Free The Mingrelian by Ed Baldwin

him?
    “All power rests with the Supreme Leader,” Eskander had told him many times as they’d discussed the world situation together candidly at Lado’s estate in Zugdidi, his ancestral home where they could be assured they wouldn’t be overheard. “There are political advisers, economic advisers and military advisers, but the final authority always rests with the Ayatollah.”
    So, this was the Ayatollah’s doing.
    “Look at the map, you’ll understand,” he’d said.
    Lado drew a map of Georgia on a piece of paper and added the surrounding countries. To the south is Muslim Turkey, a sliver of Christian Armenia, then Muslim Azerbaijan and the Caspian Sea. The Caucasus Mountains to the north are inhabited only by wild men, whose primitive passions are easily stirred by Islamic militancy of several flavors, all bad. Chechnya is in the center of that. To the west, as the Caucasus slope down to the Black Sea, Abkhazia, which was part of his Mingrelian homeland, is occupied by the Russian Army. A crisis in Georgia causing Russia to reoccupy it to deal with Chechnya eliminates a sovereign Christian nation and pushes the fault line for Islamic expansion north to the Caucasus. Politically and economically, that would be a blunder, but in the mind of an Islamic scholar with a thousand-year timeline, a tactical advance. Or, a trap.
    ****
    Lado Chikovani’s plane from Tehran landed the next day at 3 p.m. There had been no flights out the night before, and he’d spent a sleepless, fearful night. Rushing through customs, he searched frantically for the first telephone he could find. He’d played all the alternatives through his mind during the past 20 hours and had decided to alert the Americans at the embassy and let them handle it. They’d have a hot line to local police, and he’d have minimal exposure.
    “Embassy of the United States,” an officious voice answered in Georgian.
    “I need to speak to the ambassador,” Lado said, breathlessly.
    Then he waited.
    “Ambassador’s office,” a secretary answered, still in Georgian.
    “I need to speak to the ambassador,” he said.
    “Could I tell the ambassador what it concerns?”
    “It’s very important, and urgent.”
    “The ambassador is out of town. I could let you speak to the deputy chief of mission,”
    “Yes, please.”
    “This is Dabney St. Clair”.
    “The Chechens are going to assassinate the Russian president here, in Tbilisi.”
    “Oh?”
    “Today,” he said, still breathless. Why didn’t she respond?
    “Who is this?” she asked.
    “I can’t say, it is too dangerous.”
    “Can you give me any details?”
    “I don’t have any details, just call the police, please.”
    “OK, I will.”
    “Thank you,” he said and hung up. It felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He walked to the television monitor in the airport to watch the events as the alarm was sounded.
    ****
    “Ellie, put a tracer on that call,” Dabney St. Clair said, walking to the door, brow wrinkled.
    What did this mean? Was this a test? She’d look ridiculous if she called an all-out alarm and then it proved to be a hoax. She didn’t need that. Whoever that was on the phone could call the police himself if he had something as incredible as an assassination to report.
    “It came from the airport,” the secretary called through the open door.
    Dabney turned her attention to the television in the outer office. All channels had been broadcasting nonstop live coverage of the Russian president’s every move. His motorcade was approaching Freedom Square where he was to lay a wreath at the statue of Pushkin and make a speech.
    “Call the office of the president of Georgia, I need to speak to someone over there.”
    The secretary turned in her chair to look at Dabney. The deputy chief of mission didn’t usually ring up the president of Georgia, who was obviously not in the office because he was right there on live television in Freedom