Fire & Wind

  Book Publishing for Independent Authors

  7905 N Crescent Blvd

  Pennsauken, NJ 08110

  Also By Leo Gher

  Fiction

  Novels

  Moynihan’s Journey

  Short Stories

  The Bishop of Saint George • A Troubled Spirit

  The Legend of Conquering Valley • The Roadhouse

  Poetry

  Lake Chautauqua Collection

  Children’s Television

  Wonderstar

  The Sergeant Pepperoni Club

  Non-Fiction

  Civic Discourse and Digital Age Communications in the Middle East

  The Art & Science of Media Management

  A special thanks goes to my colleague, proofreader, and friend, Roland Person. Without his valuable eye, knowledge, and dedication, this book would not have been completed.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  © 2019 Leo Gher. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  ISBN (Print) 978-1-54395-998-7

  ISBN (Ebook) 978-1-54395-999-4

  For My Friend and Teacher

  John Gardner

  “Write to make a difference,” he said. “… honest fiction, the kind of novel that readers will find they enjoy reading more than once.”

  Table of Contents

  Azreal

  1 - The Dark Triad

  2 - Rufet Qurb

  3 - Conor and Tali

  4 - Ghost Dancers

  5 - The Ibex Head

  6 - Away from Baku, Away from Home

  7 - Holiday

  8 - The Bay Club

  9 - Encounter at Ephesus

  Jake

  10 - Jake and Lindy

  11 - FAA

  12 - Confession

  13 - Something’s Up

  14 - Crow

  15 - Nightmare

  16 - Defender

  17 - Deceiver

  18 - Tad Tadesian

  Moynihan’s Dream

  19 - Old Mr. Chubby

  20 - Carpathian Rendezvous

  21 - Novruz

  22 - Bәla is Coming

  23 - The Brothers Kos

  24 - Ghost on The Hill

  25 - Dinner at Turga’s

  26 - The Many Roads to Ninots

  27 - Bone Thief

  28 - Who Was He? She Wondered

  29 - Battle at Kars Castle

  30 - The Brothers Moynihan

  31 - Return to London

  32 - A Christian Burial

  33 - Wind Rising Up from the Sea

  34 - Iza and Ali

  35 - Flight to Ganja

  36 - Showdown at Sotk Pass

  37 - BTK-57

  38 - Phantom

  39 - Toykhana

  Azreal

  What demons possessed young Zara Kedar to choose it has always been a mystery. It is a curious and contentious name. It means angel of death. Some said it was prophecy, that she was anticipating the tragedies that would befall her son; others said Zara wanted revenge for the loss of the love of her life. The truth is, she foresaw death looming, her death, and it filled her mind with dread and despair.

  But in those last days, it wasn’t all anguish. When Zara looked into her baby’s blue eyes, she remembered her beloved Tom Moynihan. Accordingly, she gave her son a second name – Conor – in honor of his Irish heritage. That name, however, was a clan secret. Only close family members ever called him Conor because, in most Muslim places in Central Asia, a Christian name was shunned by the public. In Azerbaijan – the land of fire and wind – he was known as Azreal, the vulnerable orphan without the guiding hands of mother or father, the boy-doyen of House Kedar.

  1

  The Dark Triad

  Now and then a grey ember would fall through the fireplace grate and burst into bright flames. The poorly lit study would brighten momentarily, and the hand-painted tiles on the hearth and a few of the Russian icons hanging on the walls could be seen again, if only fleetingly. There was a man in the room, a silhouette resting quietly at his writing desk. He appeared to be sleeping – his head was thrown back against the headrest, eyes closed and elbows folded over a considerable belly – but of course, he was not. Viktor Kos was simply being still with his thoughts, measuring probabilities and outcomes, carefully ordering lists of friends and foes. The kingpin of one of the governing clans of Azerbaijan would soon have his hands full. Allies would arrive within the hour, and action would be required. Knowing that events soon would come to a head, Viktor thought of the old Shia proverb, Fate and fortune at the gate.

  The residence was mostly silent, but Kos could hear shuffling feet in the next room as his servants set up for the meeting. He had ordered shekerbura – an irresistible sweet pastry, filled with ground almonds, hazelnuts, and mixed with honey – to be served before the summit. “A way to break the tension of the moment,” he told his butler. As Kos took several shallow breaths, pleased with his inspiration, he heard a door creak open. Without opening his eyes, he asked, “Vanya, arrived finally, have you?”

  “Vlad, Papa,” his younger son replied. “Vanya will be here shortly.”

  “Never on time, that one,” the old man groused. “When he becomes Bey of this House, he will not have the luxury of being late.” Viktor Kos took coldhearted satisfaction in psychologically battering his sons, Vanya in particular, as he thought it necessary training for the future head of an elite family.

  Suddenly, from the room next door there came the sound of dishes crashing to the floor. Irritated, Viktor sat up. He pushed himself from the table and then shuffled off to the door at the far end of the room. When Kos unexpectedly appeared, the servants picked up their pace, especially the one who had dropped the tray.

