Gurgakov cordially greeted Dagar and embraced him. He eyed Avery with suspicion.
The fact that he didn’t know how much, if at all, he could trust Dagar and that he was now alone, unarmed, in the sanctuary of a Pamiri warlord and surrounded by armed militants was not lost on Avery. The possibility that Colonel Ghazan was right, and the rebels were complicit with the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, also occurred to Avery, in which case Dagar had just delivered a third American victim to the terrorists. The IMU hated President Rahmon as much as Gurgakov and this was a region where “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” went a long way toward shaping alliances.
Gurgakov beckoned for his guests to sit down on knee-high stacks of hay arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the barn. They did so, and a girl soon appeared with a tray of bread, goat meat, and water. Avery knew he should show respect to Gurgakov’s hospitality, and he was hungry anyway, so he piled some meat between two pieces of bread. He ate in silence while Dagar and Gurgakov continued conversing in rapid fire Pamiri. From their tone and the few words he was able to discern, he presumed Dagar was explaining his American companion and establishing the context of the meeting. Gurgakov frequently glanced at Avery while they spoke, but his face gave nothing away.
After several minutes, Dagar brought Avery into the conversation.
He spoke to Gurgakov through Dagar, who acted as interpreter. Without providing his affiliation, he explained why he came here, that he sought those responsible for the actions taken against two of his country’s citizens. He emphasized that he did not believe the official story coming from President Rahmon’s offices and that his quarrel was with Otabek Babayev and the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan. It was important to plant the seed in Gurgakov’s mind that he was not collaborating with GKNB. Plus IMU was a mutual enemy. Or at least he hoped they still were this week.
Gurgakov seemed placated by this, but Avery sensed that suspicion still hung in the air. But that was understandable. That’s how Gurgakov managed to survive this long in this part of the world. He knew Gurgakov didn’t care for how the Americans operated in Afghanistan, freely purchasing allies and loyalty with suitcases full of cash.
Gurgakov and Dagar conferred for several more minutes in their native tongue, leaving Avery out of it.
Avery patiently drank some water and made another sandwich. He never knew when he’d get to eat again, so he always took advantage of food when it was readily available. The bread was a little stale, but the meat was tender and seasoned, and he fit as much as he could down his throat. He noticed Gurgakov watching him closely each time he went to build a new sandwich.
Finally, Dagar turned away from Gurgakov and spoke to Avery, “He says that he will sell you his Uzbek prisoner for twenty thousand dollars, US, in cash. His prisoner is from the Islamic Movement and was complicit in the murder of the American in Khorugh. His friends are harboring the American’s killer.”
Gurgakov interrupted Dagar, and they had another quick exchange.
Dagar added, “This man also knows the location where the other American is being held by the IMU. He is with Babayev.”
That caught Avery’s attention, but his face gave nothing away, instead taking another bite of his sandwich. He didn’t want to appear too excited or interested in front of either Dagar or Gurgakov. Besides, there was the possibility that it could be a false lead anyway, or Gurgakov simply wanted to scam the dumb American. That type of thing happened all the time.
“I need access to the prisoner first, say ten minutes, to verify his story and see if he’s worth it,” Avery finally said after thinking it over. “One of Gurgakov’s men can be present.”
Gurgakov listened to Dagar’s translation and nodded his head once.
“He said you have a deal.”
One of the Pamiri militants showed Avery and Dagar to a locked cellar behind the barn. When the Pamiri flung open the cellar door, the tiny, windowless space immediately filled with sunlight. The Uzbek lay naked on a pile of hay. He immediately jumped up, startled and frightened. He cowered at the sight of the Pamiri militant, as if he anticipated another beating, and squinted against the bright intensity of the sun.
In the light, Avery noticed burns, bruises, and cuts across the Uzbek’s body. His lip was split open and his nose swollen and crooked. His hands were shackled behind his back. He had a pile of hay to sleep on, a bucket for a toilet, and another bucket filled with clean water. The air was stale and stank of human waste. Evidently, Avery observed, Gurgakov’s people made clear what they thought of Uzbeks.
The Pamiri gave a wave of his hand toward the Uzbek, indicating to Avery and Dagar that they were free to speak with him and that their ten minutes started now. Then he took a few steps back to give them space and watched silently, keeping his eyes on the prisoner in case he made any threatening moves toward Gurgakov’s guests.
Avery knew a little of the Uzbek language from his time in Afghanistan. There had been many Uzbeks in the Northern Alliance, but he was out of practice and decided to have the more proficient Dagar translate for him.
Dagar briefly explained the situation to the Uzbek and presented the man his options. He sounded like he addressed a mongrel animal, Avery thought, stern and domineering.
The Uzbek looked up at Avery. Avery recognized the absolute hatred and contempt in the man’s eyes. He’d seen the exact look on the faces of countless al-Qaeda terrorists and Iraqi and Taliban insurgents. The look still managed to fill Avery with unease. It was the look of someone capable of maiming and butchering without a second’s hesitation, as natural as breathing.
The Uzbek was at first uncooperative and resisted. He came upright on his knees, spat at Avery’s feet, and called him CIA scum, the veins in his neck and temples bulging and throbbing. Dagar gave Avery an “I told you so” look, as if again re-affirming that he looked like a goddamn American spy.
The Pamiri guard quickly stepped in and struck the Uzbek down with a couple hard blows from the stock of his AK-47, opening up fresh cuts on the prisoner’s forehead, and screamed at him in angry Pamiri. Before he was done, the Pamiri picked up the piss bucket, splashed its putrid contents over the Uzbek, and threw the bucket at him. This subdued the Uzbek and returned him to a degraded, submissive state. The guard gave Gurgakov’s guests an apologetic look and shook his head before stepping back again.
“Tell him that if he answers my questions,” Avery addressed Dagar while holding eye contact with the Uzbek, “I have the authority to secure his release from here into American custody where he will be treated humanely and allowed to keep his life.”
The Uzbek listened to Dagar’s translation and then laughed out loud, as if astonished at the absurdity of the American’s offer. He shook his head. When he finally spoke, Avery detected the contempt in his voice. The Uzbek cowered in the presence of Gurgakov’s Pamiris, but clearly held no fear for the American. Avery could work with that.
Dagar started to relay the Uzbek’s response, but Avery cut him off in the interests of saving time. “I think I got the basic idea. Tell him his alternative is to remain here. Emphasize that if he does not answer my questions, then I will have no further use for him, and if I have no further use for him, then neither will Gurgakov. Explain to him in detail what Gurgakov does to Uzbeks, how Gurgakov will have him nailed into the ground and sever his manhood and pour salt in the wound. Then Gurgakov, when he finally becomes bored, will gut him and drape him with raw pig meat, so that his entry into Heaven will be forbidden when Gurgakov finally slits his throat and ends his life. From there, Gurgakov will most likely slaughter his family as well. That’s what he does, so that there will be no offspring or brothers to seek vengeance.”