S1 E2: A South African in Uzbekistan (Part 2)
Right, I’ll tell you, boy. I don’t think we can stop the people sitting in armchairs from having an opinion on this one, ja.
Read Part 1 of A South African in Uzbekistan here.
March 2012
Gerry made it to the fish cannery early, hoping to get a line of sight on anyone entering the abandoned building. After wiggling through a hole in the fence, he then had to climb through an empty window frame to get into the actual building. What he found was rather remarkable. All of the machinery was still in place, even the cans used for the fish. Moving through the different rooms, he marvelled at the organization of it all. He was so enthralled that he almost jumped out of his shoes when he heard a voice.
“Moskvich,” a man hiding in the shadow of a conveyor belt said.
Gerry moved towards the sound, eventually finding a short, rather rotund man in a peaked Uzbek hat and long felt robe.
“You must be Ruslan, ja?”
The man nodded, although Ruslan probably wasn’t his real name.
“Howzit going ah bru? Quite a location you picked for this rendezvous huh. Reminds me of some of the abandoned factories I used to play in as a kid.”
Ruslan stepped from the shadows and flashed Gerry a big smile full of gold-capped teeth.
“Welcome to Karakalpakstan,” he beamed, and then added, “I hate all this sneaking around, codenames and what have you.”
“Yeah, bru. I had some company in Nukus. A couple of amateurs, I tell you. Some guy named Colonel Ivanov took an interest in me.”
Ruslan looked Gerry in the eye. “Colonel Ivanov, you say?”
Gerry nodded.
“Colonel Konstantin Gavrilovich Ivanov. One of the Uzbek security service’s many snakes. He denounced his own brother to advance his career. He’s a cold bastard, that one. You have to be careful with him.”
“Is that right, huh? Is he that venomous?”
Ruslan nodded. “But where are my manners? Let us go somewhere more comfortable where we can speak in private.”
Gerry followed Ruslan out of the cannery and through a different hole in the fence. This one took them away from the main road and over a rocky section of empty land. They eventually arrived at a dirt road lined with houses. Kids rode old bicycles up and down; a few women carried bags; and a man pushed a mobile clay oven. They took a right and then Ruslan entered the yard of one of the cinder-block houses. He went to the backyard where a small outbuilding with a chimney spewed smoke. A woman came out of the house carrying two towels, a bottle of vodka, and two glasses.
Ruslan ducked into the small building and ushered Gerry inside. They were in a dark room with a table and chairs. It had a certain warmth and humidity to it. A door led off to the left. The woman set the things down on the table, said something to Ruslan in Uzbek, and then disappeared.
“Never a bad day for a sauna,” he said as he removed his hat, robe, and clothes. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
He picked up the bottle and glasses and entered the sauna.
The life of a spy huh, Gerry thought to himself as he stripped down and followed Ruslan inside. Even in the low light, he could see the sheen on Ruslan’s prodigious belly. The man gripped the open bottle of vodka with his hands.
“In Russian, they say, ‘In sauna, there are no generals.’”
He looked down at his belly and laughed, then poured two glasses of vodka
Gerry took a seat and accepted the proffered glass.
“Sto gram,” Ruslan said. “One hundred grams. To our good health.”
Down the hatch it went. Gerry shuddered; Ruslan refilled both glasses. This time they were mercifully only half full.
“To Karakalpakstan ja,” Gerry tried.
“To Karakalpakstan,” Ruslan grinned and poured some more water on the heating element.
Gerry closed his eyes and let the vodka and steam do their work. When he next opened them, Ruslan had another glass of vodka ready.
“The people of Karakalpakstan thank you for your heroic service,” he said. “One day we will be free of men like Colonel Ivanov.”
Gerry usually made it a habit of not asking questions, but in this case he was curious. “Tell me, bru, what exactly is it you’re aiming to do here?”
“We were promised a referendum by the government in Tashkent. Every year it’s the same answer: ‘Next year.’ We need better representation if we are to be free.”
They tempered the vodka and sweating with tea breaks. Gerry gobbled up dried figs in a futile attempt to soak up the alcohol. When the bottle was finally free of its last drop, they exited the sauna for the last time. He hosed himself down with ice-cold water and had to sit down to dry himself off for fear of falling over. Not that Gerry could be trusted to accurately describe anything he saw, but Ruslan looked like he’d just spent the last however many hours drinking water.
Gerry stumbled dizzily back through the yard, trying his best to keep up with his host. A white van was waiting on the street with the side door open. Ruslan gripped Gerry by the shoulders and once again offered his thanks. “He will take you back to Nukus,” he said, pointing at the driver. Gerry got in and passed out before they had reached the main road.
