Enemy of the Good Page 5

  “And what about right and wrong? Doesn’t that matter?”

  “Of course it does. But right about what? And wrong about what? No set of circumstances outside the lab has only one set of variables.”

  “So Eraliev gets a pass on what he did to our family and what he’s doing now to Kyrgyzstan? If he gives us the air base, all is forgiven?”

  “It’s a little more nuanced than that. It always is. Values complexity again. We can walk and chew gum at the same time, and we can work with what we have even while we work for change. Look, Kate, Eraliev is a loathsome toad. My job isn’t to like him; it’s to get him to make decisions that are consistent with our interests. Today, that means getting to ‘yes’ on the base deal. But we can also be laying the groundwork for a tomorrow that doesn’t include him. In the long run, a democratic government in Kyrgyzstan aligned with the West will support a broader set of U.S. interests, making it possible for us to do more not only here but in the wider region. You’re absolutely right about that.”

  “So what are you doing to make that tomorrow a reality?”

  “Have you heard of a group called Boldu? They actually spell their name with an exclamation point. Boldu!” The ambassador raised both his voice and his glass as though it were a toast. A few drops of expensive red wine spilled onto the tablecloth. He seemed not to notice and Kate realized that he had consumed most of the bottle.

  “Boldu? It’s the Kyrgyz word for ‘enough.’ Is it a new political party?”

  “It’s more a movement. A democracy movement. It’s underground for the time being and incredibly secretive.”

  “I would imagine so, after Kyrgyzstan’s last experience with a democracy movement.” Kate’s tone was bitter and her uncle understood.

  “I’ve made inquiries about Zamira, Kate. I’ve tried to find out if she’s alive, but I haven’t learned anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Mom never gave up hope that her sister was alive somewhere in the black prisons. She was sure of it.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll never stop looking. Tell me about Boldu!” Kate imitated her uncle’s exaggerated delivery of the exclamation point.

  “There’s not much to tell. We don’t know much. A few months ago, anti-Eraliev graffiti started to appear around town. Some of it quite clever. The signature was either a collective Boldu or someone using the nom de guerre Seitek.”

  “As in the grandson?”

  “None other.”

  The Epic of Manas, a monumental poem meant to be sung and recited by master singers rather than read, was the heart and soul of Kyrgyz culture. It was the Kyrgyz version of the Torah, The Aeneid, The Tale of Genji, and the collected works of Shakespeare all rolled up into one package. The Kyrgyz maintained that the epic poem, nearly twenty times longer than The Iliad and The Odyssey together, was a thousand years old. Modern scholars disputed that figure but would never have dared to challenge it in a bar in Bishkek, many of which were named after Manas or other figures in the epic.

  Manas was the father of the Kyrgyz people, who had united the tribes and led them to victory against their enemies. The second book of the Manas epic was devoted to the adventures of his son, Semetei. Seitek was the grandson.

  “It’s interesting that he chose Seitek rather than Semetei,” Kate observed.

  “How so?”

  “Both Manas and Semetei battled the Kyrgyz’ outside enemies. The Oirats, the Uighurs, and the Afghans. Seitek’s enemies were in the palace, ersatz allies and those who had betrayed his grandfather’s legacy. The name alone tells a story. One the Kyrgyz people would understand.”

  “We don’t know very much about the man who calls himself Seitek. And he has a good reason for using an alias. Eraliev would like nothing better than to mount his head on a pike at the city gates. Boldu operates in absolute secrecy with a cell-like structure, which makes it hard to penetrate.”

  “Have you met with them?”

  “No. They won’t meet with us. We’re not even sure how to get in touch with them. It looks like they don’t trust us and paranoia has served them well so far. But there are things that we can do to help them. Money. Training. Media attention. Resources. We want a viable opposition here. We support what Boldu is trying to do. But we need to find some way to make contact with them so we can prove our bona fides. That, Kate, is where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? You have a whole team of political officers with many more years of experience than I have. I don’t really see how I can do something they can’t.”

  “I’d like to pause to admire that moment of genuine modesty. You don’t hear that often in our line of work. The faux variety certainly, but you, my niece, are entirely sincere and entirely wrong.”

  “What can I do?”

  “We don’t have a good line into Boldu, but we do have some decent intel on some of the likely members.”

  “And?”

  The ambassador reached down beside his chair and Kate saw that there was a briefcase sitting there, the kind that opened from the top. Her uncle had put it there earlier, she understood, for just this moment. It was a bit of diplomatic theater.

  He set a plain red folder on the table next to her.

  “You went to high school with them, Kate.”

  The first document was an analytic product from the Defense Intelligence Agency with the subject line “Boldu: An Emerging Challenge to the Eraliev Regime in Kyrgyzstan?” Kate read it through quickly. It was a typical intelligence community piece, heavily caveated with weasel words such as “seems like,” “could possibly,” and “assess with medium confidence.” Even the punctuation was weasly. The question mark in the title was the equivalent of the intelligence community throwing its hands up in the air and saying “your guess is as good as mine.” It might as well have been a shrug emoji. Analysts were always wary of expressing opinions too forcefully lest they be called on to account for their failure to predict the future with absolute fidelity.

