He heard the shouts and the gunfire together, the rattle of automatic weapons, and he knew that they were too late, all he needed to do was pull the trigger, such a little gesture, such a tiny act. But his chest felt suddenly heavy, as if filled with cast iron, and his legs felt brittle, and he couldn’t see the target anymore, only sky. He felt a thousand blows raining down on his body.
He saw his rifle on the ground.
Then a last blow shattered his head, and he never saw anything else.
CHAPTER 53
Afghanistan—Balkh Province—
1.3 Km ESE “Friendship Bridge”
29 August, 0806 Hours (GMT+5:00)
Lankford drove the Cherokee, taking them out along the newly paved road that paralleled the Amu Darya, Chace seated beside him. In the backseat, belted in, Stepan sat numbly beside Kostum, who, Chace thought, was doing a wretched job of trying to reassure the boy.
She was looking back over the river, to the Uzbek side, when Tower’s voice crackled once again in her ear, the transmission distorted with interference from the border posts.
“We have Kaa but negative on the candle. Baloo to Shere Khan, do you copy?”
Chace glanced sharply to Lankford, saw from his expression that he’d received the transmission as well, was just as bewildered by it as she was. She twisted in her seat, looking past Stepan, back toward the bridge spanning the ugly river.
“Shere Khan, do you copy? I repeat, negative on the candle, the candle is not here.”
The binoculars that Lankford had used were on the dashboard, and Chace took them up, used them to look back toward the Uzbek checkpoint. She could feel Lankford slowing the Cherokee, and that made it easier to find what she was looking for, the cluster of soldiers and vehicles that formed President Sevara Malikov-Ganiev’s motorcade. They were still parked as before, and she could see the figures that made up her retinue as the President made nice with the guards, taking her promised tour of the border crossing before returning to the Sikorsky and a quick trip back into Termez.
How long until she got aboard her helicopter once more? Three minutes? Five?
There was another transmission from Tower, this one so distorted as to be unintelligible, but it didn’t matter, she knew what he was saying. Zahidov hadn’t had the missile, maybe had never had it, and that meant it was in someone else’s hands.
She lowered the binoculars, and saw Kostum watching her, and then she understood, and the humiliation and betrayal that burst open inside her at having been played so well and so effectively was sickening. It all made sense, then, what Ruslan had done and why he had done it. Why he had demanded that she be the one to bring Stepan across, why Ruslan had claimed that the fear for his own life was greater than his concern for his son’s. Chace understood it all, and worse, understood just how effectively Ruslan had found her blind spot and exploited it.
She saw it all, and she saw the reason for it, but Kostum had seen the realization coming, too, and the pistol was coming out from the folds of his shirt, held in his left hand. With his other, Kostum held Stepan with an open palm on the little boy’s chest, pressing him against the backseat, keeping him still. The bandage around his hand was filthy and stained, and looked like a tumor where his hand pressed against the little boy’s breast.
“Chris—” Chace started to say, but the pistol was already pressing into the back of Lankford’s head, and it was too late for any move.
“Stop,” Kostum said.
Lankford stopped the Cherokee in the middle of the road.
“I take son to him now,” Kostum said. “You both out.”
“Where is he?” Chace asked. “Where’s Ruslan?”
“Out.”
“He’s going to kill his sister. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Kostum pushed the barrel of his pistol harder into the back of Lankford’s head, and in her peripheral vision, Chace could see Minder Three wince, his hands still tight on the wheel. The gun was a Makarov, a Russian pistol, and from the looks of it, acquired during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Not the best gun in the world, and not the most accurate outside of fifteen meters or so, but here and now, perfectly suited for its job.
“Out,” Kostum repeated, then slid his eyes to Chace, and his expression softened, almost to a plea. “Please.”
“Where’d he get the Starstreak? From you?”
Kostum’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t move, and neither did the pistol, and Chace could see him struggling with the conflict. She and Lankford had saved his life on the road to Mazar-i-Sharif, when Zahidov’s men had ambushed them, after all. There was a debt to be paid.
“You’re the one who sold them to Zahidov in the first place, aren’t you?” Chace persisted. “Kept one for yourself?”
“Please.” Kostum spoke through clenched teeth. “I take son now.”
“You gave us protection. Pashtunwali.”
Kostum turned his head to Chace. Trapped beneath his palm, Stepan seemed frozen in place, staring straight ahead, at nothing, young eyes dead, a witness already of too much violence. Beneath their voices, the engine idled softly, waiting.
“He asks my help for his revenge. You do not understand—”
Lankford twisted his neck to the left, wrenching himself about in the seat, the Makarov slipping from his head, and when he did, Chace lunged. The interior of the car exploded with the sound of the pistol’s report, the windshield shattering, and Chace felt something slap her face, a hot line burning across her cheek. She bore down on the weapon, hearing Stepan’s screams as if her head were inside a bucket of water, her ears ringing from the gunshot, and she kept her grip on the Makarov, twisting it with both hands, turning it away from Kostum’s finger trapped inside the trigger guard, refusing him a second shot.
Then Lankford had his Browning out, pointed at Kostum’s face, and Chace had the Makarov in her hand, and Stepan was wailing, and Kostum was falling back against his seat, shaking his injured left hand. The look on his face was devoid of anger, even of pain, just an acknowledgment of his failure, and already Chace could see him finding his resolve. This wasn’t what Kostum had wanted, but in its way, it satisfied his obligations. He had tried, and he had failed.
Lankford was saying something, but Chace couldn’t hear him. She saw Kostum start slightly in his seat, glance down at his shirt, then look back to them. With the pistol in one hand, pointed at him, Chace leaned forward, digging into the folds of his shirt with the other. Kostum’s expression tightened with anger, but he didn’t move, and she found the phone nestled near his hip. When she pulled it out, her hearing had returned enough that she could dimly make out the trill of an incoming call.
“Get him out of the car,” Chace said to Lankford, then turned her attention to the phone.
It was another satellite model, not unlike the Iridium she’d brought with her to Tashkent in February. She set the Makarov in her lap, pulling the earpiece from the radio free while using her teeth to extend the antenna on the phone. She punched the receive button with her thumb and put the unit to her ear.