Perhaps Ruslan wouldn’t bear witness, but the bitch would, and maybe, if everything went very well and he was very quick, he could kill her, too. For a moment, he even toyed with hitting her first, but discarded the idea. The woman meant nothing to Sevara; it was Stepan who mattered to her. So it had to be Stepan first, and that was fine with Zahidov.
From his vantage point, lying in the dirt a half-kilometer or so from the bridge, just over one and a half kilometers from Afghanistan, watching through the spotting scope mounted on its squat little tripod, he felt no fear. Through his scope he could see the vehicle on the Afghan side, could see the pale black-haired man pacing beyond the closed gate. Every so often the man would stop, then raise a set of binoculars to his eyes, never once looking Zahidov’s way, simply tracking the progress of the British bitch and Stepan across the bridge. Then he would lower the binoculars and resume pacing.
Zahidov moved off the spotting scope, sliding to his right in the dirt, to where the weapon waited for him. He brought it to his shoulder, used the line of the bridge to guide his view, settling the crosshairs between the woman and the small boy. He would wait until they crossed, until they had stepped into Afghanistan.
All he needed now was a little more patience.
Behind and below him, the Mi-24v helicopter he’d bought from Arkitov—and that was how Zahidov viewed it, he had paid a million dollars for it, after all—waited, nestled in the bowl made by this series of hillocks, its pilot behind the stick, waiting for his word. The pilot had made no sound since they’d landed, apparently understanding the seriousness of Zahidov’s undertaking. His presence, a guarantee of escape, reassured Zahidov. Once his work here was done, he would board the helicopter, order the pilot to fly low and fast to Tajikistan. And if the pilot resisted or offered protest, then Zahidov would put his gun against his neck, to end that dispute.
Once in Tajikistan and on the ground, Zahidov would kill the pilot, something that he was sure Arkitov had understood was part of their transaction. He would have to; he couldn’t risk the pilot returning to tell the Americans where he had gone, or worse, have the pilot turn the helicopter’s guns on him.
Zahidov blinked, clearing his vision, then settled again behind the sight. The morning sunlight had been heating the weapon steadily since dawn, and it was already hot to the touch, burning against his cheek, waiting to be used.
The spy was still walking with the boy, walking so slowly, and Zahidov felt an almost unbearable frustration in his chest. They weren’t even halfway to Afghanistan yet, and what patience he had left was swiftly being stripped away.
Pick him up, he thought angrily. Just carry him.
But no, the spy, this bitch who had beaten him, this bitch who had hurt him, mocked him, humiliated him, she walked, letting a two-and-a-half-year-old boy’s legs set her pace. Holding his hand, and every so often her head turned to the boy, and he could tell she was speaking to him, and that infuriated him even more.
Then, to his horror, midway across the bridge, they stopped.
They stopped.
CHAPTER 50
Uzbekistan—Surkhan Darya Province—
Termez, “Friendship Bridge”
29 August, 0802 Hours (GMT+5:00)
“Good God,” Riess muttered, “why doesn’t she just carry him?”
Tower didn’t speak. Instead, it was the radio that squawked, as if in response, and then a voice came on, speaking in Uzbek, the same voice Riess had heard before.
“Baloo, Ikki, respond.”
Riess came off the binoculars, watched Tower grab the radio, then glare at him. Tower stabbed his free hand out the front of the van, in the direction of the bridge.
“Keep your eyes on them, dammit! I need to know if anything changes.”
“What’s going on?”
“Watch the fucking bridge, Chuck!”
Riess went back to looking through the binoculars, finding Tara-not-Tracy once again, still gripping the boy’s hand, still walking steadily along with him. Their progress was painfully slow, governed by the little boy’s inadequate stride.
“Baloo, this is Ikki, please respond.”
“Go ahead, Ikki.”
“We are in position and holding. Status?”
“Shere Khan and Mowgli are making the crossing, stand by.” Riess heard Tower move slightly. “Where are they?”
“Halfway,” Riess said. “They’re halfway—Shit!”
“What?”
“They’ve stopped!” Riess came off the binoculars again, looking to Tower. “They’ve fucking stopped!”
Tower raised the radio. “Ikki, Baloo. Direct me.”
“North point two kilometers, then east. We will meet you.”
With his free hand, and much to Riess’ distress, Tower turned the key in the ignition, starting up the van. “En route. Out.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Riess demanded.
“What we came here to do, Chuck.”
Tower pulled the gearshift, dropping the van into drive, and they lurched forward, accelerating and turning all at once. Riess felt himself pulled to the left, twisted around against his seatbelt, trying to keep an eye on the bridge.
“We can’t just—”
“Sure we can,” Tower cut in. “What are we going to do—drive out onto the bridge and pick them up?”
“They’re out there, they’re just hanging out there!”
“Relax, it’s in hand.”
Riess fell back into his seat, started to open his mouth again, then shut it. She wasn’t moving. Tara-not-Tracy wasn’t moving, and Tower hadn’t at all been surprised she wasn’t.
“It was a signal. Between you and her, it was a signal.”
Tower hit the brakes, hard, and the van slid into a turn, then hopped off the road onto a thread of dirt trail. The road and the van weren’t a good pairing, and Riess grabbed at the dash, trying to keep himself stable in his seat.
“You’re learning,” Tower told him.
Then the van hit a slope that came out of nowhere, and the vehicle pitched forward, and suddenly Riess was looking at two Uzbek Army APCs, and Tower was slamming on the brakes again, slowing them. Even as he did, the APCs started up, and the radio spoke once more.
“Ikki, Baloo. Standing by.”
“Let’s do it,” Tower told the radio.
The APCs rolled forward, accelerating, and Tower slid in behind them, and Riess’ mind raced, trying to fit the pieces together, and then suddenly he saw it, understood why Tower had come. Stepan, Tara-not-Tracy, Sevara . . . none of them had anything to do with it.
“Zahidov,” he said. “Zahidov is Kaa.”
“Bingo.”
“Why’s he here, what’s that bastard doing here?”
“Unless I’m wrong, he’s going to fire a missile into Afghanistan.”
“He’ll start a fucking war!”
“Nah, it’ll just be a messy diplomatic incident. Don’t overstate it, Chuck.”
Riess shook his head, half to clear it, half to try to dispel his disbelief. “Where’d he get the fucking missile?”
Tower, still concentrating on driving the van over the rough terrain, started to answer, but then the van burst over the crest of the hill. Riess saw the helicopter, an Uzbek Army bird, covered with camouflage netting, and past it, the man sprawled on the ground, looking down at the river and the bridge and Afghanistan.