Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

“As I am disappointed to find you, Anton, who did such unspeakable things in the service of his country, now peddling his medieval skills to the highest bidder. I am no naïf. The things you do so well can be necessary at times, in pursuit of a higher purpose. But absent that purpose, it is simple cruelty. And you are nothing more than a gangland enforcer or a cheap torturer for hire. I have scraped things from the bottom of my shoe that have more to offer the world than you.”

For a brief moment, Chalibashvili seemed to betray real human emotion. Anger. Doubt. But he quickly recovered his composure and pulled the icy mask back over his features.

“And you switched sides simply to avenge your boyhood friend. It’s cheap sentimentality, Askar. Like a child crying over a lost puppy. The world is a dark and dangerous place. The brave do what is needed to maintain order. No one knows this better than men like us.”

“I am nothing like you.”

“No. I suppose you are not. Not anymore. And after your time with us in my… office… you will not even be a man. Not in any meaningful way.”

Murzaev blanched. He knew too well what fate awaited him in the Pit, and Kate thought that he might be regretting his earlier decision not to kill himself.

Having re-established his dominance in the conversation, Chalibashvili seemed to decide that it was time to end it.

He took one of the assault rifles from the Special Police standing guard over the room, carrying it with a casual nonchalance. This was a man, Kate sensed, accustomed to handling instruments of pain and death.

“Let me ask you again about the whereabouts of Ruslan Usenov. Tell me where to find him.”

“Fuck off.”

Chalibashvili pointed the rifle at Murzaev’s head.

“Really?” Murzaev said incredulously. “You threaten a man with torture and then with summary execution. That’s kind of a step down, don’t you think? You want to shoot me, then shoot me. But until then, fuck off.”

The Inquisitor swung the muzzle of the rifle until it was sited on Kate, zeroing in on a point in the middle of her forehead.

“Ms. Hollister? Anything you’d care to add to the conversation?”

Kate swallowed hard, reminding herself that this was not the first time she had looked into the barrel of a gun.

“I think Askar pretty much covered it.”

Chalibashvili’s smile was sly and superior. The muzzle of the rifle dropped to point at the floor next to Kate’s chair. He pulled the trigger, sending a five-round burst into the parquet. A few small pieces of wood landed in Kate’s lap. Chalibashvili pointed the gun at another part of the floor closer to Murzaev and fired a similar burst. Then he stepped onto the carpet and pointed the muzzle of the rifle almost directly at where Ruslan’s head would be.

He looked over at Kate expectantly and there was little doubt that the Georgian knew full well what was under his feet.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Should I do it?”

Kate was silent. She could feel the muscles in her neck and shoulders strain as she fought to keep her expression calm.

She looked over at Murzaev, who offered her only the slightest of nods, as though passing responsibility for the decision back to her.

Chalibashvili’s finger tightened on the trigger. But Kate’s eyes were drawn to the gracefully curved magazine, where she knew the jacketed slugs were crammed in like bees in a hive. And like bees they would die after a single sting.

Chalibashvili did not look where he aimed. Instead, he looked right at Kate with the intensity of a lunatic, and Kate recognized that there was a part of him that hoped she would refuse him the answer he wanted, that he would have a reason to fire the weapon. To kill. That he took pleasure in it.

“Stop!” she said. And her shoulders relaxed as Chalibashvili straightened and allowed the rifle to drift away from its aiming point.

“Yes.”

“He’s there, goddamn it. And you know it.”

“So I did. But I wanted to hear it from you. I wanted you to be the one to tell me.”

He gestured to the armored police to move the furniture and the rugs.

Chalibashvili stood back as they opened the trapdoor.

“A cornered rat can be dangerous,” he said to Kate. “I’ve seen it.”

Ruslan got off two shots from a pistol. The first glanced off the riot helmet of one of the cops and shattered a bulb on the chandelier. The second struck the policeman’s armored vest and toppled him backward. His partner used a nightstick to knock the pistol from Ruslan’s hand and then club him senseless.

“Are you all right?” the cop asked his partner in Russian.

“Yeah, but I’ll be better if you hit him again.”

His loyal partner complied.

The cops hauled Ruslan to his feet and used a pair of handcuffs to secure his arms behind his back. Then they did the same to Murzaev, who offered no resistance.

They ignored Kate, who was now standing near the wall on the far side of the room. She stepped forward to embrace Ruslan, but a third cop stepped in front of her and pushed her back.

“I’m sorry, Ruslan,” she said. She could feel the tears hot on her face. “I love you.”

Ruslan was visibly dazed, his eyes glassy from the beating he had received. He did not respond.

“Thank you, Ms. Hollister,” Chalibashvili said. “You’ve been most cooperative. And your contributions are appreciated. But I believe that you’ve done everything you can in this country. And now, I believe, it is time for you to take your leave of us. I expect you will be getting those instructions in due time. Good evening.”

Chalibashvili and the raid team left, taking Ruslan and Murzaev with them. Kate was left behind. Alone in her misery and her guilt.

She drank the rest of the vodka.

The wife was working the morning shift at the newsstand. It was early. The sky was still the gray of false dawn, and the scent of fresh bread from scores of small bakeries wafted across the city. It had been eight long hours since Ruslan and Murzaev had been arrested.

Kate needed allies, and she knew she would not find them at the embassy. All she could expect from her employers was a transfer order or a notice of termination. Chalibashvili had been pretty clear about what he expected would happen, and it seemed reasonable to believe that he had an insider’s knowledge. Kate’s time in the country was limited and she would have to make the most of it.

The woman offered no sign that she recognized Kate or that they shared a secret, no nod or smile, nothing that indicated there was anything between them beyond a small-scale commercial exchange. Her shapeless gray sweater and no-nonsense haircut were, at least in part, an effective form of camouflage, what a naturalist might have called protective coloration. What she and her husband were doing was inherently dangerous, and she did not want to do anything to draw unnecessary and unwanted attention. She would not be happy about what was about to happen. Kate walked straight up to the counter, making no pretense of buying a newspaper or magazine.

“I need your help.”

The look of panic on the woman’s face was unmistakable. Reflexively, she looked up and down the street to see who was watching, who might be listening in. Kate was breaking every rule of good security. She sympathized with her contact’s anxiety, but the stakes were extremely high and this was all she could think to do.

“You would like a newspaper?” the woman asked. She fumbled under the counter and slapped a copy of the English-language Times of Central Asia onto the polished wood.