Gerry awoke to the driver shaking him. He sat up and immediately regretted it. His head was still swimming in cheap vodka. “Oh, for god’s sake ja, where are we?”
“Your guesthouse, sir.”
The news pumped some adrenalin into him. He scanned the street looking for his tail but couldn’t make out anything more than blurred shapes. He crawled out of the van, thanked the driver, and stumbled to his room. That it had been completely turned over hardly registered at first; he was more focused on making it to the bed without falling over. It was only after tripping on something that he noticed the pillows on the floor, the upside-down chairs, and the toilet urn lid in pieces on the bathroom floor.
“Is that right, huh? What the hell is going on here?”
It was then that an existential dread swallowed him whole. He’d forgotten to pass the USB stick to Ruslan. He pawed at the collar of his coat where the USB stick was hidden. Another jolt of dread washed over him. It was gone.
He could hear his dad saying, “Right, I don’t think we can stop the people sitting in armchairs from having an opinion on this one ja.”
A sinister thought began to take shape. What if this was all an elaborate ploy? What if Ivanov had set him up and Ruslan had been a plant designed to get him drunk and steal the USB stick?
In Gerry’s drunken, conspiracy-prone mind, it was not just plausible but very likely. The real Ruslan surely would’ve been more skittish and less confident. He wouldn’t have wanted to be seen in public with Gerry. They simply would’ve made the exchange and gone their separate ways.
If it was a ploy, it would certainly explain why Ivanov had been so reserved the day before. He had known the plan all along. The question now was what he had in mind next.
Gerry awoke the next morning with a vicious throbbing in his skull. Thankfully, he could see clearly enough to determine that there were no tails waiting for him out on the street. Whether that was good or bad, however, was beyond him. At breakfast, all he could do was sip at his tea and ruminate over his situation. The thought of greasy eggs made him want to throw up.
Sobriety, at least, had returned a measure of rationality to his thinking. He was no longer convinced of the idea that he had been set up by Ivanov. He didn’t want to rule it out, mind you, but the more likely scenario was that Ruslan had somehow extracted the USB stick from his coat without Gerry knowing.
Either way, he still had to get out of the country. The industrial espionage handbook tells you to stay calm and go about your business like nothing is wrong. In other words, lie until you’re caught out, then try to make a deal for your life.
Gerry’s dad, of course, promoted a different solution: “Son, never let them take you alive huh.” Which was probably why he was in some unmarked grave in Mozambique.
The plan was to take the scenic route back to Tashkent and then getting the next flight out. The ancient Silk Road cities of Khiva, Bukhara, and Samarkand wouldn’t be missed by any tourist. Imagine Gerry trying to explain to Ivanov that he had decided to skip them in favour of the western industrial heartland?
He’d need a week to take them all in, Gerry figured. If Ivanov picked him up along the way, then so be it.
First up was Khiva. Gerry left the hotel in Nukus, took a taxi to the shared-taxi station, and was in Urgench a few hours later. From there, he jumped on the old trolleybus making the hour-long journey to the ancient walled city. In the distance, he could see the city’s minarets, cupolas, and madrassas glistening turquoise in the mid-afternoon sun.
Inside the walls, he meandered the narrow streets, admiring this veritable gem of Islamic architecture. The last few days were starting to catch up with him. It didn’t take long to find someone offering a bed, dinner, and breakfast. He followed his host into an ancient home and quickly found himself asleep in the cool darkness. When he awoke, sometime after dark, a steaming plate of lagman — thick wheat noodles, manti — meat dumplings, and fresh vegetables were waiting for him.
Next up was Bukhara. Back to the Urgench train station he went, only to find that there were no trains heading east for a couple of days. A bus would be the only option, but little did he know that the 500-kilometre road between Urgench and Bukhara was less road and more rutted-out goat track. By the time midnight rolled around, they’d still not reached Bukhara. They did, however, pull into the lot of a roadside restaurant. Buses, Gerry was told, were not allowed on the roads after midnight, so they’d have to stay in the restaurant until first light and then continue to Bukhara.
As hard as it was to get to, the city didn’t disappoint. A real working old city, there was history everywhere. Some of the mosques, madrassas, and mausoleums were well restored, others were under renovation. Gerry stepped into an ancient tea shop for a quick break and filled himself up on the local green tea, candied nuts, and sesame sweets. A group of French tourists at a nearby table nattered away about the state of the French national football team.
After two nights in Bukhara, he jumped another bus to Samarkand. This ride was short and uneventful, other than the fact that he was dropped off on some busy street, not at a bus station. He wandered around for a bit until eventually stumbling upon the magnificent Registan. Three towering madrassas flanked a central square. Turquoise motifs adorned the majestic beige structures. There was an aura to the place that just couldn’t be explained. Like being at the Colosseum in Rome or the Great Pyramids of Giza.
