good to have you back with us.”

  “I need to tell you, Ruslan, that I’m here not just because I want to be. I’m here because my uncle asked me to come, to tell him about what’s happening here. Do you have any concerns about that?”

  “None. I want you to do that. When Eraliev is gone, we are going to need help. And if America is willing to offer that help, we’ll be ready to talk.”

  He leaned over and kissed her.

  “Besides, I like Americans.”

  “So what do we do now?” Kate asked.

  “Now, we wait.”

  —

  There was more to it than that, of course. Every day, Boldu organized a public event of some sort. There were speeches by Ruslan and Valentina and Hamid and others. Ruslan and his grandfather rode together through throngs of demonstrators on their enormous stallions, with the goshawk Janibar perched on Tashtanbek’s gloved fist. Dressed in traditional clothes and looking like he might have ridden alongside Ghengis Khan, Tashtanbek and his hawk were a magnet for the foreign media and fast becoming a romantic symbol for the uprising against Eraliev.

  A stage was set up outside the walls and Val organized a series of concerts, both Western-style pop music and more traditional Kyrgyz folk groups. They shared the stage with the Manaschi, who recited long passages of the epic story of the Kyrgyz people, paying particular attention to the book of Seitek. Val organized a group of teenagers who took charge of shooting, editing, and uploading the videos that told the story of the uprising. They competed to see which of them could get their material onto one of the major international networks.

  There were also logistical challenges, the unglamorous side of any human endeavor—even a revolution. There was trash to be collected, latrines to be emptied, and two hungry horses and hundreds of people to be fed. Hamid took charge of running the camp and he proved to be a skilled administrator.

  On her second day in the camp, he pulled Kate aside.

  “I’m sorry about what I said to you, about your being responsible for Albina’s death. That wasn’t fair. I spoke out of anger. You’ve sacrificed as much for Kyrgyzstan as any of us. I’ll try to remember that.”

  This time Kate let herself cry.

  As the days passed, the size of the protests grew. The country seemed to sense that power was shifting, that Eraliev’s time may, in fact, have come. A palpable expectation of change settled over the city, and copycat demonstrations
occupied the centers of smaller cities and towns across Kyrgyzstan.

  Kate was able to come and go from the compound. The police now recognized her and waved her through the checkpoints easily. At the embassy, she met with the ambassador and Crespo and sent thorough reports back to Washington offering an insider’s account of what was now being called the Goshawk Revolution.

  Through the embassy, Kate was able to follow developments in Bishkek as they appeared in the fun-house mirror that was the Washington policy process. Kyrgyzstan was page one news, and the coverage was driven by the compelling visuals of the compound, the exotically dressed demonstrators, and Ruslan and his grandfather on horseback. The Goshawk Revolution was a subject for big-power competition as well. The Chinese were openly backing Eraliev. The Russians were opposed, in principle, to any color revolutions. The Europeans were supporting Boldu, and the Americans were on the fence, reflexively supportive of democratic change but mindful of the disappointments from the Arab Spring and waiting to see which side would come out on top. The future of the base negotiations was no small part of the American calculus.

  On one visit to the embassy, her uncle called her into his office for a private chat.

  “Kate, there are things going on behind the scenes that you need to know about.”

  “Okay. Tell me.”

  Harry poured out two stiff measures of Maker’s Mark over ice and handed one to Kate.

  “You’re going to want one of these.”

  “That bad?”

  “Your revolution has gotten caught up in D.C. politics. That’s not especially surprising, but this is as bitter and nasty as I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “My revolution?”

  “No exaggeration. You may not realize it, but you’re making something of a name for yourself. The secretary himself is reading your reports.”

  “So what’s the source of the friction? Is this State versus Defense?”

  “That’s part of it. But it’s more personal than institutional. That desiccated son of a bitch Crandle has essentially bet his career on the outcome of the base negotiations. He’s pushing the National Security Council to greenlight a strategy for bailing out Eraliev and cashing that check for the base agreement.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Right now, he’s losing. But that’s not something a man like Crandle does gracefully. And from what I hear, he’s starting to cheat.”

  “Looking at the policy papers of the boy sitting next to him?”

  “This is serious, Kate. Word is that he’s leaking intelligence to Eraliev, including some of your reporting.”

  “That’s easy enough to fix. I can stop reporting.”

  “I think you should stop. But there’s more.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  “You have to. There’s a lot on the line here, and Crandle and his ilk play for keeps. He’s been using Colonel Ball as his surrogate. Brass is the one who I believe has been passing intel to the palace. The FBI has opened an investigation. Success would paper over their multitude of sins. Failure would open them up to all kinds of payback, up to and including charges for espionage. That’s life without parole, and that makes men like Crandle and Ball desperate and dangerous. Nothing’s out of bounds. Crandle’s been urging Eraliev to call out the army, but Eraliev’s afraid that if he gives the generals an opening they’ll stage a coup.”

  “That’s actually one of his smarter ideas,” Kate said. “That is a real risk.”

  “Indeed. But Crandle may have found a back door. Do you remember that Special Forces unit that Crandle and Ball were talking about at breakfast at the residence?”

