the interrogation.
When he’d brought the video of the interrogation to Sevara, she asked him to stay and watch it with her. It had aroused her, and that had in turn aroused him. She’d taken him then and there, in her husband’s office at the Interior Ministry, bending over the desk, looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Like Dina,” Sevara had commanded.
It wasn’t as if the Americans didn’t know how business was done in Uzbekistan, the same way it hadn’t bothered anyone—at least, not anyone who mattered—when Ambassador McInnes had gone weeping and wailing to the press. Certainly, President Malikov had felt the displeasure from each country, had felt the pressure to loosen his grip, but in the end, everyone involved understood the stakes. There was a war on, after all, a Global War on Terror, a conflict that now raged around the world, and one that required new rules. The Coalition might not approve of how the NSS acquired its intelligence, but disapproval didn’t stop the FBI or the CIA or the SIS from using it all the same.
But McInnes, and Dina, and now that new American Ambassador, Garret—they could make things difficult for President Malikov. Every time a tape was released, every time a new report of so-called human rights abuses was filed, the pressure built and kept building until someone, either U.S. or U.K., decided something had to be done. If not to actually redress the perceived problem, to at least appear to be doing so.
This redress took the form of sanctions, more often than not, and that, in turn, meant the withholding of promised aid. In the last four years alone, the U.S. had held back over fifty million dollars in promised funds, all in the name of encouraging President Malikov to improve his record on human rights. The hypocrisy of it made Zahidov want to spit. As if the Americans weren’t just the same, as if the British weren’t just the same. Abu Ghraib and Camp X-Ray and countless other facilities, Zahidov was certain they were all the same. But when someone pointed a finger at America or at Britain, who sanctioned them?
Just like the rape of Dina Malikov, it was an exercise in power, nothing more.
In the end, the money would come again. Uzbekistan was just too important to the war.
And everyone knew it.
But that didn’t keep President Malikov’s ego from being bruised each time he was pilloried in the eyes of the world. When the Old Man saw the proof that it was Dina Malikov who had been responsible for the latest round of editorials, angry letters, and sanctions, when he heard her talking about just how much she had given the Americans, it made the loss of his grandson’s mother that much easier to bear.
It was a small thing, then, to suggest that perhaps his son had known all along what his wife was doing. That he had perhaps if not encouraged it, certainly permitted it. And if Ruslan had encouraged it, well, the reasons behind such treachery were easy enough to see.
Sevara, the dutiful daughter, devoted to her father, found it hard to say the words.
“He wishes to replace you, Father.”
If only it were that simple, and that easy. But Zahidov knew from experience that Mihail Malikov wasn’t a fool. The Old Man wouldn’t have survived for this long if he were. He knew the ulterior motives in bringing this incident to his attention. He knew that Sevara coveted his power just as greedily as Ruslan did.
It would take more than simple suspicion to fix the ascension.
But this was a start, Zahidov had to admit, and a strong one. Before Dina’s confession, Ruslan had been the clear choice, his father’s favorite, and male, to boot.
Now, at least, Sevara stood a chance at gaining her father’s blessing.
The rest, Zahidov was certain, would come in time.
President Malikov was the first part. The second, more easily handled in a fashion Zahidov preferred, were the Deputy Prime Ministers of the various
When he’d brought the video of the interrogation to Sevara, she asked him to stay and watch it with her. It had aroused her, and that had in turn aroused him. She’d taken him then and there, in her husband’s office at the Interior Ministry, bending over the desk, looking back at him over her shoulder.
“Like Dina,” Sevara had commanded.
It wasn’t as if the Americans didn’t know how business was done in Uzbekistan, the same way it hadn’t bothered anyone—at least, not anyone who mattered—when Ambassador McInnes had gone weeping and wailing to the press. Certainly, President Malikov had felt the displeasure from each country, had felt the pressure to loosen his grip, but in the end, everyone involved understood the stakes. There was a war on, after all, a Global War on Terror, a conflict that now raged around the world, and one that required new rules. The Coalition might not approve of how the NSS acquired its intelligence, but disapproval didn’t stop the FBI or the CIA or the SIS from using it all the same.
But McInnes, and Dina, and now that new American Ambassador, Garret—they could make things difficult for President Malikov. Every time a tape was released, every time a new report of so-called human rights abuses was filed, the pressure built and kept building until someone, either U.S. or U.K., decided something had to be done. If not to actually redress the perceived problem, to at least appear to be doing so.
This redress took the form of sanctions, more often than not, and that, in turn, meant the withholding of promised aid. In the last four years alone, the U.S. had held back over fifty million dollars in promised funds, all in the name of encouraging President Malikov to improve his record on human rights. The hypocrisy of it made Zahidov want to spit. As if the Americans weren’t just the same, as if the British weren’t just the same. Abu Ghraib and Camp X-Ray and countless other facilities, Zahidov was certain they were all the same. But when someone pointed a finger at America or at Britain, who sanctioned them?
Just like the rape of Dina Malikov, it was an exercise in power, nothing more.
In the end, the money would come again. Uzbekistan was just too important to the war.
And everyone knew it.
But that didn’t keep President Malikov’s ego from being bruised each time he was pilloried in the eyes of the world. When the Old Man saw the proof that it was Dina Malikov who had been responsible for the latest round of editorials, angry letters, and sanctions, when he heard her talking about just how much she had given the Americans, it made the loss of his grandson’s mother that much easier to bear.
It was a small thing, then, to suggest that perhaps his son had known all along what his wife was doing. That he had perhaps if not encouraged it, certainly permitted it. And if Ruslan had encouraged it, well, the reasons behind such treachery were easy enough to see.
Sevara, the dutiful daughter, devoted to her father, found it hard to say the words.
“He wishes to replace you, Father.”
If only it were that simple, and that easy. But Zahidov knew from experience that Mihail Malikov wasn’t a fool. The Old Man wouldn’t have survived for this long if he were. He knew the ulterior motives in bringing this incident to his attention. He knew that Sevara coveted his power just as greedily as Ruslan did.
It would take more than simple suspicion to fix the ascension.
But this was a start, Zahidov had to admit, and a strong one. Before Dina’s confession, Ruslan had been the clear choice, his father’s favorite, and male, to boot.
Now, at least, Sevara stood a chance at gaining her father’s blessing.
The rest, Zahidov was certain, would come in time.
President Malikov was the first part. The second, more easily handled in a fashion Zahidov preferred, were the Deputy Prime Ministers of the various
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