Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

“When we were considering the options for getting to Bermet, you’ll recall, Seitek asked us if we could get into the prison.”

“And you said you could get in but not get out.”

“Not without violence. We weren’t ready for that at the time.”

“And we are now?”

“Now we have no choice. Bermet wasn’t worth it, frankly. Ruslan is. Without him, we lose. With him, we are only likely to lose.” There was that smile again.

“Do you have somebody on the inside? Someone in the prison who can help us. Someone sympathetic to our cause.”

“I think so. Yes.”

“A guard or an administrator?”

“Neither.”

“Who then?”

“A prisoner.”

“Not really the time for jokes, Daniar.”

“I’m one hundred percent serious.”

“I’m listening.”

“Number One is really two prisons. There’s a building reserved for Tier I political prisoners that has very tight security. But the majority of the prisoners are simple criminals and there aren’t enough guards to control them. The obshchak are really the ones in charge.”

“Obshchak?” Kate asked.

“Prison gangs,” Nogoev explained. “Inside, the gangs run the show, and the gang bosses—they’re called thieves-in-law—are lords of their little castles. Even in prison, they can get drugs or cash or girls. They have an understanding with the guards that comes awfully close to a power-sharing arrangement.”

“These thieves-in-law don’t sound like typical Boldu supporters,” Kate observed.

“No,” Nogoev agreed. “This is more a personal connection.”

“You are friends with one of these thieves-in-law?”

“We are more than friends. We are brothers. Vladimir is younger than I am by almost ten years. I promised our mother I would look after him, but I went off to the army and he fell in with the wrong crowd. He’s been in and out of prison his whole life.”

Kate did not know what to say to that. And evidently neither did Val. Instead, she fished a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her coat pocket and passed them around. While they had been talking, it had grown darker in the tunnel and the glow from the cigarettes offered at least a little light.

“So what’s the plan?” Val asked, taking a deep drag and tilting her head back to blow a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling.

“Plan is a pretty big word,” Nogoev offered. “What I have is more like a concept.”

“What is it?”

Nogoev explained to them what he had in mind.

“You’re insane,” Val said.

“Quite possibly.”

“And your brother, Vladimir, he’ll do this for us just because you ask?”

“No. With the obshchak there is always an exchange.”

“So what’s in it for him?”

“A pardon. I’ll promise him that once we come to power Boldu will pardon him and every member of his obshchak .”

“If he helps us get Ruslan out, Vladimir can have the job as warden of Number One as far as I’m concerned.”

They smoked in companionable silence, each of them lighting a second cigarette off the butt of the first. Kate assessed that she had become a cabalistic smoker, only indulging when hiding in the dark and plotting against the state. That, she hoped, was unlikely to be habit forming.

“It’s not enough,” she said after lighting her second cigarette.

“What’s not?” Val asked.

“Breaking Ruslan out of jail. It’s necessary but not sufficient.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Ruslan and Murzaev started things in motion for the clans to take over Ala-Too Square. They told me about it last night. That’s supposed to happen on Wednesday, three days from now. Without Ruslan, they’ll be leaderless. Either they won’t come, they won’t stay, or they’ll be cut up by the Special Police. We can’t let that happen. They need leadership.”

“Can we get Ruslan out before then?” Val asked.

Nogoev flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“We’ll see. There’re a lot of pieces to this. It’ll take time if we’re going to do it right. And we have to do it right.”

“And what happens to Ruslan in the meantime?” Kate asked.

“My brother told me that they throw the prisoners in solitary for the first three or four days. It’s supposed to break their spirit, make them obedient.”

“Do they do the same to political prisoners?”

In the dim orange glow of the cigarettes, Kate could see Nogoev shrug his ignorance.

“So what do we do about it?” Val asked.

“Someone has to step up and lead the clans. The Adygine and the Buguu and the Kara-Kyrgyz and all the rest. There won’t be many young men with them. There wasn’t enough time to get them back from overseas. It’ll be mostly women and children and graybeards. But the clans need to be told what to do. And assuming that they show up in Ala-Too as promised, someone needs to be there to lead.”

“Are you volunteering?” Nogoev asked.

“Not me, Daniar. Val.”

Val snorted her disagreement.

“I’m a good writer and bad poet. I help Boldu frame its message. But I’m a consiglieri type. I’m not that inspiring. I don’t belong out in front. That’s for people like Ruslan. And you.”

“You’ll have to do it, Val. There’s no one else.”

“Why not you? You may be an American, but you’re as Kyrgyz as any of us.”

“I can’t do it. I have other plans.”

“Really? There’s something more pressing on your calendar?”

“Yeah. I’m going with Daniar and the Scythians and I’m breaking Ruslan out of prison.”

The Scythians bantered and laughed as they climbed into the back of the truck. Twenty-four hours earlier, it had been a bread truck with the company logo—an incongruous singing chicken—painted on both sides. The fresh coat of black paint was still tacky to the touch. Bold block capitals in white spelled out Police in both Russian and Kyrgyz. Metal screens had been welded to the windows in the rear and an ugly metal grille fixed to the front bumper.

It looked like a police van, the type that was sometimes called a Black Maria, or a mother’s heart, because there was always room for one more. Underneath the odor of paint, the back of the truck still smelled of fresh bread.

Like the truck, the Scythians were dressed in black. And like the truck, they were intent on passing themselves off as police property. They wore riot gear and black helmets with opaque faceplates. Their gear and weapons had been “liberated” from a Special Police warehouse out by the airport where the guard on the four a.m. to noon shift was a Boldu sympathizer, and now a moderately wealthy one.

Kate pulled down on the back of her heavy ballistic vest, which was riding up uncomfortably under her arms and chafing at the neck. The helmet was too large and Kate had to cinch the chinstrap tight to hold it in place. The pistol in the black holster on her hip was bulky and it pressed up uncomfortably against her side. It was also empty. Just for show. Kate had no intention of shooting anyone.

Nogoev was circulating among his soldiers as a good commander should, exchanging a few words with one, clapping another forcefully on the shoulder. The Scythians were young, and Kate could see that they looked to Nogoev as a father figure. They fought for Boldu and for Ruslan and Kyrgyzstan, but first and foremost they fought for him. Julius Caesar had used the bonds of loyalty he had forged with his legionnaires in Gaul to bring a bloody end to the Roman Republic and set himself up as Dictator Perpetuo. President for Life. The Latin equivalent of Eraliev’s current title. Power had the gravitational pull of a thousand suns, and Kate could only hope that Nogoev would not ultimately give in to the temptations of Caesar.