At least now he had something to do, something he could do, instead of sitting and waiting and dining on his liver.
There were Marines in the foyer, but Riess didn’t see any sign of the Regional Security Officer, for which he was grateful. Situations like this, the Department did its traditional two-directions-at-the-same-time dance. The RSO would try to lock down the Chancery as best he could, in case there were further bombings, anything that might be directed against the Mission or its staff. By the same token, staff on the premises would be expected to remain on post, where they could be safely looked after.
Which would be fine, except that a poloff, or at least a good poloff—and all the bullshit with Tower and Carlisle notwithstanding, Riess still hoped that he was a good poloff, and very much wanted to remain as such—would be expected to actually get out and hit the ground and rustle up some hard facts, instead of relying on state-run radio to feed him its canned version of events. Facts that could be fed back to both the Ambassador and the Ops Center, that would allow both to formulate the State Department response to what had happened. If things went very well, whatever intelligence gathered would be useful enough to offset the requisite ire of the RSO, who was sure to be pissed off beyond belief that the poloff had left the Chancery in the first place.
No sign of the RSO, just the Marines, and Riess blew past them, heading out, raising a hand and saying, “Be right back.” One moved, perhaps to stop him, but without the commitment required to do so, and then Riess was outside, smacked in the face by the cold. He ran to his car, a used Toyota he’d bought shortly after he’d been allowed to move into his home, got it started and to the gates. The guards had switched to flak jackets and helmets, and they stopped him, obviously worked up. One of the Marines kept an eye on the road while the other leaned down to speak to him in the car.
“Can’t let you leave, sir,” the Marine told him. Like all the others, he was young. “RSO wants all personnel to stay on the grounds.”
“I need to take a look at the sight,” Riess said. “The Ambassador needs to know what’s going on.”
Which was true enough. And Riess figured that if this twenty-two-year-old on the gate wanted to interpret his words to mean that Riess was acting on direct orders from the Ambassador, so much the better. Certainly, Riess wasn’t going to say anything to clarify the point.
The Marine hesitated, looking away, at the road for a moment. A Tashkent police car blew past, blue lights flashing, siren crying.
“It’s a short turnaround,” Riess told the Marine. “I’ll be back in no time.”
The Marine grunted, stepped back, waving him through, and Riess hit the gas, turning out onto the street.
He switched onto Uzbekiston as soon as he could, following the emergency lights in the distance, until he hit the roadblock, where the police stopped him. There were two cars, four officers, and one of them stepped forward as he approached, waving him to the side of the road. Riess pulled over and lowered the window. The officer was a stocky, middle-aged Uzbek who looked like he’d much rather be home and in bed.
“Please step out of the car,” the officer said.
Riess nodded and shrugged at the same time, stopped the engine, and climbed out.
“Identification.”
“I’m with the U.S. Embassy.” Riess pulled out his wallet. “What happened?”
The officer took the ID, then motioned to another policemen, telling him to check the car. Riess didn’t protest. The first officer used a flashlight, examined his identification, then shone it on Riess’ face. Apparently satisfied, he lowered the light, switching it off and handing the ID back.
“Bombing,” the officer said.
“Yeah?” Riess watched as the second policeman examined his car, popping the trunk. “Another one, huh?”
“IMU, probably,” the first officer told him, sighing.
“Bastards,” Riess said angrily.
The officer caught hold of the emotion, tying it to his own frustration. “They went after the President’s son, that’s how it looks. They’ve got us out all over the city looking for the bomber. All over the damn city.”
“They didn’t blow themselves up when they did it?”
“We’re looking for a couple of cars, so I don’t know. Maybe there was more than one. Maybe it wasn’t a suicide bombing. Who knows?”
“So they’ve got you out here in the cold, just in case.”
“Someone got away, one of the fuckers, they’re saying. They . . .”
The officer fell silent as a radio in one of the police cars squawked, and he turned his head, listening. The report was from someone on the scene, requesting an ambulance to remove the bodies. There was an answering call, a query, asking how many. Six. Maybe seven, replied the voice, dispassionately.
The officer sighed a second time, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and putting one into his mouth. “Fuckers.”
“May I?” Riess asked. He didn’t smoke, he didn’t even like to smoke, but it was a universal way to make friends. If it hadn’t been a suicide bombing, then it was something else, and for the first time, Riess had hope. After Tower’s visit, he’d figured the show was over for Carlisle. But now, now he had to think that maybe she’d actually pulled this off, that somehow she’d gotten Ruslan and Stepan away from the house, was driving them to safety even now.
Whatever she’d picked up at the arms bazaar, it must have been pretty damn big.
“You’re with the Embassy?” the officer asked.
“Yeah.”
“Out late.”
“I heard about the blast on the radio, wanted to take a look. See if it was like last time, in the market. You know, I have to make sure no Americans were hurt.”
“No, no Americans. Not unless they were staying at the house.”
“My boss will be relieved,” Riess said, then looked up, hearing the rotors closing in overhead. He could make out the helo’s belly lights, and from that knew it wasn’t military.
He flicked the remainder of his cigarette away, thanking the officer. “I should get back to the Embassy.”
The officer nodded, bored again.
The helicopter worried Riess. If they were using ambulances to remove the bodies, then the only reason for the helo was pursuit. It meant they had a line on Carlisle, where she was taking Ruslan and Stepan. Either that or they were desperate, and using every means they had at their disposal in their search.
He returned to the Embassy hoping it was the latter.
CHAPTER 27
Uzbekistan—Dzhizak Province—
Syr Darya River, 77 km SSW Tashkent
21 February, 0458 Hours (GMT+5:00)
Chace took the Audi off the road as soon as she could, on the northern edge of the bridge spanning the Syr Darya along the M39, turning southeast to follow the water. The Audi bumped and slid on the ground, spitting out chunks of earth and pebbles from beneath the tires. The Range Rover, for all its problems, had been built for off-road use. The Audi obviously hadn’t been, and now Chace was forced to slow in an attempt to keep from catching the car on the rocks and ruts that peppered the path down to the bank of the river. The darkness made the terrain look different, and Chace knew she was close to the LS, but was uncertain as to just how close.