He spoke slightly accented English. He was rather soft-spoken, and it was immensely difficult to hear him over the music and voices, so Avery leaned in across the table and tilted his ear in Dagar’s direction. As the Tajik continued speaking, Avery smelled the alcohol on his breath.
“What do you think of Port Said? Anytime I am in Dushanbe, I am sure to come here. It’s great. The beer is cheap, so are the women. All you need to do is sit here with a bottle of cognac, and Tajik women will flock to you. You just have to watch out for Russians. They come in here, act like big shots, and take all the women and look for fights.” He shook his head, then smiled. “If you’re interested, I believe there is a bottle of Gran Marnier VSOP behind the bar. I make sure you have good time in Dushanbe.”
“I’m not here for women. I’m interested in Uzbeks, especially those of the Islamic variety.”
The reference to the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan was not lost on Dagar. He frowned. “You are better off chasing the pussy, my friend. Trust me.”
“I want to find Otabek Babayev.”
Dagar looked increasingly uncomfortable. “Keep your damned voice down, will you?”
“So you’ve heard of him?” Avery asked.
“Of course, I have heard of him. Everyone around has heard of him, and you’d be surprised how many consider him a hero. He’s very dangerous. I fought against his forces in Afghanistan. Tell me something, my new friend, what business do you have with Uzbeks?”
“Babayev is holding an American hostage and is threatening to execute him soon.”
“Ah, yes, the CIA man. That explains much. And what is it you think I can do for you?”
“Let’s cut the bullshit. There’s a reward for information leading to the American’s location, not to mention the reward for Babayev’s head. I’m sure we can make this worth your while.”
Dagar scoffed and started hemming and hawing again. “Goddamn fucking American spy, look how easily I spot you, and I’m a fucking old drunk man. You think you can stride in here and just buy whatever you want, from anyone. Babayev has eyes and ears all over this city. You think the Uzbeks don’t already know you’re here? Goddamn it, now those dirty fucking Uzbeks will know you’ve come to me.”
Avery was losing his temper. “Would you stop your bitching? I get it. You don’t like me. So far I don’t like you much either, but I know Jack well, and if he can vouch for you, then that’s good enough for me, to a point. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave right now. It won’t be hard to find someone else interested in collecting that reward. You’re probably full of shit anyway.”
Avery started to get up, but Dagar stopped him. “Just wait, goddamn it. Don’t take things so personally. Of course I don’t like it. Top fucking CIA spy here has just been abducted and another killed. Why the hell should I trust you people? You can’t even keep yourselves safe. Everyone who gets involved with CIA gets fucked over or fucked up.”
Avery didn’t respond to that. After all, he could hardly disagree. His eyes moved to the exit, but then he thought that maybe the Tajik wasn’t so disagreeable when he was sober. He trusted Jack not to put him contact with someone this volatile.
“Okay, okay,” Dagar said. “Look, I may be able to help you. I do not do this for the reward money, you understand, but if I am to place myself in danger, I will need to buy protection or maybe relocate. Even if you didn’t offer money, I would still help you.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Babayev hides in Gorno-Badakhshan Province.”
“Last time I checked a map,” Avery said, “Gorno-Badakhshan is a pretty big place. You’ll need to do better than that.”
“I passed though there on my way into Dushanbe today. I have many ears there, and I heard some things. A local warlord there, a Pamiri, captured an Uzbek trying to enter Tajikistan from the Fergana Valley.”
So far Avery still wasn’t impressed. Tribal and ethnic turf wars were commonplace here. So was accusing someone of being a terrorist and turning them over to the Americans or GKNB as means of settling a personal grudge.
“This Uzbek belongs to Babayev. It isn’t difficult to surmise that he will be connected to the IMU cell holding the American, which is apparently led by Babayev himself. Babayev did claim responsibility for killing that man in Khorugh, did he not?”
“You have friends in Gorno-Badakhshan, among the warlords?” Avery asked, trying to gauge where exactly Dagar’s allegiances lay.
“Yes, close friends,” the Tajik replied. “Taranum and I fought together in Afghanistan, with the Northern Alliance. I know him well. We are brothers.”
“If his Uzbek prisoner knows something, why is your buddy keeping it to himself?”
“President Rahmon blamed the Badakhshan militias for what happened to the Americans. Two days later, the Uzbeks take credit. Now Rahmon is trying to connect the militias to the terrorists and preparing to launch another incursion into Gorno-Badakhshan under the pretenses of searching for the American. Taranum is using the Uzbek as leverage.”
Avery recognized the name from the briefing packet Culler provided him.
Taranum Gurgakov — the name meant wolf in Tajik — had sided with the rebels against President Emomalii Rahmon during the civil war. As part of the peace agreement, Gurgakov was given a position in the government’s agricultural ministry, but was later driven out when Rahmon sought to consolidate his power. Gurgakov took refuge in Gorno-Badakhshan. Later, Gurgakov’s band of Pamiris and Tajiks joined with the Northern Alliance against the Taliban.
When Gurgakov returned to his home in Gorno-Badakhshan Province, the government in Dushanbe immediately saw him as a potential threat. GKNB sought to infiltrate, dismantle, and disarm his forces. More recently Gurgakov has conducted guerilla strikes against Tajik military and police targets in Gorno-Badakhshan Province with the intention of forming that territory into an independent, sovereign state. Gurgakov paid, equipped, and fed his men by smuggling drugs, tobacco, jewelry, and humans across the Stans and ransoming the occasional European hostage.
The Tajik government used this as further justification to crack down on the warlords. But GKNB officials made their money in much the same manner. Transporting Afghan heroin accounted for thirty percent of Tajikistan’s GDP.
“Can you get me into Gorno-Badakhshan?” Avery asked. “I want to see Gurgakov.”
Dagar made a sour face. “Now that may be difficult.”
“No more bullshit, remember, Dagar? I’m willing to pay cash.”
“Okay, okay,” Dagar replied. “I will try to arrange it, but it may take time.”
“Unacceptable. I need access to Gurgakov’s prisoner immediately. We leave tonight. Make it happen.”
In response, Dagar lifted the bottle to his lips, poured the remainder of its contents down his throat, and belched.
NINE
Following Dagar’s directions, Avery took the M41 highway east. Their destination was a remote village, thirty miles north of Khorugh, where Gurgakov’s forces were held up. Dagar had offered to drive, but Avery refused. He didn’t like being a passenger. He also would have preferred going alone, but Dagar said there was no way that Gurgakov would see the American if he came alone.
After parting company with Dagar at Port Said earlier, Avery had returned to the Dayrabot safe house and gave Poacher a complete SitRep. Poacher provided him with a GPS transceiver that would transmit his location, so they could track him. Poacher and Flounder would travel discreetly to Gorno-Badakhshan as backup, while Mockingbird and Reaper remained behind in Dayrabot. This way, Avery would have operators in both Gorno-Badakhshan and in Dushanbe, if something went down.