  This particular product was a leadership analysis, outlining what little the DIA knew about the makeup of Boldu. The putative leader, Seitek, was little more than a name. There were no photographs. His family name was unknown. That did not dissuade one of the psychiatrists on the DIA payroll from offering a sidebar assessment of his personality. Seitek was described as a paranoid narcissist with control issues and an uneasy relationship with his father. Evidently the last Freudian shrink still in business had taken a government job.

  The analysts had some more information to work with in describing the makeup of the leadership at the next level, the closest advisors to the elusive Seitek. A number of them, the report noted, were graduates of the International School of Bishkek. The members of the inner circle seemed to rely on personal ties and long-standing loyalties to reduce the risk that Boldu would suffer the same fate as Azattyk, betrayed from within.

  The report identified half a dozen suspected members of the Boldu leadership, using the caveats and hedges that Kate found so irritating. Next to three of the names were yearbook photos from their senior year at the International School of Bishkek. ISB included not only the children of diplomats and international businessmen but also the sons and daughters of Kyrgyzstan’s elite and a few exceptionally bright Kyrgyz kids on scholarship. The language of education was English, but more than half the student body held Kyrgyz passports.

  Two of the ISB students had graduated in Kate’s year. One—Valentina Aitmatova—had been a friend. She had known the other—Hamid Ismailov—as well, but they had not been close. He had run with the jocks while Kate had spent most of her time with the art nerds and the math geeks. Ismailov had been good enough to make it onto the Kyrgyz wrestling team for the Beijing Olympics, although not good enough to win a single match once he got there. Valentina’s parents were intellectuals. Her Kyrgyz father had taught psych
ology at the university and her Russian mother was a lawyer. Val herself had always been politically conscious and it was not surprising to Kate that she would be involved with Boldu. Hamid, however, was the son of a wealthy businessman with close ties to the Eraliev government. Kate would not have expected the incurious jock she remembered from high school to grow up a political dissident. But people can change.

  There was a second product in the folder, an outline of Boldu’s activities over the last six months. Much of it was simple anti-regime graffiti, but the group was growing increasingly audacious in its political stunts. An eight-by-ten glossy photo showed two remotely operated drones carrying a banner over the city denouncing a new law requiring all print media to secure a government license to operate, meaning every newspaper and magazine would have to parrot the regime’s line. The banner read in both Kyrgyz and English: WE DON’T NEED NO STINKING LICENSE. And was signed with a stylized red upraised fist and the word “Boldu!”

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Kate said. “I don’t think there’ll be many people in the government who’ve seen either The Treasure of the Sierra Madre or Blazing Saddles. What’s with the fist?”

  “It’s their trademark,” the ambassador explained. “They don’t want our help, but they certainly seem to want us to know they’re there. That’s why they use almost as much English as Kyrgyz or Russian.”

  “How are they doing?”

  “They’re still small and they know that if they stick their heads up out of the hole the government will cut them off at the neck, but our sense is that they’re growing, picking up supporters and momentum. They’ve struck a raw nerve in Kyrgyz society. And the regime is afraid of them, disproportionately so.”

  “And what’s my role in this?”

  “I want you to make contact with these people. Find out more about them and convince them that they have more to gain than to lose from working with us.”

  “You really think they’ll let me in? You’ve just described them as pretty paranoid, and not without reason.”

  “You’re all ISB alums. I want you to get inside the group and make contact with the leader, Seitek. Find out who he is, what motivates him, and persuade him that we can help. You’re practically a local, Kate. They’ll trust you.”

  “I wouldn’t bet the farm on that, Uncle Harry.”

  “No. Not the farm. I’m betting the whole damn country.”

  4

  Ruslan’s uniform was ill-fitting. It was also ugly. It was supposed to be a waiter’s uniform, but it was more like something you might see on a bellhop in a down-market hotel in Eastern Europe than at a bistro in Paris. The white jacket was loose at the shoulders and the black pants were baggy. The rightful owner no doubt sported a prominent belly. Only one of the professional hazards, Ruslan suspected, of a life spent serving rich food to the powerful people of Bishkek and their wealthy friends.

  The Hall of the People was something of a misnomer. The grand ballroom—the size of a high school gymnasium with a vaulted ceiling and baroque columns encrusted with gold leaf—was the exclusive playground of the elite. If the people had the temerity to insist on equal access to their hall, they would have been shot. “People’s” was one of the adjectives that dictatorial regimes routinely twisted into a kind of Orwellian doublespeak. Control of language was the purest form of power, and in Ruslan’s experience, a People’s Democratic Republic was like the Holy Roman Empire—nothing of what it purported to be.