  “The fifty-something.”

  “That’s the one. The Fifty-fourth parachute battalion under the command of a lieutenant colonel named Shakirov. They’re the Kyrgyz equivalent of the Rangers. Real soldiers. Ball has been working with the Fifty-fourth for the last two years, and he and Shakirov are close. Crandle has reportedly ordered Brass to persuade Shakirov to use his troops to crush the Goshawk Revolution and kill Usenov even without a direct order from the president.”

  “And if that triggers the coup?”

  “Then Crandle still wins. Shakirov would be high in the coup government and he would be inclined to give Crandle the base deal as payback.”

  “So is Brass making any progress with Shakirov?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s disappeared, Kate. And I don’t know where he is.”

  31

  It’s time.”

  Ruslan pointed to the north end of the square, where five armored personnel carriers were lined up and pointed straight at the gate of Boldu’s compound. The Special Police were a paramilitary force and they used APCs to provide security at major events. Sometimes they mounted water cannons on the roofs to help pacify unruly crowds. But the Special Police APCs were painted dark blue. These were green. The army had come out to play.

  “Is that the Fifty-fourth?” Ruslan asked Nogoev, who was standing next to him on the rickety observation platform.

  Nogoev looked through his binoculars.

  “I can’t see the markings of the vehicles. It’s too dark. But I’d bet money it’s Shakirov. That man has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He’s planning to ram the gate and he doesn’t care if we know it. Overconfidence kills.”

  “Watch yourself then, Daniar. We don’t want to fall into that same trap. We know they’re coming, and the plan is solid. But they still outgun us by a lot.”

  “Then let’s do what we can to make sure that this doesn’t become a gunfight.”

  They had had almost two days to prepare. Kate had passed on the warning from the Americans about Shakirov and their own renegade colonel. Nogoev knew Shakirov. He had been one of the young soldiers under his command in Afghanistan, where he had a reputation for being brave but was also impetuous to the point of foolhardy.

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Everything’s in place. I’ll make a sweep and check on the disposition of our forces.”

  “Such as they are,” Ruslan said.

  “Such as they are,” Nogoev agreed.

  “Do you think Kayrat uluu will do as he promised?”

  “He had better or we’re all dead.”

  The masses of Kyrgyz camped outside the gate made it impossible for the APCs to run straight at the compound. The police worked to open a corridor for the army unit, but it took time, almost an hour, before there was a clear path.

  Ruslan took advantage of the time to review the defenses and to steal a few minutes with Kate.

  “I think you should get out of the compound before this begins,” Ruslan told her. “I don’t know what’s going to happen here or how violent it’s going to get. But people are going to die tonight. And I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  “I’ll do what I can not to disappoint you on that score. But I’m not leaving. I’m going to help Val with the video equipment. If Shakirov knows that he’s being filmed, it may encourage him to pull his punches, even a little.”

  “I can’t stay with you, Kate. Nogoev can handle the Scythians. But I need to be with the people. This is about them.”

  “I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Their kiss was tender and sweet and Ruslan hoped that it would not be their last.

  —

  The APCs drove forward down the path that the Special Police had cleared for them. Soldiers in green and gray urban camouflage ran alongside the vehicles. Ruslan and Nogoev watched from the observation platform. Nogoev spoke into the radio he used to communicate with his squad leaders.

  “They’re coming. Hold your fire. Patience.”

  “How many of them are there?” Ruslan asked.

  “The Fifth-fourth is only about two hundred men total.
I’d say there’s about a hundred here tonight.”

  The lead APC had a steel ram welded to the nose and it crashed into the side of the van at what looked to Ruslan like at least fifty kilometers an hour. The speed concentrated too much force at the point of impact, and rather than push the gate aside, the ram punched through the wall of the van and got stuck. The APC was a sitting duck.

  “Not yet,” Nogoev said into the radio. “Wait. Let them in.”

  The six oversize wheels of the APC spun on the concrete and Ruslan could smell the burning rubber. Gradually, the vehicle got traction and it bulled the overloaded van forward into the compound. A second APC and scores of soldiers on foot followed. A third vehicle maneuvered to get through the gate.

  “Execute. Now. Now. Now.” Nogoev did not shout the order. It was delivered with an icy calm. But the reaction was almost instantaneous.

  The base of the Manas statue exploded. Shards of brick and marble went flying in every direction. The Scythians and the other Boldu supporters knew to take cover, but Ruslan saw at least four soldiers go down as the stone shrapnel whipped through the compound. The statue itself teetered for a moment and then fell forward, with the giant bronze Manas on his horse leading one last charge.

  The bomb maker that Murzaev had found had only one hand. This was not especially encouraging, but he insisted that he had lost the hand in the gears of a conveyer belt and not to the explosive charges he handled for a nickel-mining operation in Kazakhstan. His partner in the operation was a civil engineer, and the two had bickered about the size and placement of the charges, with the engineer relying on math and the miner on gut instinct. They had finally reached an agreement, and whatever compromise they had settled on proved now to be just right.