Dagar translated again.
Avery watched as the smirk quickly vanished from the Uzbek’s face.
“But first, he needs to tell me where the American is being held. He does that for me, and if I can confirm he is not lying, then I will guarantee his safety and release from Gurgakov. If he’s really helpful, CIA might even be convinced to let him go. But I need his answer right now. If he refuses or plays any games, then I will stand aside and allow Gurgakov to have his way with him. This is his only chance.”
Avery waited patiently for the translation and then the response from Dagar. “He said that he will cooperate with you, as long as you take him away from this infidel barbarian.”
“Good. I thought we’d arrive at an understanding.”
Avery had a litany of follow-up questions, to confirm the Uzbek was indeed telling the truth and put together the missing pieces of how Otabek Babayev’s forces had identified Cramer and lifted him, but he neared the end of his allotted ten minutes. So he used his remaining ninety-seven seconds to get to the most important bit.
“Ask him where the American is being held.”
The Uzbek gave Avery a detailed location and drew a map of the village on pencil and paper provided by Avery.
“I know this pace,” Dagar said. “It is not safe. For the people there, the civil never needed. You shouldn’t go alone.”
The guard yelled out that their time was up and stepped in to lock the cellar once more.
Avery stepped several feet away from the cellar, out of earshot of the others. Keeping an eye on Dagar and the Uzbek, he took out his phone and placed a call to Poacher.
TEN
The target house was located in a village called Yazgulam, approximately forty-five miles northwest of Gurgakov’s farm.
Avery had told Gurgakov that he needed to make logistical arrangements and would return within the next two days with the $20,000. Dagar remained behind in the village and would take Avery or an American representative to Gurgakov once he returned. Gurgakov appeared wary, but accepted this arrangement. Avery thought that soon as he left, Gurgakov would probably leave, too, and relocate to another hiding spot.
Avery rendezvoused with Sideshow in Yazgulam at 3:47PM. Poacher and Reaper had reached the village first and already had eyes on the target for over an hour, but had nothing to report when Avery arrived.
While Dushanbe had its fair share of Westerners, the three Americans definitely stood out here, especially to members of an IMU cell who’d keep their eyes open for anyone who didn’t belong. Just driving in from the outskirts of the city, a group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot had paused their game to watch Avery drive past
It wouldn’t be too difficult to blend in, though. Most of the people here were Yazgul, an ethnic group indigenous only to Tajikistan. Like Pamiri Tajiks, the Yazgul people were fair skinned and had light, even blond, hair. Avery and the Sideshow operators had already thrown on chapan cloaks or kameez robes that they’d picked up in a marketplace over their clothing. Like most men here, Poacher and Flounder both sported unkempt beards.
But looking the part was only a small part of blending in. A lot of it came down to having the right attitude and acting like they belonged, which meant moving with confidence and purpose and looking like they knew exactly where they were going.
The problem was Yazgulam was pretty desolate and near abandoned. There weren’t many people about. Whether they were Tajik or Pamiri travelers passing through, or Americans, any outsiders would stand out and draw scrutiny, and word probably spread quickly around here. The crowded sidewalks and busy streets of Dushanbe would have been preferred.
Yazgulam was one of the poorest places in the entire country, having been hit especially hard during the Tajik Civil War. The town still never fully recovered and showed heavy battle damage.
Following Tajikistan’s independence from the Soviet Union, fighting quickly broke out between neo-communist government forces backed by Russian army troops and various opposition militants aided by foreign fighters like the IMU and Afghan mujahedeen. The fight grew in intensity, leaving entire villages burned to the ground, until the factions hit a stalemate.
In 1997, after six years of fighting, a United Nations armistice ended the war, leaving most of the country’s population dependent entirely on the United Nations and NGOs for food and medicine. The war left some 100,000 dead, over a million more homeless, and most of the country’s infrastructure destroyed and in disarray. The government has done little to rebuild, and fighting still sporadically broke out in remote parts of Gorno-Badakhshan between rival militias and government troops.
Some buildings in Yazgulam remained bombed-out or were simply collapsed piles of rubble with just the skeletal structures left standing. Craters and potholes were scattered across the streets. Driving to the target house, Avery even spotted the charred husk of a Russian-made T-72 battle tank sitting on broken treads.
Police presence was non-existent. Fourteen years after the war ended, armed and masked militants freely roamed the streets. Crime was high, Dagar had warned. There was the threat of being recognized as outsiders and ambushed by bandits or detained by the so-called militia or kidnapped for a ransom. President Rahmon’s government had zero control or influence here, making this an ideal spot for IMU to hold and interrogate a prisoner. It was also just seventy miles south of the terrorist strongholds in the Fergana Valley.
A gunman wearing a balaclava, standing off side of the street, eyed Avery’s car suspiciously as he drove past but made no move to stop him. Avery kept his eyes on the road, stayed calm, and didn’t eye the militant as he passed.
Avery wasn’t familiar with local politics or what affiliation the militant’s green and red armband signified. Avery just hoped that whatever militia he belonged to didn’t report to the IMU. It was likely the Uzbeks operated here with the consent or at the least the knowledge of whatever warlord ran the city. In this part of the world, encroaching on another tribe’s or group’s territory was asking for a fight. Tribal Afghans, Tajiks, and Pamiris lived by a rigid code of honor that was thousands of years old. They could be your best allies, but if you disrespected them by not sticking to the code, they’d slice your throat.
The target was a dilapidated single-story, square-shaped house built of thick cement, sturdy and heavily insulated in the winter, but probably stifling hot and uncomfortable in summer. A house this size would probably be a crowded place and home to nearly a dozen people. The only windows were in the front, near the blue door, or in the back, and they were all heavily boarded up. It looked like someone had barricaded the place, but that wasn’t unusual. During the war, the people who couldn’t leave sought shelter inside. Except for a pick-up truck parked over the front lot, the property otherwise appeared abandoned, which it probably had been since the end of the fighting.
The same could be said for the rest of the neighborhood. The house sat next to a four story apartment building with broken windows and riddled with bullet holes. There were empty storefronts and a few more houses, also in a depressing shit state, across the street. Shops had gone out of business years ago and never re-opened under new management or owners. The street was unpaved and cracked and damaged from heavy tank traffic.
The team did target reconnaissance of the connecting streets and surrounding neighborhood, to work out potential defensive positions and escape routes. Then they began looking into where to establish an observation post. They had few options. There wasn’t enough time to try to gain access to the neighboring apartment or to scope out a nearby house that might have a line of sight to the target, to determine if it was abandoned or occupied. If any locals stumbled upon them, they’d have to detain them, and that created a whole slew of complications.