after the famed Uzbek humanist and artist who had died over five hundred years ago. It took Zahidov another twenty minutes of searching before he found Sevara, locked in a meeting with the State Customs Committee. He interrupted, knocking twice on the conference room door before entering, and Sevara, seated at the head of the table, her papers around her, an aide standing to the side, turned sharply at the unprecedented interruption.
When she saw it was him, though, she smiled, and despite the message he was bearing, the smile lifted him as well.
“Excuse me, please,” Sevara said, and rose from the table, the committee members all sliding their seats back in response, getting to their feet. “No, sit—we’ll continue in just a moment.”
Zahidov held the door for her as she stepped past, into the corridor. The carpet had been replaced recently, a deep blood-red color, still new enough that it gave slightly beneath his feet. When she was out and beside him, he put a hand on her elbow, taking her another few feet down the hall, making certain they would not be overheard.
“Ahtam? What is it?” The concern in her expression and her voice made it clear her first thought was for him.
“Ruslan is reaching out to the Americans.”
The concern on Sevara’s face dissipated, replaced by a sharper intensity. “How do you know this?”
“He had an automobile accident on Saturday, and it wasn’t an accident. He nearly ran over one of the men from the American Mission.”
Her brow creased. “The same man?”
Zahidov nodded. “Charles Riess.”
“They spoke?”
“According to my man’s report, not more than a few words. But I am certain it was no accident, not the day after his wife’s body was found.”
“You think he passed a message?”
“He must have.”
Sevara made a noise, sucking on her lower lip for a moment as she thought, and Zahidov cursed himself silently, because it made him desire her there and then, even with this problem, even with what it could mean for them. She seemed to know it, too, because she met his eyes, and her smile was sudden and pleased.
“You look so worried, Ahtam. But my brother’s given us just what we need. We bring proof that he’s trying to move things along with the Americans to my father, my position will be secured.”
“Unless he’s gone to the Americans to secure his own position.”
“With what? What does he have?”
“He won’t need much if the Americans support him.”
Her smile faded as she considered his response. “You’re still watching him?”
“Three men. They’re old KGB, so they know what they’re doing.”
“Dina was one thing,” Sevara said softly, and he could tell from her tone that she was still thinking, albeit aloud. “My father could accept that. But removing Ruslan . . . that would be much harder.”
“Not that much harder.”
“No?”
“Not if the extremists set off another bomb in the marketplace.”
“Something to consider.”
“I can arrange it.”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.”
“Sevya,” Zahidov said, using the diminutive of her name, “if Ruslan gains the support of the White House, we will not be able to oppose him.”
“But he can’t have it yet, and he has nothing to offer them but his good word. And the Americans no longer support rulers on the basis of the promises they make, alone. If Ruslan wants their support, it will take time to arrange it.”
“And while he is arranging his support?”
“We arrange ours.” She paused. “You deal with the Embassy, the CIA. Talk to your contact, make sure he knows how well I can fill my father’s shoes. Make it clear that we are the other option, that Ruslan is only one choice.”
“And if, having done that, the Americans decide they prefer your brother?”
Sevara shrugged, then pushed up on her toes, to brush Zahidov’s cheek with her lips.
“Then you can have your bomb,” she said, and returned to her meeting.
CHAPTER
When she saw it was him, though, she smiled, and despite the message he was bearing, the smile lifted him as well.
“Excuse me, please,” Sevara said, and rose from the table, the committee members all sliding their seats back in response, getting to their feet. “No, sit—we’ll continue in just a moment.”
Zahidov held the door for her as she stepped past, into the corridor. The carpet had been replaced recently, a deep blood-red color, still new enough that it gave slightly beneath his feet. When she was out and beside him, he put a hand on her elbow, taking her another few feet down the hall, making certain they would not be overheard.
“Ahtam? What is it?” The concern in her expression and her voice made it clear her first thought was for him.
“Ruslan is reaching out to the Americans.”
The concern on Sevara’s face dissipated, replaced by a sharper intensity. “How do you know this?”
“He had an automobile accident on Saturday, and it wasn’t an accident. He nearly ran over one of the men from the American Mission.”
Her brow creased. “The same man?”
Zahidov nodded. “Charles Riess.”
“They spoke?”
“According to my man’s report, not more than a few words. But I am certain it was no accident, not the day after his wife’s body was found.”
“You think he passed a message?”
“He must have.”
Sevara made a noise, sucking on her lower lip for a moment as she thought, and Zahidov cursed himself silently, because it made him desire her there and then, even with this problem, even with what it could mean for them. She seemed to know it, too, because she met his eyes, and her smile was sudden and pleased.
“You look so worried, Ahtam. But my brother’s given us just what we need. We bring proof that he’s trying to move things along with the Americans to my father, my position will be secured.”
“Unless he’s gone to the Americans to secure his own position.”
“With what? What does he have?”
“He won’t need much if the Americans support him.”
Her smile faded as she considered his response. “You’re still watching him?”
“Three men. They’re old KGB, so they know what they’re doing.”
“Dina was one thing,” Sevara said softly, and he could tell from her tone that she was still thinking, albeit aloud. “My father could accept that. But removing Ruslan . . . that would be much harder.”
“Not that much harder.”
“No?”
“Not if the extremists set off another bomb in the marketplace.”
“Something to consider.”
“I can arrange it.”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.”
“Sevya,” Zahidov said, using the diminutive of her name, “if Ruslan gains the support of the White House, we will not be able to oppose him.”
“But he can’t have it yet, and he has nothing to offer them but his good word. And the Americans no longer support rulers on the basis of the promises they make, alone. If Ruslan wants their support, it will take time to arrange it.”
“And while he is arranging his support?”
“We arrange ours.” She paused. “You deal with the Embassy, the CIA. Talk to your contact, make sure he knows how well I can fill my father’s shoes. Make it clear that we are the other option, that Ruslan is only one choice.”
“And if, having done that, the Americans decide they prefer your brother?”
Sevara shrugged, then pushed up on her toes, to brush Zahidov’s cheek with her lips.
“Then you can have your bomb,” she said, and returned to her meeting.
CHAPTER
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