Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

Once the colonel had left, Ruslan turned to Murzaev.

“Askar, you said you could contact the Americans if you had to. Let them know about Kate.”

“Yes. If I had to.”

“Do it. Quickly. Before they decide that she’s too dangerous to hold on to.”

“You don’t think they’ll let her go?” Nogoev asked.

“I think they’ll kill her.”

He was far from gentle, but Chalibashvili, it seemed, could not quite bring himself to cross the line into torturing an American diplomat. Kate had the impression, however, that he was building up his courage. She had no illusions about her ability to withhold information if Torquemada made the decision to employ some of his more extreme interrogation techniques, waterboarding or electric shock. Nor did she harbor illusions about how valuable the information she had really was. The one meaningful secret she had carried was Seitek’s real identity, and she had already compromised that. Everything else was details.

Even so, she had no intention of making things easy for Chalibashvili, and she remained stubbornly uncooperative through three rounds of questioning that were at times conciliatory and at others threatening. Prison Number One’s torturer in chief could not seem to make up his mind.

Still, the threat of violence was always there and Kate stiffened when she heard the key turn in the lock of her cell door. At least they had left the lights on. As a mark of her ambiguous status, Kate had been moved up from the dungeon level to the third sub-basement, the same level that Zamira was on. She had a toilet and a bed with a mattress and blanket. After the Pit, it was like being put up in the Waldorf.

The oversize Uzbek guard opened the door and gestured for Kate to follow him. Each “session” with Chalibashvili had been in a different room, as though the Georgian was looking for the right conditions that would persuade Kate to cooperate. All the interrogation rooms had been on the third level, however. This time the guard led her to an elevator she had not known existed and took her up to the ground floor.

There did not seem to be any cells on this level. It was mostly office space. A few prison staff were working at their desks, and they pointedly did not look up from whatever they were doing to stare at Kate as she shuffled past them in her prison uniform and rubber slippers.

The guard knocked on a door at the end of the hall, and she heard Chalibashvili’s voice tell him in Russian to come in.

The room behind the door was a Spartan but serviceable conference room. There were eight chairs arranged around a wooden table with a speakerphone on the tabletop and a plastic plant in one corner. Chalibashvili sat at the table facing the door. Two men in business suits sat across from him and turned to look at her when the door opened. One was her Uncle Harry. The other was Larry Crespo. Kate felt a wave of relief and gratitude flood through her, and her knees started to shake from the pent-up fear and anxiety of her days in captivity. It was almost over, she thought.

Her uncle stood and hugged her and Kate had to exercise every ounce of self-control she possessed not to cry.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Did they hurt you?”

“I’m okay. But I’m awfully glad to see you. You too, Larry.”

The station chief nodded but said nothing.

Kate was acutely conscious of how awful she must look. It had been days since she had showered. Her hair was greasy. Her face was grimy and her eyes were bloodshot.

Chalibashvili gestured for her to sit and she took the seat next to her uncle.

“You asked for proof of life, Mr. Ambassador. And as you can see, Ms. Hollister is very much alive.”

“And I’m not the only one,” Kate interjected. “I found Zamira. She’s here. Alive.”

The ambassador locked eyes with Chalibashvili.

“Is that true? Are you holding Zamira Ishenbaev here in Building D?”

“We have many guests. I don’t know them all by name. But I’d be pleased to check our records for you.”

“I saw her,” Kate insisted. “Torquemada here brought me to her cell and offered me a deal. I respectfully declined.”

“I’m afraid Ms. Hollister may be somewhat delusional. It’s been known to happen on occasion to people who aren’t used to… confinement.”

“That’s bullshit,” Kate said icily. “You—”

The ambassador put a hand on her shoulder, a signal she should stop. Kate swallowed the rest of the sentence.

“First things first,” he said. “Mr. Chalibashvili, we’ll be leaving now, with Kate. Please produce her things.” The ambassador’s tone was as smooth and unruffled as if he were discussing the weather rather than the detention and possible torture of his niece. “We can continue this discussion at a later date, to include the issue of Ms. Ishenbaev’s whereabouts and well-being.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” the Georgian replied with equal calm.

“Really?”

“Yes. You see, Ms. Hollister has violated her diplomatic status in the most serious fashion. It will take some time for us to complete the investigation. Formal charges are, I’m afraid, likely.”

“You cannot charge her for a crime, no matter how serious, unless my government agrees to lift her immunity. And we do not. You are, therefore, acting in direct contravention to your international legal obligations under the Vienna Convention.”

“What is it you Americans say? Sue me?”

“Actually we have a variant of that expression in the State Department. Sanction me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You are holding an official American unlawfully. There are existing authorities that allow us to add your name and that of your country’s leadership, including President Eraliev, to a blacklist that will result in freezing any overseas assets within reach of U.S. financial institutions. Your accounts with… I’m sorry, can you remind me?” The question was directed at Crespo.

The station chief removed a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through it slowly. It was all theater, Kate knew, but it was effective theater.

“Chase and Citibank in New York. A total of two-point-five million. There are Swiss and Caymans accounts as well. We can’t touch those directly, but we can make it impossible for the money to move anywhere in the international financial system.”

“Thank you, Larry. Now you could still, I suppose, fly to the Caymans and take the money out in cash. But we will make that difficult for you with an INTERPOL Red Notice. That would make international travel… interesting. Again, there are workarounds. A Kyrgyz government charter flying direct from Bishkek to the Cayman Islands perhaps. Does your government have a plane with that kind of range? Refueling could subject you to arrest and extradition. It’s complicated, I know.”

Chalibashvili’s expression hardened as he listened to the litany of woes that awaited him.

“And there’s more,” Crespo offered.

“Do tell.” The sarcasm dripped from Chalibashvili’s response.

Crespo turned and looked at Kate. “How would you describe your time in captivity here, Kate? Would the word ‘terrifying’ apply?”

“Absolutely,” she answered.

“Inflicting terror on an American official. By definition, I think that would make you a terrorist. And it’s a simple enough matter for me to add your name to that list.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Chalibashvili protested. “I haven’t planted a bomb in a shopping mall. I have merely been questioning a woman who attacked this prison as part of an armed group and freed a prominent prisoner, who was himself wanted on terrorism charges.”