At least it had been prior to September 11, 2001. With the attack by the Al Qaeda on New York and Washington, the need to remove the Taliban in Afghanistan was self-evident. There were two ways open to attack Afghanistan, another land-locked country. The easiest would be through Pakistan, which had high quality roads and railroads and the port of Karachi to supply through. But the Pakistani people, especially those in the northern territories, were closely linked to the Taliban-supporting tribes in Afghanistan. Pakistan could provide a small measure of support, but it would be minimal, and safe basing was out of the question.
Uzbekistan, however, had already entered into various agreements with the United States prior to 9/11 and many of the forces fighting the Taliban were related to the Uzbeks. When it became evident that using Pakistan was impossible, the U.S. had, instead, poured its military wealth into this flat, land-locked, country. Special operations and air force bases had been built, contracts had been let and servicemen and women had poured into the country. In short order, the number-one employer in Uzbekistan had become Uncle Sam either directly, by hiring people to work on the bases and construction contracts, or indirectly by providing goods and services to off-duty soldiers and airmen.
And fabled Samarkand had become the target of choice for those off-duty service personnel. If for no other reason than the quality of its whores.
Mike remembered spending one seriously drunken four-day weekend in Samarkand. Despite being a Moslem country, the influence of the Uzbeks, one of the many tribes of “Mongols” that had overrun the Middle East in ancient times, was strong. Liquor was legal and prostitution was considered just one of those things. Girls from Russia had flooded into the country to supply “services” to lonely American lads and Mike had taken full advantage. The team had just come off of nearly two months of straight combat ops and, at the time, it was all TDY. The TDY pay-out had been… sizeable. And he’d blown damned near all of it on booze and girls. At something like five bucks for a blowjob and twenty for around the world, he’d screwed himself silly. And barely been able to remember it for all the booze.
Good weekend.
In response to the increase in business, Hilton had, thank God, built a hotel. Mike considered that as he looked out the windows of the hotel at downtown Samarkand. The last time he’d been here he’d ended up staying in some really lousy bordello the whole four days. Literally lousy; he’d had to thoroughly de-louse when he got back to the base. In a Hilton that worry wasn’t an issue.
The Hilton was close to the center of downtown and fairly new, which meant that something had been destroyed to put it there. Mike hoped that it was one of the horrible Soviet six-story tenements that infested the city. The decaying tenements were perfectly square, at least in design — no Soviet builder could actually make something perfectly square — and unadorned. So was Bauhaus architecture, but it used pleasing lines to create something that was only mediocre. The Soviets had managed to create buildings of oppressive ugliness without really trying. Unfortunately, they were generally ringed around the center, though, so it was more likely to be some traditional building or buildings.
Samarkand had one notable feature that was post Soviet: the Mosque. For some reason, Islamic countries had gotten into a battle over who could build the mosque with the highest minaret and onion dome. Not to mention the most surpassing ugliness. Aesthetics definitely took a back seat. The Samarkand Mosque was a grotesque building that dominated the view. The older houses, shops and mosques that huddled near it were dwarfed by the thing. It looked as massive as the Great Pyramid, although Mike knew that was an exaggeration. Baroque in the extreme, covered in murals, most of them made of rather cheap ceramic, and “gold” that was mostly anodized aluminum, the thing was a monument to tasteless excess. It was the perfect counterpoint to the Soviet block architecture that was its antithesis in style. With each equally ugly in amazingly different ways, the circle of ill-conceived architecture was complete.
Mike wondered what the Keldara would make of all of this. As soon as countries became “independent,” whether of Soviet domination or theological domination or Western domination, they jumped into capitalism with both feet. And their heads up their butts. They created the shape of capitalism in skyscrapers and… well, big mosques even. But they couldn’t create the social base. Uzbekistan had various positive factors that could permit it to grow and thrive. Hong Kong had done so with less, although they were anything but landlocked. But the concept of simply digging in and doing was foreign to so many cultures. The “Protestant work ethic” was a rare thing indeed. In cultures like this one, actually doing work was considered a social abasement. Management was one thing, getting your hands dirty another.
It was the main reason, after the Islamic influence, that east Asian countries were firing away on all cylinders, with admittedly some boo-boos, but countries like Uzbekistan were stagnating. In east Asia, everyone understood the concept of working as hard as you could to make a dime. In west Asia, it was verboten. And they still had the “command economy” idea in their heads from the Soviets. As if that had worked.
He was wondering if the Keldara could make less of a hash of things when his moody reflections were interrupted by the buzz of the sat phone.
“Jenkins.”
“Mr. Jenkins, this is David Wangen from the embassy, how are you today?”
“Fine,” Mike said, wondering why Wangen didn’t go on scrambler, then realizing he was probably using an unsecure line.
“I’ve met with Sheik Otryad and he is willing to meet with you,” Wangen said. “This evening at his compound outside of town. Are you available?”
“Yes,” Mike said. “I’ve seen Samarkand before so I can skip the sight-seeing trip. How do I get there?”
“I’ll have a car sent from the embassy,” Wangen said. “They’ll know how to get here. About five?”
“Works,” Mike said, frowning. The ways were being greased big-time and he didn’t know why. His negligible connection with the President was unlikely. Far more likely, someone wanted something.
“I’ll make sure the car is there.”
At a bit before five Mike was down front in one of his new Harrowgates’ suits, a briefcase in hand containing his sat phone. Precisely at five a Cadillac limousine pulled up front and an American riding in the front passenger seat got out and opened the back door.
“Mr. Jenkins?” the man said, nodding.
“The same,” Mike replied, stepping into the rear of the limo. The divider was down and he could tell the driver was an American also. “Why’d I get diplo protection guys?”
“Uzbekistan has a very limited terrorist problem,” the person riding shotgun said as he got back in the car. “Just a small security measure.”
“Did Mr. Wangen set this up?” Mike asked, leaning back and watching the minor sights of Samarkand pass. As he did, he did a rear check and, sure enough, there was a trail car, a Chevy Suburban.
“Actually it was at the orders of the ambassador,” the driver said.