“The last time I was in Samarkand…” Mike said then paused. “Well, let’s just say that I handled my own security. And I’m not, as far as I know, a high profile target.”
“There’s only so much one person can handle,” the shotgun said. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“There’s another side to it,” the driver said. “With us covering you, Otryad knows you’re connected. Being connected is a necessity in Uzbek society.”
“This is one hell of a lot of money being spent on a personal mission,” Mike pointed out.
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve earned it,” the shotgun replied. “Nothing specific, but when the secretary of state suggests that the ambassador roll out the red carpet, it means you’ve earned it. And I doubt it was from contributions to the presidential election campaign.”
“Oh, I’ve done those, too,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I really really wish SecState hadn’t even heard about this particular mission. It’s… delicate.”
“As you say, sir,” the driver replied.
“What’s the read on this guy?” Mike asked.
“Former Sov apparatchik,” the shotgun answered. “Used his position to snap up a couple of factories and some farmland after independence. Tight with the current president, the last two for that matter. Has a position as undersecretary of the interior, more or less permanent post rather than an appointee, that he uses to squeeze a king’s load of graft, mostly in roads contracts. Gives to all the right Islamic charities and parties like there’s no tomorrow. Real taste for young womenflesh. Has a harem of about sixteen girls at present and none of them are over eighteen except the harem managers. And the harem managers are fricking gorgeous. He goes into town every weekend to party with his girls so he’s a known face around town.”
“I take it he doesn’t go into the office much?” Mike asked.
“No,” the shotgun said. “If you need to meet him you meet him at his house. He only goes into town for shopping and partying.”
The drive was fast, the road getting better if anything as they got out of town. In fact, it was just about up to western standards and Mike wondered about that until he saw an F-16 take off in the distance. The road had probably been upgraded with American money and contracts. Five times the graft of doing the same road in the U.S., and still less than half the cost and time.
Samarkand was placed on the Zarafshan River but they were headed in the opposite direction. The country around the city was flat as a pancake but in the distance there were hills and they seemed to be heading in that direction. The spec ops base Mike had been at was in the opposite direction and he’d never been in this part of Uzbekistan. As they approached the hills, though, he had to admit they looked like everything else in the desert belt that circled the globe; they were basically denuded of vegetation, and erosion had exposed the underlying rock. It seemed to be mostly red sandstone, which caught the descending sun rather prettily.
They took a turnoff from the main road up into the hills and the quality of surface dropped markedly; once again Mike was being beaten by third world surfaces and it made him yearn for one drive in the U.S. Even the roads in California were better than thos in the third world. Not by much, admittedly, but better. Well, except for portions of L.A.
The road wound into the hills and after about a half hour of that they made a sharp turn into what looked like another road. This one was a bit better paved but it wound even more sharply, climbing the side of one particular hill. As they rounded a corner Mike could see a hilltop fort and realized they were approaching their destination.
“The sheik does himself right,” the driver said, gesturing to the fort. “Very nice place.”
“Looks a lot like my house,” Mike said. And it did. The style of building was very similar, at least to the upper portions of the Keldara caravanserai.
“You live in a place like that?” the shotgun asked.
“Yep,” Mike said. “Great for seeing if anybody’s coming to call.”
“Point,” the shotgun said, looking over his shoulder. “The sheik’s pretty particular about personal safety. If you’re carrying you’d be best to leave it with us.”
“Worse than flying commercial,” Mike said, sighing. But he drew his .45 and set it on the seat.
“That it?” the shotgun asked, curiously.
“That’s it,” Mike said. “Half a dozen guns is for wankers or very special situations. By the time you need your backup you should be using the other guy’s stuff. A pistol is only good for getting a shotgun which is only good for getting a long gun.”
The gates to the fort were open and the limo pulled to a halt in front of the main doors of the house. A houseboy, actually a man in his twenties, immediately darted forward and opened Mike’s door.
As the former SEAL got out he glanced around professionally. The sheik certainly was serious about his security. There were guards on the walls of the fort as well as a couple of serious heavies, really heavy, they had to weigh damned near three hundred pounds and not much of it fat, carrying MP-5s by the door. On the other hand, the HKs were the wrong weapon for the situation. If the sheik was really worried about getting hit by a ground attack they should be carrying AKs or M-4s; the MP-5 had lousy range and take-down capability.
The main door opened and Mike was escorted into an entry hallway by another heavy. If anything this one was larger than the ones by the door. Halfway down the man gestured for him to stop and waved a wand over the former SEAL, stopping at a couple of articles. He considered the folding knife for a moment and then handed it back without expression. Mike couldn’t see any security watching the procedure but there were two very small and discreet cameras in the decorations near the far door. He figured if anyone got froggy there were at least two more heavies with weapons standing by. And for the few guests who might take offense it was sufficiently private that they could ignore the implied insult.
Security satisfied, the man opened the inner door into a foyer not unlike the one in the caravanserai with the exception of the domed ceiling. This one had high ceilings and opened directly onto an interior garden. Two men were waiting for the visitor, one of them an obvious American, blondish, balding and about fifty, and the other presumably the sheik. The sheik was a rotund guy, about five six, with black and very cold eyes. He looked a lot like the president of Georgia except for a slight epicanthic fold.
“Mr. Jenkins,” the American said. “I’m David Wangen. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
“Likewise,” Mike said, shaking the intel officer’s hand. “Bob Steinberg sends his regards.”
“And this is His Excellency Sheik Abdullah Otryad,” Wangen said in Russian, gesturing to the host.
“A pleasure to meet you, Excellency,” Mike replied in the same language, bowing slightly. “Your fame, wisdom and knowledge is renowned throughout the world.”
“As is yours, Mr. Jenkins,” the sheik said, bowing in turn. “I welcome you to my house and invite you to take refreshment with me.”
“I gratefully accept,” Mike replied. “The hospitality of the sheik is as famous as his wisdom.” Mike had a hard time with the latter word in the sentence and substituted what he thought was the right Arabic instead.
“You know the language of the prophet?” Otryad asked, waving the two of them towards the garden.
“Only a bit,” Mike replied in Arabic. “Very little.”
“We will continue in Russian, then, if you don’t mind,” the sheik said. “My English is much like your Arabic.”
“I am sure you surpass me in every way,” Mike said, looking over at Wangen and rolling his eyes. He knew that the higher you got in Islamic cultures the language got more and more florid, but he was running out of buttery phrases.