Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

There was a second product in the folder, an outline of Boldu’s activities over the last six months. Much of it was simple anti-regime graffiti, but the group was growing increasingly audacious in its political stunts. An eight-by-ten glossy photo showed two remotely operated drones carrying a banner over the city denouncing a new law requiring all print media to secure a government license to operate, meaning every newspaper and magazine would have to parrot the regime’s line. The banner read in both Kyrgyz and English: WE DON’T NEED NO STINKING LICENSE. And was signed with a stylized red upraised fist and the word “Boldu!”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Kate said. “I don’t think there’ll be many people in the government who’ve seen either The Treasure of the Sierra Madre or Blazing Saddles . What’s with the fist?”

“It’s their trademark,” the ambassador explained. “They don’t want our help, but they certainly seem to want us to know they’re there. That’s why they use almost as much English as Kyrgyz or Russian.”

“How are they doing?”

“They’re still small and they know that if they stick their heads up out of the hole the government will cut them off at the neck, but our sense is that they’re growing, picking up supporters and momentum. They’ve struck a raw nerve in Kyrgyz society. And the regime is afraid of them, disproportionately so.”

“And what’s my role in this?”

“I want you to make contact with these people. Find out more about them and convince them that they have more to gain than to lose from working with us.”

“You really think they’ll let me in? You’ve just described them as pretty paranoid, and not without reason.”

“You’re all ISB alums. I want you to get inside the group and make contact with the leader, Seitek. Find out who he is, what motivates him, and persuade him that we can help. You’re practically a local, Kate. They’ll trust you.”

“I wouldn’t bet the farm on that, Uncle Harry.”

“No. Not the farm. I’m betting the whole damn country.”

Ruslan’s uniform was ill-fitting. It was also ugly. It was supposed to be a waiter’s uniform, but it was more like something you might see on a bellhop in a down-market hotel in Eastern Europe than at a bistro in Paris. The white jacket was loose at the shoulders and the black pants were baggy. The rightful owner no doubt sported a prominent belly. Only one of the professional hazards, Ruslan suspected, of a life spent serving rich food to the powerful people of Bishkek and their wealthy friends.

The Hall of the People was something of a misnomer. The grand ballroom—the size of a high school gymnasium with a vaulted ceiling and baroque columns encrusted with gold leaf—was the exclusive playground of the elite. If the people had the temerity to insist on equal access to their hall, they would have been shot. “People’s” was one of the adjectives that dictatorial regimes routinely twisted into a kind of Orwellian doublespeak. Control of language was the purest form of power, and in Ruslan’s experience, a People’s Democratic Republic was like the Holy Roman Empire—nothing of what it purported to be.

The ballroom had been decorated by someone with more money than taste. The walls were hung with mirrors in ornate gilt frames. The ceiling was painted with elaborate scenes taken from Manas . Several of the panels featured Seitek, Ruslan’s necessary alias in his role as the leader of Boldu. In the central panel, the figure of Manas himself, the father of all Kyrgyz, bore a striking resemblance to President Eraliev. Ruslan knew the artist. In one epic drunken night some years ago, the painter had explained that he had taken the job because he needed the money, but he had exacted a measure of revenge. “I painted Eraliev with no dick,” he had explained.

Ruslan looked around the room. The rich and beautiful people of Bishkek were taking their seats at the round tables scattered across the parquet floor. The head table was rectangular and reserved for Eraliev’s inner circle. Ruslan saw the finance minister and his fat wife take their assigned seats at a round table in the political equivalent of Siberia. It was a public sign of disfavor, adding substance to the rumors that his star was falling. Meanwhile, the relatively junior minister of transportation was seated at the head table. Ruslan knew he was one to watch; maybe he would be the next finance minister. At a minimum, his seat at this dinner would guarantee that the envelopes of bribes that were the just due of any senior government official would double in size.

Alana, a sultry blonde with dark roots and fake boobs, sashayed to her seat a suitably respectable distance from the head table. It was well known around Bishkek that the pop singer with one name and the president were lovers, but that was no reason to rub Mrs. Eraliev’s nose in it. Her table included a number of the “controversial businessmen” who had made their fortunes by being apparatchiks at the right time and benefiting from the Wild West privatizations that followed the collapse of the Soviet Union. There was also a media magnate who pandered slavishly to the regime and both the Chinese and Russian ambassadors.

The other tables were similarly eclectic. But as far as Ruslan was concerned, they had one important thing in common. They were all pigs snuffling at the trough. A point that would be made soon enough in a clear and unvarnished fashion.

Ruslan and the other servers moved from table to table pouring wine for the guests who were there to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of Eraliev’s uninterrupted reign. The tables were set with silver and crystal and the official state china bearing the Kyrgyz emblem, a blue circle showing the Ala-Too mountains supported by the wings of a hawk. To facilitate smooth service, the first course—a salad with walnuts and beetroot—was already set out. Once the wine had been served, Eraliev would call for a toast and the eating could begin in earnest. Ruslan had seen the menu. The plan was for six courses of increasingly rich and heavy dishes.

Ruslan and his compatriots had a plan that would spare the guests from the excess calories and the excessive speech making. One by one, he made eye contact with the three other “waiters” who were part of his team. They nodded carefully. All was ready.

Ruslan walked purposefully over to the far wall, where a heavy maroon tapestry hung from the ceiling to the floor. A security guard stood in front of the curtain. He was wearing a suit rather than a uniform, but the spiral cord running from his right ear to his collar was unmistakable, as was the bulge of a concealed pistol under the left breast of his suit jacket. This was an unexpected wrinkle and a potentially serious complication.

Another waiter, an actual employee of the palace, walked by with an empty tray and Ruslan set the wine bottle he was carrying onto it.

“Take this back to the kitchen, please. It’s corked.”

The harried waiter nodded and rushed off to do as he was told. Ruslan spoke with such authority that it did not occur to the server to question his right to issue orders. He was young, but he was a leader. Men twice his age were perfectly comfortable following his commands.

Ruslan approached the bored-looking guard, leaning in conspiratorially.

“I have a message for you from the president.”

“Really?” The guard made no effort to hide his disbelief. “Does he need me to look after Alana for him? I’d like to see if the carpet matches the drapes.” He reached behind and tugged on the maroon tapestry.