Enemy of the Good

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The basement was cool and damp and smelled of mildew and sour milk. There were only about twenty of them, hardly an army. The group included a few graybeards, but most were young, one or two of the boys barely old enough to shave. Zamira’s heart ached for the youngsters. She was almost fifty and if the secret police put a bullet through her skull tomorrow it would have been a rich and full life. The younger ones were risking so much more, even if they did not yet have the perspective needed to understand that, to recognize their own mortality.

The agents of the State Committee for National Security—the GKNB—were both ruthless and efficient. And they were getting closer. There were only a few places left in Bishkek where the steering group could meet. Temir, the owner of the restaurant, was a sympathizer, and despite the dangers he let them use the basement. There was something about meeting literally underground that was deeply satisfying. It was something primal from hunter-gatherer days, she suspected, the association of the cave with safety and security. But this was their third time in the same place in as many months. And the meeting had already gone on too long.

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