It was a problem that had no solution, and as Riess read the reports yet again, trying to compose the paper that McColl would ask him to rewrite at least twice, he felt his frustration build more. What was the point? The political will to fix the situation didn’t exist, not here in Uzbekistan, nor in neighboring Kazakhstan, sharing the northern shores of the Aral. It didn’t exist in Turkmenistan or Kyrgyzstan or Tajikistan, all of whom drew from one or the other river to support their own agribusiness.
Yet another situation, another crisis in the long line of crises that Riess had seen in his years at the State Department, that had no solution.
It turned his thoughts dark and made the work harder, and he was so focused on it all that he didn’t look up when the door opened from the hall, into the Pol/Econ office. He assumed it was McColl, or the staff secretary, and it wasn’t until he heard Aaron Tower’s voice that he actually raised his eyes from his computer screen, to see the Tashkent COS standing before him.
“Morning, Chuck.”
“Good morning, sir. If you’re looking for the Counselor, I’m afraid he isn’t in yet.”
Tower shook his head, hooking one of the nearby chairs with his foot, drawing it to him. He shoved it with a knee, positioning it to face Riess’ desk, then sat down. He had a travel mug in his hand, brushed stainless steel and uncovered, and Riess could see the paper tag of an herbal tea bag dangling over the edge. It surprised him; he’d always imagined Tower to be a coffee drinker.
“Had to give up caffeine,” Tower informed him. “Blood pressure.”
“Ah.”
“Hey, listen,” Tower said. “This is one of those things that’s a little clumsy to talk about, so I’m just going to come out and say it, all right? And I hope you won’t be offended.”
“All right.”
“You were at the InterContinental on Thursday night.”
Riess felt his stomach perform what honestly felt like a backflip. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, it’s awkward, see? You were at the InterContinental, and no, I can’t tell you how I know it, but I know it, so let’s not play the no-I-wasn’t/yes-you-were game. You spent the night there. Well, a portion of the night there. In room 615, with a Brit named Tracy Carlisle.”
“I’m not sure this is any of your business, sir,” Riess countered, trying to channel the embarrassment, rather than the fear. It wasn’t very hard to do. He was certain he was blushing, and for a moment was immensely grateful that Tower had chosen to have this conversation while the office was empty, instead of in another hour, when McColl would have been certain to overhear it.
“Maybe, maybe not, but I kind of think that’s for me to decide,” Tower said. “I need you to tell me who this woman is, Charles, and how you know her.”
“I’ve known her for about twelve years,” Riess lied. “She spent a semester at Virginia Tech my junior year.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We had a thing. She works for some agricultural firm in England. They do irrigation, I think.”
“So she’s here on business.”
“Much as I’d like to say she came all this way for me, she’s here on business.”
“This company she works for, you know its name?”
Riess shook his head. “We didn’t talk about it. Kind of puts me in a bad position if she starts asking questions about the economy of the region.”
“I can see that.”
Riess paused, then asked, “Can I ask why this matters?”
“It may not matter at all.”
“Yeah, but you’re asking me about it.”
Tower nodded, took hold of the paper tab on the end of its string, and pulled his tea bag from the cup. He flicked it overhand, sending it sailing, bag end first, into the wastepaper basket at the side of the secretary’s desk. It landed with a loud, wet smack. Tower admired the shot for a second, then turned his attention back to Riess.
“Is there a problem?” Riess asked.
Tower didn’t answer, still looking at him.
No, not looking, Riess thought. Watching.
“I haven’t seen her since then,” Riess added.
“I know,” Tower said, and lapsed into silence again, continuing to watch him.
The silence turned uncomfortable. The fan on Riess’ desktop computer switched on, unnecessarily loud. Outside and down the hall, he heard a telephone begin ringing, then stop, as abruptly as it had started.
“Is there anything else, sir?” Riess asked. “I’ve got to finish this démarche before the Counselor comes in.”
“You’ve known this woman since you were a sophomore at Virginia Tech.”
“A junior.”
“Right.” Tower stared at him, then rose. “Okay, then. Thanks for your time.”
“No trouble, sir.”
Tower stopped, a hand on the door. “Chuck—word of advice, okay? Next time you’re going to meet an old friend for a quick fuck, bring her to your place, all right? A hotel, that’s just tacky.”
“It came up unexpectedly.”
“Just as long as you didn’t.” Tower grinned at him.
Riess blinked, then forced himself to laugh.
Tower left the office.
Riess stopped laughing.
He found it very difficult to concentrate on the Aral Sea after that.
CHAPTER 17
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—
Uzbekiston Street
20 February, 1326 Hours (GMT+5:00)
According to her math, she hadn’t slept in thirty-seven hours, and Tara Chace was beginning to feel it.
The problem, of course, was that she was alone. If she’d been able to rely upon some backup, if she’d had Poole or Lankford with her or, hell, even the Station Number Two, they could have split the surveillance. She’d have been able to set them in their positions to watch Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov’s home, to tell them what to look for and how to do it, to break the larger job into smaller ones and, thus, been free to return to the little room she’d taken at the Hotel Sayokhat and get some goddamn sleep.
But she had no one but herself, and worse, she was running out of time. Porter would wait until the twenty-fifth, she was certain of that; he wasn’t the problem. At this point, she was reasonably certain Porter was actually the only thing she could count on, and she’d already picked a location for their eventual rendezvous, seventy-seven kilometers southwest of the city, at the northern edge of Dzhizak Province. She’d picked the location on her way back from her shopping trip, off the main highway, along the banks of the Syr Darya, where it cut through Uzbekistan, joining Kazakhstan in the northwest and Tajikistan in southeast. Parked by the side of the river, she’d pulled the GPS unit she’d brought with her from London, taken three different readings, all confirming the same set of coordinates, and then spent another minute and a half committing them to memory.
Porter was not going to be the problem.
The problem was back in London, and the problem was here in Tashkent. Crocker had made it clear he wanted—needed—the job done quickly. For that reason alone, time was of the essence. Compounding that was the situation with President Malikov. Since meeting with Riess, she’d had no news of the old man’s condition. Local media had resolutely failed to report even a whisper of his illness. She didn’t know if the President was lingering, recovering, or already in the ground, but if it was the last, then she felt safe in assuming that the clock was running for Ruslan and his son as well.