The more modern parts of the city were rather charming. Early Soviet-era apartment buildings lined the shaded streets. Rumour had it that the Soviet Union’s prized musicians were relocated here to ride out the Second World War. It gave the city a rich musical history, which was embodied by the opera and ballet theatre in the centre of town. For dinner, he found an outdoor café under an overpass serving up mounds of plov and crusty wheels of bread. One thing was for sure: he was indeed going to miss the food.
Two days later, he was on the local version of a high-speed train to Tashkent, arriving at the Central station just after lunch. He got a taxi to the Hotel Uzbekistan and checked in. A quick call to his employer’s travel agency got him on the following day’s flight to Istanbul and then on to Cape Town. For the rest of the day, he browsed the great domed Chorsu Bazaar for spices, surplus weaponry, and Uzbek hats. At night, he took in the sound and light show at the fountains in the central park.
He was somewhat surprised that Ivanov hadn’t stopped in to visit at some point. Maybe he had fooled the wily Colonel after all.
The Tashkent airport was surprisingly busy at six in the morning, with flights departing to places like Baku, Bishkek, and Almaty. Gerry picked up his boarding pass and strode confidently towards immigration. The dour man at the desk took Gerry’s passport and compared the photo with the person standing in front of him. He punched some keys on the keyboard, then his eyes suddenly became alert.
“Iqbal!” he said to an older, more distinguished gentleman standing a few metres away.
Iqbal came over and listened to what the dour man had to say. Concern was etched on his face. He took the passport and looked at Gerry, then at the screen, then at the passport.
“Please come with me, sir,” Iqbal said to Gerry.
Gerry’s heart skipped a beat, but he tried to remain calm. Just another immigration official looking for a little something extra, right?
He was ushered through a couple of doors, down a hallway, and into a private room. And who should he find there but none other than Colonel Ivanov. He didn’t look happy.
“Mr. van Jaarsveld. Please, sit.”
Gerry did.
“Tell me, how was your stay in Uzbekistan?”
“Ja, nee, it was great a time. A lovely country you have. I’ll be telling my friends about the food, you can bet on that.”
Ivanov shifted stiffly in his chair.
“Can you explain where you were on March 18th?”
Gerry counted back in his head. The 18th was the day he was in Moynak.
“Ah the 18th, you say? Let me think. Ah, I think I took a trip to Moynak that day, ja ja, I did indeed.”
Ivanov fixed Gerry with a tired glare.
“Did you happen to meet anyone while you were there?”
This was starting to get uncomfortable. Gerry pretended to think.
“Well, I did meet one guy. He invited me for a sauna at someone’s house ja. We had a bottle of vodka for company.”
A photograph was handed to him depicting Ruslan and Gerry walking down a dirt road.
“Is this the man?”
Gerry nodded slowly.
“Can I tell you what this looks like?” Ivanov didn’t wait for my answer. “It looks like you snuck off to Moynak to meet a domestic terrorist.”
Gerry tried to look surprised. “Domestic terrorist? That guy? Are you for real, bru?”
Ivanov eyed his prey closely.
“Don’t let his appearance distract you. He is a hardened criminal working against the interests of Uzbekistan.”
“Is that right? He just took me to a sauna, got me drunk, and sent me in a van back to Nukus.”
“Did he ask you for any favours? Taking money out of the country or delivering a message to someone?”
“Um, no, not at all. Should he have?”
“Can I see your coat, Mr. van Jaarsveld?”
Gerry felt backed into a corner. Refusal would make him look guilty, so he stood up and handed Ivanov his coat, who in turn handed it to the orderly standing in the corner. They inspected every inch, then the orderly took it away.
The room had suddenly grown too warm for the two of them. They sat in silence until the orderly returned and murmured something in Uzbek to Ivanov. Gerry took a slow, deep breath.
“You’re free to go. Have a good flight, Mr. van Jaarsveld.”
Gerry couldn’t tell if there was victory or disappointment in Ivanov’s voice.
The orderly returned Gerry’s passport and escorted him directly to the departure gate. Boarding announcements had already started. A line of people, mainly Turkish businessmen if their suits were any indication, waited impatiently for a family of six to present their boarding passes. Gerry took a seat to collect himself.
He wondered what the people sitting in armchairs would be thinking now. Here he was, a spy returning home without a clue in the world as to whether he had successfully done what he had come here to do. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Ivanov was expertly manoeuvring pieces around a chessboard, while he, Gerry, was wasting his time learning the rules of checkers.
Accidental Intrigue is a podcast featuring tales of travel and mystery written by Kent Babin and narrated by Remington Cooney.
