Peter's eyes fluttered open, and his tongue, swollen and gray, darted out to lick his cracked lips. With what looked like painful effort, he turned his head to face Fisher.
It took everything Fisher had not to react, and at that moment he knew regardless of whatever diagnosis Seltkins came up with, Peter was a dead man.
Peter's hair, once thick and black, had fallen out in clumps, leaving behind a jigsaw puzzle of pale, blue-veined skull. What little hair remained looked brittle and had turned yellow white. His face was shrunken, and the skin, paper-thin and nearly translucent, clung to his cheek and jawbones as though his face had been shrink-wrapped. His eyes, once a deep blue, had been leached of all color save a tracery of ruptured, bloody capillaries. His pupils were black pinpricks. The tendons and veins and arteries bulged from the flesh of his neck; it looked like a pair of skeletal hands had encircled his throat and were precariously holding his head in place. No Hollywood special effects wizard could have created what Peter's face had become.
Peter's eyes stared vacantly at Fisher for a long five seconds before Fisher saw even the barest flicker of recognition. Peter opened his mouth, revealing blackened gums, and whispered something. Fisher knelt beside the bed, took Peter's hand and gave it a squeeze, and leaned in closer to hear. Peter's fingertips were scraped raw, the nails on several of them torn away.
"What, Peter? Say it again."
". . . to see you again, mudack."
FISHERspent ten more minutes with Peter before he drifted into unconsciousness. Fisher signaled that he was ready to come out, and the same nurses processed him through the airlocks, helped him out of the biohazard suit, then left him to change in the locker room. Five minutes later he was back with Lambert and Dr. Seltkins.
"How long has he got?" Fisher asked.
"Difficult to say."
"Try," Fisher said with a little steel in his voice.
Seltkins spread his hands. "Days. Three at most. Whatever diagnosis we come up with won't matter. He's already in advanced multiple organ failure; we're past the point of no return there. The best we can do is keep him comfortable."
"Do that," Fisher said. "I'll be back."
Fisher and Lambert turned to leave, but Seltkins stopped them with a question. "If you don't mind . . . I saw you holding his hand. Are you family or a friend?"
Fisher paused a few moments, looking at the floor. "A little of both, I guess. He's my brother."
5
ALATAU MOUNTAINS, KYRGYZSTAN
OMURBAIspoke to the troops for a full hour, whipping them into a frenzy for what he proclaimed would be a "new day for the Kyrgyz people, for Islam, and for the ways of their forefathers," then dismissed them to celebrate.
With AK-47s and chants for both their resurrected leader and for Allah, Omurbai retired to a tent with Samet and the three most powerful warlords that together represented the thirty-two sanjira, or tribes, in Kyrgyzstan. These men, along with Samet, had kept the KRLA alive in Omurbai's absence. The tent was long and rectangular, its walls lined with heavy tapestries and piled high with trunks and ammunition cases, the floor covered in thick, overlapping rugs of various sizes. At the center of the tent was a scarred mahogany table surrounded by five chairs, and aligned above the table, three hissing kerosene lanterns. Charcoal braziers stood burning in each corner of the tent to ward off the chilled mountain air.
Omurbai took his seat at the head of the table and gestured for the others to sit. As was his place, Samet took the chair to Omurbai's immediate right. Servants entered the tent and placed before each man a ceramic mug and a steaming carafe of warm chalap.
Omurbai smiled and gestured for them to drink.
These four men represented not only the bulk of the KRLA's fighting force but also, as Omurbai had drummed into them, the heart of the Kyrgyz people--the true Kyrgyz people--the Sary Bagysh, the Solto, the Bugu, the Adygene, the Dungan, the Uygur--those of pure blood, those who had resisted the "Soviet infection" and resisted still the "insidious disease of Western materialism and modernity that poisons our land." These were favorite topics of Omurbai's, but they were more than simply rallying slogans. They were, he promised, the greatest enemy to the future of the Kyrgyz homeland and of Islam itself.
Omurbai waited until each man at the table had drunk from his cup; then he spoke.
"Brothers, it is good to be home. Good to see your faces again and feel the air of our homeland in my lungs once again. We have much to discuss, but I assume you have questions for me, so let us address those now."
There was silence around the table for a few seconds, and then one of the warlords, the leader of the combined southern, or Ich Kylyk, tribes, spoke up. "My khan, forgive me, but how is it you are alive? We watched you die."
Omurbai smiled. "A worthy question to begin with. You saw an illusion, my old friend. I had long foreseen the betrayal that led to my capture and was prepared for it. The man you saw die was a loyal son of Kyrgyzstan who volunteered for martyrdom." Omurbai chuckled softly. "The fact that he shared my fine and handsome features was the will of Allah."
There were returning chuckles from around the table.
Another warlord spoke up. "Where have you been? Could you not have trusted us with your secret?"
"As for your first question, the friends of the Kyrgyz people are legion. And to your second question, trust was never the issue, my friend. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I knew our homeland would remain safe in your hands--all of your hands--until I returned. Silence was a necessary evil, and soon you'll see why.
"The new future of the Kyrgyz people begins today, with my return and with your continued loyalty. In a matter of weeks, by the grace of Allah, our homeland will be returned to us and set back on the one true course."
"And what is this course?" the other warlord asked.
"The ways of old," Omurbai replied. "The ways of Manas, before our land was polluted by immorality and technology and Western thought. I've watched from afar, my old friends. I've seen the disease spreading across our country, starting in the cities with billboards and flashing signs and dancing. Our people have lost their way, but I tell you this: With my return I bring the cure."
"And this is?"
Omurbai waggled a finger at him as though admonishing a child. "Patience. All will soon be made clear." Omurbai sat back in his chair and silently stared at each man in turn, then suddenly slapped both palms on the table. One of the chalapcarafes tipped over, spilling its contents on the tablecloth.
"To other business," Omurbai announced. He stood up and began walking around the table, placing a hand on each warlord's shoulder in turn, finally stopping behind Samet. "As you know, Samet here has faithfully stood in my place since my departure. You've followed him loyally, and for that I thank you. The Kyrgyz people--those from the Land of Forty Tribes, thank you. However, I am disappointed in you."
Omurbai had stopped behind Samet's chair with both hands resting on his shoulders.
"Why, my khan?" asked the Ich Kylykwarlord.
"As I told you now and I've told you before, the disease that infects our country is insidious. No one is immune. Not you, not me, not the most hardened and loyal soldier. Even Samet here, loyal Kyrgyz that he is, has faltered. Isn't that true, Samet?"