Matthew Palmer - Enemy of the Good

“Will I be able to get through?” Kate asked.

“You should. There are lots of police, but they haven’t tried to completely close off the square. People have been able to move in and out, and Boldu supporters have been able to bring food in for the hard-core demonstrators.”

“Why are the authorities letting them do that?”

“Because the alternative may be worse. They look at what’s happening in Ala-Too like it’s a tumor and they’re afraid of metastasis. Crack down too hard on the demonstrations and they are likely to trigger uprisings elsewhere, maybe in Bishkek, maybe in some other city or even the countryside. I’m sure that Eraliev’s people have looked at the precedents as carefully as Boldu has. For every Maidan that brought down a government, there’s a counterexample, like the Green Revolution in Iran, in which the protestors failed. When the government wins, it’s usually a result of strategic patience. They wait out the protests and avoid any kind of climactic confrontation that would galvanize the wider public. Basically, they try to bore the revolution to death.”

“And that works?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll take those odds.”

“There’s one more thing,” her uncle said. “You’re going in there as an American diplomat, not as an avenging angel. I know what you want. And whether you believe it or not, I want the same thing. But we’re professionals. I can’t have pictures of you dressed up in battle gear, carrying a weapon and standing in formation with the Boldu fighters. I don’t want videos of you handing out stewed mutton to demonstrators, or playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’ on a piano that some septuagenarians hauled in on the back of a yak. You are a dispassionate observer and a representative of the United States of America. Do you think you can handle that?”

Kate took a deep breath and exhaled.

“Yes, I can,” Kate said, although she had her doubts. “Wish me luck.”

Harry leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“You be careful, Kate. If things look like they’re getting out of hand, you get out of there. Right away. If anything happened to you, my brother’s ghost would strangle me in my sleep.”

“Thanks, Uncle Harry. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

The checkpoint was manned by a pair of ridiculously young police officers, regular beat cops, Kate noted, rather than Special Police. She waved her American diplomatic passport in their general direction as though it represented some kind of authorization. This seemed to confuse them enough that they let her through without subjecting her to any kind of inspection.

The Boldu encampment in the center of the square was sprawling and chaotic. The core of the miniature city was a roughly circular walled-off area dominated by the statue of Manas. The walls themselves were a mix of overturned vehicles, lumber, and brick. It was makeshift but formidable looking, and Kate could see Scythians patrolling along platforms and battlements that had been built along the top of the wall. Outside the walls, more demonstrators had gathered, setting up yurts and market stalls selling food and drink, jackets and blankets. The Boldu-led revolution already had its own economy.

Most important, Kate saw at least half a dozen camera crews scattered about the square. The international media had arrived in force. There was a BBC van, a CNN crew, and al-Jazeera, among others.

The gate to the inner keep was a van with metal plates welded to the side. Two Scythians stood guard. One had been with Kate on the prison raid. She clapped Kate on the shoulder in welcome.

“Seitek will be happy to know you’re alive,” she said.

“Where can I find him?” Kate asked.

“Try one of the yurts.”

The camp was a hive of activity. Some of the protestors were working on strengthening the walls. Others were cooking. A small group of older men sat on a carpet playing backgammon and sipping tea. Many of the people she saw were wearing traditional Kyrgyz dress, which was unusual. Kate suspected Val had something to do with that.

She found Ruslan in the larger of the two yurts, bent over a computer with Val and Murzaev looking over his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” Kate said. “I’m looking for the leader of the revolution. Have I come to the right place?”

Ruslan looked up and his expression was one of profound relief.

“Katie! Thank god.”

He almost knocked over the table in his urgency. He held Kate tightly, as though she otherwise might slip away, and kissed her, heedless of the others in the tent.

“I love you so,” he said. “And I thought I might have lost you.”

“I’m only free because you let Askar reach out to the CIA. Thank you for taking that risk.”

Kate hugged Val and Murzaev in turn.

“I knew you’d come back to us,” Val said.

“How are you feeling, Askar?” Kate asked Murzaev. The last time she had seen him he had been drugged up and badly battered. He still had some bruises on his face, but they were already starting to fade.

Murzaev flashed her a smile, showing off his new crowns.

“One hundred percent better. Thank you for coming for me, Kate. I won’t ever forget that.”

“It looks like you all have made good use of the time I was away,” Kate said.

“It’s pretty amazing,” Ruslan agreed. “Let me show you around.”

He gave Kate a tour of the compound and recounted the story of Boldu’s takeover of the square.

“Has the army gotten involved yet?” Kate asked.

“Not yet. It’s all police so far. But I think Eraliev missed his opportunity to crush us with force. The first few hours were critical, and the Special Police didn’t bring enough to the fight. Now, the terms are almost even. And Val keeps them honest by making sure the whole world can follow what’s happening here. I don’t think he dares call out the tanks. His rule is brittle and he’s afraid the whole country would rise up against him.”

“And what about you? Why haven’t they come after you directly?”

“It’s too late for that. I’m out in the open now. People know who I am. We don’t need the mystery of Seitek anymore, even though many people still call me that. The movement has outgrown me. And as a symbol, I’d be more dangerous to the regime dead. I’ll tell you though, Kate. Things might have gone differently if Malinin had still been the head of the Special Police. We’ve been able to reach something of an understanding with his replacement, Kayrat uluu, that’s helped us keep things from getting too violent. It’s good to have you back with us.”

“I need to tell you, Ruslan, that I’m here not just because I want to be. I’m here because my uncle asked me to come, to tell him about what’s happening here. Do you have any concerns about that?”

“None. I want you to do that. When Eraliev is gone, we are going to need help. And if America is willing to offer that help, we’ll be ready to talk.”

He leaned over and kissed her.

“Besides, I like Americans.”

“So what do we do now?” Kate asked.

“Now, we wait.”

There was more to it than that, of course. Every day, Boldu organized a public event of some sort. There were speeches by Ruslan and Valentina and Hamid and others. Ruslan and his grandfather rode together through throngs of demonstrators on their enormous stallions, with the goshawk Janibar perched on Tashtanbek’s gloved fist. Dressed in traditional clothes and looking like he might have ridden alongside Ghengis Khan, Tashtanbek and his hawk were a magnet for the foreign media and fast becoming a romantic symbol for the uprising against Eraliev.

A stage was set up outside the walls and Val organized a series of concerts, both Western-style pop music and more traditional Kyrgyz folk groups. They shared the stage with the Manaschi, who recited long passages of the epic story of the Kyrgyz people, paying particular attention to the book of Seitek. Val organized a group of teenagers who took charge of shooting, editing, and uploading the videos that told the story of the uprising. They competed to see which of them could get their material onto one of the major international networks.