‘Uzbeks. They’ve been involved in all that unrest down south, haven’t they? I was reading an article in Time about — ’
Shabanov cut him off. ‘There are many peoples in Central Asia. Turkmens, Khirgiz, Tadzhiks, Azeris, Uygurzt… There are bound to be tensions as my country moves towards democracy, Colonel,’ Shabanov said stiffly.
‘The march of Islam,’ Ulm said. ‘It seems unstoppable.’
‘And nationalism, Colonel. This is the price Moscow has to pay for giving us our democratic rights. It is not easy for us seeing our country torn apart.’
Ulm was surprised by Shabanov’s candour. Torn apart. It was an apt description of the state of the disunion in the USSR. There were flashpoints across the country as the Russian Empire collapsed like a dying star. The last of the rioting republics were constantly in the news. During his exchange, a few weeks before, Ulm had witnessed a very vocal demonstration by Baltic separatists in Moscow. But not once had Shabanov or any other Spetsnaz officer raised the issue during his stay and so he had let the subject be. Russians were still sensitive about the August coup.
Ulm thought he might have touched a raw nerve. ‘That was insensitive of me. As an Uzbek, you’re probably a Muslim, too, I’ll bet.’
Shabanov remained impassive. ‘I was an Uzbek. But now I am a Russian — second generation, like your Layla, Colonel. My family has been living inside the Russian Federation for almost fifty years.’
Ulm searched for a way out of the minefield. ‘Look, let’s drop the formalities,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘It’s Elliot.’
Shabanov shook it. ‘Roman Makhmadzhanovich,’ he said.
Ulm flinched.
‘Roman is enough,’ the Russian said. ‘Makhmadzhanovich was my father’s name. It means son of Mohammed. The last trace of my ancestry.’
They started back towards the airliner. ‘I wanted to extend the same courtesy when you were with us at Ryazan,’ Shabanov began. ‘But you saw how it was there. There were many people looking over my shoulder. This protocol is too adventurous for some of my countrymen.’
The Lenin Komsomol Higher Airborne Command School was still vivid in Ulm’s mind. Nor had he shed the ignominy of shooting the wrong target at the nearby training ground. Shabanov had shown no danger of shooting women or children during his stay so far at Kirtland. From the minibus, Ulm had even seen Shabanov shepherd an elderly woman to the aircraft’s escape chute.
Shabanov gazed at the 727 fuselage. ‘Our spetsialnoye naznacheniye — our Spetsnaz special purpose forces — could not have done this.’ He pointed at the blackened doors of the aircraft.
Ulm suddenly pictured the life-sized cut-out of woman and child. Was Shabanov just saying that to make him feel better? The Russian was as much a diplomat as he was a soldier.
There was a shout from the minibus, Ulm’s mobile communications wagon. The 1725th’s intelligence officer, Captain Charlie Doyle, was beckoning them from the open door. Ulm sprinted over, followed closely by Shabanov.
‘It’s USSOCOM, sir. General McDonald’s about to come on the line. Wants to talk to you personally.’
Ulm hid his surprise and took the receiver. General James L. McDonald was Commander-in-Chief of US Special Operations Command. Serious shit.
He gave Doyle a signal to distract Shabanov, get him away from the phone. He was still wondering what the general wanted with him, when the man himself came through via the satellite communications link.
Two minutes later Ulm replaced the phone on the hook.
Doyle left Shabanov to watch the sun set over the New Mexico scrub. He found his boss in a state of visible excitement.
‘From that look on your face, I’d say something pretty big must be going down.’
‘You could just be right, Charlie. I’ve got to get my ass up to Washington as if my life depended on it. A C-21’s coming into Kirtland in an hour and I’m on it.
‘A Learjet?’ Doyle could not contain his surprise. ‘The 1725th must be going up in the world. What happened to that shitbox Beech they used to send? Someone must want to talk bad. So things are getting busy around here at last.’ He jabbed a finger at Shabanov. ‘What do I do with him while you’re gone?’
‘That’s the weirdest thing,’ Ulm said. ‘The general told me he’s coming along for the ride. He gets dropped at the Soviet Embassy and I go on to-’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I’m just going to have to find out when I get there.’
The wind was up and it was raining heavily when Girling swung his Alfa Romeo into the drive of Rigden Court. The gravel scrunched under the tyres. It was a sound he associated with a world in which he had never felt particularly at ease.
His parents’ house loomed tall in the moving beams of the headlights. He could not understand why his father should want to have retired to a place of such mammoth pretension. His mother, he knew, would have been happy with a small cottage somewhere in Dorset. But his father’s decree was absolute and his mother accepted it meekly.
Girling turned off the ignition and listened to the rain drumming on the roof. He pulled up his collar and ran across the last few yards of open ground to the front door. Once inside, the flagstones in the hall rang out with the sound of his footsteps.
He rounded the corner to find his father fixing himself a gin from the large drinks cupboard beneath the stairs. He looked up and said hello as if Girling had just come in from a walk around the garden.
‘Your mother’s putting the child to bed. Help yourself, won’t you.’
His father walked back into the drawing-room, leaving Girling to hang his jacket by the other water-proofs in the hall.
His mother stopped reading to Alia when she heard Girling’s footsteps at the top of the stairs. She appeared outside the door and greeted him with a fleeting kiss. He had never been so struck by his mother’s fragility. Her skin looked almost translucent.
‘She’s sleepy,’ his mother said. ‘But insisted on staying awake. I’ll leave you to chat to her.’
It was a large room for a small child, but his mother had done her best to make it warm and cosy.
Alia’s face peeked out from the sheets. Her eyelids flickered and she smiled drowsily when she saw him.
He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.
‘When am I going home?’ she asked.
He brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. ‘Soon, sweetheart.’
‘What’s the matter, Daddy?’
‘Nothing. Everything’s fine,’ he said.
‘Then why can’t I come home now?’
‘Because…’ His fingers scurried up the blanket like a spider and tickled her under the chin. She giggled, but he could tell it was simply to please him.
‘Don’t you like it here?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she replied. ‘Except for all the walks. Grandpa loves walks. Why doesn’t he use a car like everybody else?’
They both laughed.
They talked a little about what she had been doing since she arrived. She enjoyed feeding carrots and apples to the horses at the end of the garden and she had made friends with some of the children who lived in the village. As she spoke, her eyelids would droop, then snap open in her determination to keep him there for as long as possible.
Finally she turned onto her side, her face away from him, and he watched over her until he thought she was asleep.
He turned off the light, kissed her on the top of the head and tiptoed to the door.