Crocker crushed out his cigarette, feeling the beginnings of a new headache.
He didn’t know why Barclay had done it. He doubted he could prove it, even if he did.
But the more he thought about it, the more certain he became.
Somewhere in Central Asia, someone was in possession of four surface-to-air missiles.
And Frances Barclay—C—had been the one to send them there.
CHAPTER 14
Uzbekistan—Dzhizak Province—
3 km SSE Kazakhstan Border
17 February, 1343 Hours (GMT+5:00)
The day was clear and cold and bright, and Chace pulled off her sunglasses to get a better look at the boy at the side of the road.
She put him around thirteen, maybe a little older, too thin, wearing the quirky combination of traditional-meets-West clothing she’d seen so much of before leaving Tashkent that morning. The boy wore tan trousers, his pant legs tucked into the tops of his calf-high boots, coated with dust, scuffed and scratched, with a pair of slippers on over them that could be easily removed upon entering a private home or a mosque. His T-shirt was red, just visible beneath the striped wraparound cloak he wore, belted with a sash at his waist. His black hair was mostly hidden beneath the fleeced tilpak atop his head, its flaps dangling at his cheeks. Unlike what she’d seen in Tashkent, though, this boy’s clothing showed obvious wear, and she could see where both the cloak and the trousers had been repeatedly repaired.
There’d been a mining town some twelve kilometers back, built around an enormous plant constructed to heat-leach gold from the low-grade ore brought up by miners. The plant and, Chace supposed, the mines as well were foreign-operated, most likely by some concern out of the E.U. She’d wondered idly what the kickback to the Uzbek Government had been. She’d imagined it to be substantial, and wondered if the return in gold was worth the cost.
The boy was likely from that community, though what he was doing out here alone she had no idea, and saw no sign of a ready explanation. He had no herd of goats or other livestock requiring attention, and carried nothing but a ratty fabric bag slung over his shoulder. The bag, like his T-shirt, was red, but faded almost pink.
He stood and stared as she slowed the car to a stop, then rolled down her window. The car was a Range Rover, left-hand drive, and at least twenty years old. Chace had purchased it from a middle-aged man she’d met at the Art Center in Tashkent early that morning. She’d paid him five thousand dollars for it, in cash, and he’d been so delighted he’d offered to sell her his brother’s motorcycle as well. Chace had, for a moment, entertained the idea; a second vehicle, stashed in Tashkent, might come in useful. But her plan ultimately required moving not just her, but two others, and a motorcycle would be inadequate to that task.
“Assalom aleikum,” Chace said.
The boy grinned at her accent. “Waleikum assalom.”
“Siz Ingliz tilida gapirasizmi?”
He shook his head. “Yoq, Uzbekcha. Uzbekcha, ha?”
Chace shook her head, bringing up a grin to match the boy’s own.
“Men Ingliz bilmayman,” the boy said. “Russki?”
Chace switched to Russian, answering, “A little.”
“I have a little Russian, too,” the boy said, answering in the same. “You are American?”
“English.”
“You are lost?”
“A little, I think. I’m looking for the market.”
He reappraised her, his look clearly questioning her sanity. “No market.”
“Across the border. For guns.”
“Oh, yes, there is that market.”
“How far?”
“It moves. Not know where now.”
“You help me find it?”
The look that doubted Chace’s sanity returned, more amused. “Why you go there?”
“I need guns,” Chace answered simply.
The boy considered that, then, seeing no flaw in the logic, nodded. “They have guns. More than guns, also. Drugs. Girls.”
“I will pay. You be my guide, I will pay.” She reached into her coat, freeing one of the bills from the bundle in the inner pocket, showing him an American twenty-dollar bill. “For you.”
The boy stuck out his hand, and Chace extended the bill, letting him take it. He examined it with deep suspicion, drawing the paper taut between both hands, holding it up to the sunlight. Chace doubted he could tell a forgery from the real thing, and the whole affectation struck her as vaguely charming. She fought back a smile.
Once the boy was satisfied, he tucked the bill into his trousers, beneath the folds of his cloak, then walked around the Range Rover, coming from behind it. Chace tracked him in the mirrors, and this time she did smile as she watched the boy rise on tiptoe at the rear of the vehicle, to peer into the back. Seeing nothing that alarmed him, he continued around to the right-hand side.
Chace leaned across the seat and unlocked the door, shoving it open, and the boy climbed in, looking around at the interior of the vehicle. Then he closed the door, sighed, stretched, and leaned back in the front passenger seat. Chace fought the urge to laugh.
The boy straightened again, then indicated himself with his right thumb. “Javlon.”
Chace indicated herself. “Tracy.”
“Tracy,” the boy echoed, then pointed out the windscreen, down the narrow dirt road. “Tracy, that way.”
At some point early on they must have crossed the border into Kazakhstan, but there was nothing to mark it, and Chace knew that, at least in this part of the country, such designations were meaningless. Calling the border porous was generous. To the south, of course, the situation was different; the border into Afghanistan was watched, if not by Uzbekistan’s forces, then by the United States.
They stopped three times, in three separate villages, the first shortly after Javlon had climbed aboard, which he explained to her was his home. There were a handful of houses, and a small mosque, serving as the community center as much as the heart of worship. Javlon sprang from the car upon their arrival, without explanation, and for several minutes Chace waited, wondering if he was going to come back. No one emerged from any of the buildings, not even the mosque.
After five minutes, though, Javlon returned, climbing in, and after him came a handful of others, children and women, all silently watching his departure. Chace saw no men in the community.
Javlon pointed her north again, then, shortly thereafter, west, until they hit a second village. He again leaped from the car, all but accosting an older man drawing water from a well that had been dropped in the center of the square. She heard a hasty conversation in what she supposed was Uzbek, but could just have easily been one of the other half-dozen regional dialects. Returning, Javlon gave her new directions, still heading west, and at the third village, he repeated the process once more.
“Close,” he informed her upon returning this time. “Very close. They move always.”
“How close?”
The boy thought, then held up his left hand, splaying his fingers.
“Five kilometers?”
“Five, yes.”
She watched the odometer then, and after three and a half came to a stop. Javlon looked at her in confusion, and then, when she killed the engine, in something approaching alarm.