  The room was dark. The butler had dimmed the lights, so Viktor was unable to distinguish among the servants darting fretfully from table setting to table setting. There was an elaborate chandelier centered over the circular conference table, but it was never turned on. Viktor Kos suffered from corneal abrasions, and light sensitivity often caused him migraines. The only lights allowed in the room were small table lamps above each place setting. Noticing the head of the House looming, Misha expected a reprimand. “We’ll have this cleaned up in a moment, sir.” Then the butler asked, “Do you have any preference for guest seating?”

  Kos was taken aback by the question. “What do I care where they sit?” he sneered. “Does it matter?”

  “It always matters, sir,” Misha replied. “You said there would be eight. It would be useful if I knew who the others were.”

  Why was his butler prying? Kos wondered. What has he overheard? Viktor glared at the man warily, his concern for household security on full alert. Viktor rechecked a mental list of the recently-hired butler: last job – Russian oligarch; home country – Georgian passport, no apparent local affiliations. The man seemed good enough at his job, but Viktor growled, “Gossip mongering, Misha? I did not expect that from you.”

  “Not at all, sir. But my previous employer always tried to prevent imbroglios among powerful men, if you get my drift.”

  A l
ight dawned, and Viktor recognized that Misha was right. “Ah, very good. Bagirov and Vidadi don’t get along, so put Vlad between them,” he smiled wickedly, then, “He can prevent any fisticuffs that might occur.” He thought of his son in the other room. Vlad was tall and slim. He gave the appearance of being fragile, but was, in fact, healthy, supple, and had a formidable demeanor. Vlad was also highly skilled in martial arts and was instinctively prone to settling arguments with violence. Most assumed he was not the brightest bird from his father’s nest, but Vlad had proved them wrong time after time.

  “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  “Seat Vanya opposite me. It doesn’t matter where the others sit.” Misha made the mental notes.

  “Yes, sir, it shall be done.”

  Eventually, Kos meandered back to his study. He looked at Vlad, reassured by his decision to separate Bagirov and Vidadi. Vlad was an odd-looking duck. He had fierce, dark, almond-shaped eyes, his hair was incongruously slicked over to one side, and he had, from the age of 13, sported a mustache. It was bushy now, fell over his upper lip generously, and was the color of an aged claret. Vanya called it a Russian cliché, but Vlad liked the image.

  Self-assured, Viktor began an old harangue with his second son: “You cannot understand our adversaries unless you go back to the time of Peter the Great. Imperial Russia conquered our lands, and the Tsar ruled the Caspian Sea from Derbent to Baku. Not by charm did that one rule, and so must we.”

  Vlad raised an eyebrow. “You said rule, Papa. Is that what you have in mind?” Unruffled by his father’s insinuation, he immediately thought of his own enemies, and how he would exact a toll on them if, in the end, the Kos clan were in power.

  Vlad was sitting on the sofa next to the window that overlooked the courtyard. Viktor marched over, poked him on the arm, and said, “A benevolent dictatorship is vastly superior to any western government. Peter was cruel but just.”

  History tells a different tale. Vlad knew from his studies that the Tsar had built St. Petersburg on the backs of thousands of serfs and impoverished artisans, who had been forced to travel to the city on their own, without food or supplies. If they managed to survive the trip, constructing Peter Alexeyevich’s Venetian fantasy on a disease-ridden, unstable, swampy site, often in the winter, had nothing to do with justice. It was merely cruel, but Vlad said nothing.

  At that moment, the door opened. “Again, the Saint Peter lecture?” Vanya boomed out his presence. “Viktor, have you not given any regard to my advice about moving beyond worn-out Russian ways?”

  Kos twisted around to see his elder son crossing the threshold. As usual, Vanya was dressed in a black blazer and burgundy turtleneck, which covered most of the Rosacea stain on his neck. But it wasn’t the scar that everyone noticed when Vanya entered a room. It was his smell – the reek of cheap aftershave that too often made people gag. “Close the door,” said Kos. “We have much to talk about before the others arrive.”

  “Something more, then?”

  “It’s not about the Russians, but about President Guliyev, the Kedars, and the Nadirovs.”

  “I thought we had them boxed in,” Vlad insisted. Of late, the ruling powers of Azerbaijan were at odds – House against House – the Kedars and Nadirovs leading one group, and the Kos driving the other.

  “Too much thinking, Vlad, will spoil your appetite.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, brother.”

  “The Kedar Bey will pay for his recklessness. His juvenile miscalculations at Council are many.” Next, Viktor grabbed the arm of each son and escorted both to the window box overlooking the courtyard. Neither servants nor visitors could overhear his words from that vantage point. “All things come to an end.”

  The oil minister was referring to the one resource that determined Azeri fortunes: petroleum. House Kos had controlled the oil concession of Azerbaijan for three generations. The rules were simple: 50% of all profits went to the government; 25% went to the President, and the other Houses split what remained, more or less. Of course, Viktor Kos had been skimming off the top for the past quarter-century. Vanya knew this and had long understood what his father would say next. With vain bombast, he spoke up: “And when will the oil reserves come to an end, Viktor?”

