The Missing Peace: An Explosive International Spy Thriller by Tom Joyce

Author:Tom Joyce [Joyce, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781732937239
Google: fE1nzgEACAAJ
Amazon: 1732937230
Publisher: Tom Joyce Writer
Published: 2021-05-06T18:30:00+00:00

SATURDAY, 18 JULY 2009 • DUSHANBE, TAJIKISTAN

BENEATH PITILESS FLUORESCENT ceiling fixtures, a tall, silver-haired man argues with a squat, taciturn immigration official about an unspecified “problem” with the visa he got in Istanbul. Standing in quiet irritation between him and three chain-smoking Chinese businessmen, Sonya counts five Ministry of Internal Affairs security police sporting Czech Kalashnikovs and gray camo stalking the perimeter. The silver-haired man is asked to step into an adjacent office by one of the policemen, presumably to buy his way into the Republic of Tajikistan.

The scene at Dushanbe International Airport reminds Sonya why her mother was so quick to leave the Soviet Union during perestroika. Tajikistan, like most countries once shackled by a heavy-handed Soviet system of incompetence and corruption had, upon independence, simply replaced the party apparatchiki with lazy and self-indulgent cheloveki, “insiders” that embraced both capitalist excess and systemic corruption. Sonya hopes that at least their restaurants have improved.

Eventually, she steps up to the bulletproof window, hands the immigration official a Russian passport and sighs. “Nadeyus’ vikup ne ponadobitsya [I hope that a fine will not be necessary].”

The officer scrutinizes her conservative academic passport photo. He seems particularly interested in those entry stamps that show Hebrew letters.

“You travel often to Israel, Miss Antonova?” He looks as if he is biting into an unripe persimmon.

“I have a research grant at the University of Haifa,” Sonya replies.

The officer continues to thumb idly through the pages again and again, as if he might have missed something that could result in a sizable fine. “And what do you research there?”

“Dead languages.”

He looks up sharply as an Internal Affairs officer taps his shoulder and whispers while pointing at Sonya. The immigration official scowls and nods toward the senior officer. “You will follow him,” he barks, dismissing Sonya and waving the first Chinese businessman forward.

The Consular bureau is a windowless room painted a particularly nauseating shade of green. Danny and Bashir are already parked on folding chairs at a wooden table that looks to be of Stalinist vintage. Sonya is told to wait with her companions.

“Big Eddy’s still in the back room,” Danny says. “There seems to be a disconnect between our fixer and his Embassy homeboy.” He looks tired but sexy in his black T-shirt, and a day’s growth of beard. Sonya idly wonders if the Jesuits allow their priests to have tattoos.

She rolls her chambray shirt to the elbows and sinks wearily into the unpadded seat, gazing up at the non-functional ceiling fan. “Any idea what the problem is?”

Danny shrugs. “My guess is that somebody didn’t pay somebody enough bhaksheesh.”

“Insha’al-Llâh.” Bashir’s onyx eyes twinkle optimistically. “That, at least, can be fixed.”

Eventually, Eddy pushes through a steel door, his eyes sullen shadows beneath the cold fluorescent lights. “Sorry for the delay, folks, but we’ve got a situation.”

He slouches into a chair at the table and tucks his big hands into the cargo pockets of his khaki trousers. “There’s a security alert in the wake of some former minister of something-or-other getting his ass smoked under peculiar circumstances about a week ago.

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