The Clinton White House, on the other hand, upon hearing of what had transpired, rewarded Garret for his loyalty with a position on the National Security Council. And it was on the NSC that Garret remained until Colin Powell came aboard as S and heard the story himself. Didn’t hurt that Powell and Zinni were tight, and so Garret found himself back at the State Department, working in Counterterrorism . . . a position that became the epicenter of the policy universe only a few months later.
Riess liked the story for a number of reasons, but mostly because it had a happy ending. Helms and his winged monkeys on the SFRC left the Hill, and the moment they were gone, Powell pushed for Garret to get the Uzbekistan job. This was pre-Iraq but post-9/11, and the posting was second in importance only to the Mission in Islamabad, given the situation in Afghanistan. More, it was a reward for loyalty, for a job well done that put Garret in line for even greater things. After Uzbekistan, the Ambassador could expect his next posting to be in Turkey, or Australia, or Moscow, wherever he damn well pleased.
This was, in part, why what Garret was undertaking was so potentially dangerous. If it failed, it could end the Ambassador’s career.
And Riess didn’t even want to think about what it would do to his.
“I want Ruslan in charge,” Garret told Riess. “He’s the best bet we have going to turn this country into something resembling a free society.”
“I agree.”
“Problem is, Ruslan doesn’t have the muscle to take over when his old man kicks it. And right now, everyone back in Washington likes the looks of his sister. They think Sevara’s their girl. She’s made some overtures already, she’s indicated her willingness to play ball. As far as the old guard back at State are concerned, she’s already halfway into power.”
“She’s as corrupt as her father is,” Riess said. “She’s just more subtle about it.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Garret said. “It’s the Kissinger legacy, Chuck. The realists are looking at her as someone who can get the job done, who’ll hold the line against the extremists, and who’ll continue to support the war. And we can’t lose Uzbekistan, we need the conduit into northern Afghanistan.”
“We’d get all those things from Ruslan. If we supported him, we’d get all those things, and it’d be better for the country, to boot.”
Garret studied him thoughtfully, not speaking for several seconds, and Riess wondered if he’d perhaps stepped over some unknown line. If it had been McColl he was speaking to, he’d never say these things, but the Ambassador had always encouraged him to speak his mind. Even so, Riess worried that he’d gone too far.
“You’re going to have those ex-KGB bastards crawling all over you, you know that?” Garret asked, finally. “Even if Dina didn’t give you up, Ruslan’s contact with you today guarantees it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Ambassador gave him a small, paternal smile, then turned to the coffeemaker and proceeded to fill two cups. He handed Riess one, then asked, “You ever meet Ruslan? Before today, I mean?”
“At the Independence Day party—theirs, not ours. That’s it.”
“According to Tower, Malikov wants control of the country to stay in the family when he kicks it. Hasn’t chosen one kid over the other, as far as the CIA can tell. God knows, if he doesn’t designate a clear successor before he kicks it, all hell will break loose. Might break loose anyway, even if he does. The DPMs would eat their own young if they thought it would put them in charge.”
“Sevara’s married to Ganiev—”
“Yeah, the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior, though it’s an open secret that she’s the one running the Ministry.”
“That’s not all she’s doing,” Riess said. “There’ve been reports of her selling girls into the UAE, that she’s formed and armed her own militia. We know she’s got her own secret police force, her own courts. And we’re not even discussing her legitimate—and I use the word in the loosest possible sense—business interests, from her wireless communications company to owning something like three spas and a movie studio.”
“Whereas Ruslan has a two-year-old son and has just become a widower.”
“Ruslan’s the Chairman of the Constitutional Court, which means he’s responsible for writing the laws that his father wants written. He’s got some people, but it’s nothing like what Sevara’s assembled. That’s never been how he does business.”
Garret drained his cup and again looked to the clock, this one hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. He frowned, and Riess knew from the expression on his face that the Ambassador was doing time-zone math, most likely calculating the hour in Washington.
“Have to start with my calls.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing for the time being.”
Riess tried to keep the confusion off his face. “Sir?”
“Nothing. Don’t try to contact Ruslan, don’t go near him. Just do your job, keep McColl happy. He already thinks you spend too much time with me as it is.”
“Ruslan believes his life is in danger, sir. If we don’t do something—”
“Easy, Charles. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do anything, I just told you to steer clear for the time being.” Garret looked at the clock again, frowning. “What’s London, five hours behind us?”
“Uh . . . five or six, I think.”
“He won’t be in yet,” Garret said, more to himself than to Riess, then sighed. “I’ve had enough, Chuck. Thirty years in high diplomacy and not enough time actually spent keeping the people on the ground from being tortured to death. Realpolitik be damned, I’ve had enough. Malikov goes. One way or another, he goes. We’re staging a coup, Chuck. A nice, quiet coup, and when it’s over the White House gets to say we did the right thing, even if they’d rather we hadn’t done it at all.”
“If it works,” Riess murmured.
“If it works.”
They left it at that, neither of them wishing to say what would happen if it didn’t.
CHAPTER 4
London—Spice Quay,
Residence of Poole, Nicholas
12 February, 1748 Hours GMT
“Thought you were bringing Tamsin,” Nicky Poole said after he’d let Chace inside and taken her coat. “Didn’t leave her on the train, did you?”
Chace smacked her forehead with her palm, just hard enough to make an audible impact.
“Oh, damn,” she said. “I wondered what that bloody racket was.”
She shrugged and grinned, and Poole laughed and asked her if she’d like a glass of wine before dinner, saying that he’d opened a passable French Syrah that he thought she might enjoy. Chace followed him through the flat, past the windows overlooking the Thames, at the rain that was falling hard enough to hide the view of Tower Bridge. She took the glass he offered, raised it to his, and each took a sip to the other’s health, before Poole set his back down and returned his attention to the salad he was preparing as a starter.
“You’re looking good,” Poole remarked. “Thought you’d have gone all dumpy with motherhood by now.”
“Nursing is a wonderful thing,” Chace said. “I think I’m back to my fighting weight, so to speak. You look like hell, incidentally.”
“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Job?”
He shook his head slightly, not so much as an answer, but rather to warn her off as he added a handful of goat cheese to the salad. “You know I can’t talk about it.”