  Viktor wasn’t used to blatant rudeness, not even from his son, but replied just the same, “The last of the wells will be dry in two years, probably less.” There had been endless debating among economists: would the wells dry up first, or would oil prices drop so precipitously that pumping was no longer sustainable? The Kos didn’t care about academics. They just kept stuffing their pockets, like squirrels storing nuts for the winter. After all, a family must survive.

  “And the other countries?”

  “The Iranian fields will last a little longer, but that will make little difference to us.”

  Vlad was alarmed, remembering the fate of Syria when its resources had failed. “Disaster!” he shouted, and then added, “Everyone will blame us!”

  “Again, the boy wonder speaks.”

  Ignoring his elder son’s backbiting, Viktor Kos persisted, “Of course they will. It is the nature of vultures. And so, the need for our meeting today.”

  “Why do we need the other Houses?” Vlad countered. “They’re dead weight, as I see it.”

  “We use them as tools, Vlad, tools.”

  The butler interrupted just then with a muted knock. “The guests are arriving, Honored Bey.”

  “Yes, yes, Misha. See them in.”

  Vanya said, “Offer them a whiskey and shekerbura treats. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Viktor whispered to his sons, “I have a plan. It impacts the President and all the Houses of the Shirvan, especially the Kedars and Nadirovs.”

  “I could arrange an accident or two,” Vlad oozed with malevolent intent, “and we’d be rid of them.”

  Viktor Kos looked at his son and smiled acidly. “Plan B, Vlad,

  Plan B.”

  2

  Rufet Qurb

  The E9 Sportster had reached 100 miles per hour. The driver glanced down at the speedometer, touched the dashboard button of the rearview camera, and caught a glimpse of the thick desert clouds rising behind him. Not fast enough, He thought. Extreme anxiety – that’s what everyone involved in the chase was feeling, especially for those in the vehicles that were trying to block the fugitive’s escape. He was headed directly toward them and seemed doggedly resolute as he raced closer. He crushed the accelerator to the floor, and the powerful engine of the Audi Sportster responded instantly: 115… 130… 160 mph. When the driver looked back again, the clouds that had been tracking him out of Cairo had begun to disappear. At this speed, the fugitive imagined he would reach the Mediterranean seacoast in another 20 minutes, but that was no consolation. He would still have to find his friends and then escape the police that would be appearing on streets everywhere.

  “Müserif,” said David, “Müserif.” It meant “the honored one” in the Azeri language, and David was trying to get the attention of the middle-aged man who had been gazing through the car window, lost in memories. The real dust stirred up by the heavy traffic that led to the city had triggered Rufet’s oft-recalled nightmare. “Mr. Qurb, the office or the residence?” The chauffeur had reached Neftcilar Boulevard and would need to decide: turn right for downtown Baku or continue north along the Caspian coast to the home of the Kedar Bey.

  Snapping out of his daydream, the ruggedly handsome Rufet Qurb responded, “Yes, David, what is it?”

  “The office or the residence?”

  “The residence,” Qurb replied. “I have urgent business with the Kedar Bey.”

  David was more than chauffeur to the First Deputy; he was Qurb’s majordomo and confessor as well. Rufet had never married, and for decades the Zümrә Company had been his only mistress, and Azreal Kedar, his only boss. “The drea
m of Egypt again?”

  “Yes,” Rufet hid nothing from David, “I once owned an Audi Sportster, a beautiful car. It was ruby red and one-of-a-kind in that awful desert city.”

  “What happened to it, sir?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. The police confiscated it, I suppose.” Then Rufet reflected, “In my dream, I always get away, but in reality, I didn’t. The secret police gave me these.” David looked into the rearview mirror. Qurb was pointing to the cigarette scars on his forehead.

  “What happened next?”

  “My old friend, Mo, saved me.”

  “Our Mo Chinske? The CIA guy?”

  “The very same.” David had reached the turnoff. It was just a few miles along the E119 highway from the Old City to the medieval-walled marketplace and the Palace of the Shirvanshahs. It was forever windy there, especially in the winter when the wind comes from the north, blowing gale-force across the peninsula. The Azeris call that one Khazri. It can kill if a person’s not careful. In the summertime, the wind comes from Iran in the south. This one, the locals call Gilavar, and it cools Baku. But it too can be hazardous, often leaving the skin parched and dry, the lips cracked and sore.

  How anyone could call Baku beautiful was a mystery to Rufet. He was a country boy from the small village of Gobustan. In his youth, he had made a living escorting foreigners to the mud volcanoes, the fire temples, and the famous Iron Age petroglyphs on the rising plains west of the Caspian. Nostalgia filled Rufet’s mind. He thought of Zara and Mira when they were little girls – five, maybe six. Little beauties. He remembered that they called it their Rock Garden. But most of all, Rufet was partial to guiding international hunters into the mountains and through the backcountry for the big game. He and his brothers made good money when the CIA or MI6 came calling. Those stints, however, were only temporary, so when the Kedar clan came to power, he went to work for old Elman as his chauffeur. Maybe that’s why he confided in David so much. After a decade of service, Rufet had climbed to second-in-command under Elshan, Azreal’s uncle. When Elshan was executed seven years earlier, the boy Azreal became clan leader, the Bey of House Kedar.