  The ballroom had been decorated by someone with more money than taste. The walls were hung with mirrors in ornate gilt frames. The ceiling was painted with elaborate scenes taken from Manas. Several of the panels featured Seitek, Ruslan’s necessary alias in his role as the leader of Boldu. In the central panel, the figure of Manas himself, the father of all Kyrgyz, bore a striking resemblance to President Eraliev. Ruslan knew the artist. In one epic drunken night some years ago, the painter had explained that he had taken the job because he needed the money, but he had exacted a measure of revenge. “I painted Eraliev with no dick,” he had explained.

  Ruslan looked around the room. The rich and beautiful people of Bishkek were taking their seats at the round tables scattered across the parquet floor. The head table was rectangular and reserved for Eraliev’s inner circle. Ruslan saw the finance minister and his fat wife take their assigned seats at a round table in the political equivalent of Siberia. It was a public sign of disfavor, adding substance to the rumors that his star was falling. Meanwhile, the relatively junior minister of transportation was seated at the head table. Ruslan knew he was one to watch; maybe he would be the next finance minister. At a minimum, his seat at this dinner would guarantee that the envelopes of bribes that were the just due of any senior government official would double in size.

  Alana, a sultry blonde with dark roots and fake boobs, sashayed to her seat a suitably respectable distance from the head table. It was well known around Bishkek that the pop singer with one name and the president were lovers, but that was no reason to rub Mrs. Eraliev’s nose in it. Her table included a number of the “controversial businessmen” who had made their fortunes by being apparatchiks at the right time and benefiting from the Wild West privatizations that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. There was also a media magnate who pandered slavishly to the regime and both the Chinese and Russian ambassadors.

  The other tables were similarly eclectic. But as far as Ruslan was concerned, they had one important thing in common. They were all pigs snuffling at the trough. A point that would be made soon enough in a clear and unvarnished fashion.

  Ruslan and the other servers moved from table to table pouring wine for the guests who were there to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of Eraliev’s uninterrupted reign. The tables were set with silver and crystal and the official state china bearing the Kyrgyz emblem, a blue circle showing the Ala-Too mountains supported by the wings of a hawk. To facilitate smooth service, the first course—a salad with walnuts and beetroot—was already set out. Once the wine had been served, Eraliev would call for a toast and the eating could begin in earnest. Ruslan had seen the menu. The plan was for six courses of increasingly rich and heavy dishes.

  Ruslan and his compatriots had a plan that would spare the guests from the excess calories and the excessive speech making. One by one, he made eye contact with the three other “waiters” who were part of his team. They nodded carefully. All was ready.

  Ruslan walked purposefully over to the far wall, where a heavy maroon tapestry hung from the ceiling to the floor. A security guard stood in front of the curtain. He was wearing a suit rather than a uniform, but the spiral cord running from his right ear to his collar was unmistakable, as was the bulge of a concealed pistol under the left breast of his suit jacket. This was an unexpected wrinkle and a potentially serious complication.

  Another waiter, an actual employee of the palace, walked by with an empty tray and Ruslan set the wine bottle he was carrying onto it.

  “Take this back to the kitchen, please. It’s corked.”

  The harried waiter nodded and rushed off to do as he was told. Ruslan spoke with such authority that it did not occur to the server to question his right to issue orders. He was young, but he was a leader. Men twice his age were perfectly comfortable following his commands.

  Ruslan approached the bored-looking guard, leaning in conspiratorially.

  “I have a message for you from the president.”

  “Really?” The guard made no effort to hide his disbelief. “Does he need me to look after Alana for him? I’d like to see if the carpet matches the drapes.” He reached behind and tugged on the maroon tapestry.

  “No. The president told me to ask you to go to the front gate and wait for a package from a Russian general. You are to bring this package to him immediately. You must give it to him directly and to no one else.”

  The guard’s skepticism wavered. />
  “Why would he send a waiter to tell me this?”

  “Do you think I’m really a waiter?” Ruslan replied. “Look closely. The uniform doesn’t even fit. But I was assigned to close protection as a last-minute stand-in. It was the best the Office could do.”

  The reference to the Office caught the guard’s attention. It was how those on the inside referred to the GKNB.

  “Why me?”

  “Why the fuck not you?” Ruslan insisted. “Listen, I didn’t ask for you to do this. The president did. Do you want to go over there and ask him why you should be the one to wait at the gate in the dark and the cold? The night shift at Number One will be delighted. Things have been slow recently.”

  Here again, the sense of confidence—of command—in Ruslan’s voice was more persuasive than any badge of rank. The guard pulled his shoulders back and might have saluted if Ruslan had not signaled him to discretion with a brief cutting motion.

  “I’m undercover,” Ruslan reminded him.

  The guard left, walking with pride of purpose. The president himself had entrusted him with a secret mission.

  Poor bastard, Ruslan thought.

  “Nice job, Seitek.” One of the other faux waiters, a slim, dark-haired woman named Bermet, had joined Ruslan in front of the heavy curtain, all according to the plan, which was back on schedule. The servers’ uniforms in the Great Hall included white gloves, which was fortuitous. They did not wish to leave fingerprints.