Gypsy Amber

By Ursula Wong

When the truth turns toxic

An explosion and a jetliner crash kill hundreds of Russian tourists in Central Asia. The Russian president—the most powerful woman in the world—uses it as an excuse to send in troops and proclaim herself anti-terrorism champion of Central Asia.

Vit Partenkas, owner of the Lithuanian watchdog group Baltic Watch, suspects Russia has a secret agenda. As he investigates the crash that killed his best friend, Vit uncovers a curious web of Central Asian shell companies connected to China. When he finds that social media postings linking the crash to Islamic fundamentalists are all lies, he’s targeted by an assassin. Vit desperately searches for the truth before time runs out for him and everyone he loves.

In Book Five of The Amber War Series, the truth turns toxic in Russia’s elaborate plan to put a stop to Chinese incursion into Central Asia and fight to regain the glory that once was the Soviet Union.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ursula Wong
• Release date: Oct 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005994105

Ursula Wong

Ursula Wong writes gripping stories about strong women who struggle against impossible odds to achieve their dreams. Her work has appeared in Everyday Fiction, Spinetingler Magazine, Mystery Reader’s Journal, and the Insanity Tales anthologies. She is a professional speaker appearing regularly on TV and radio.Her World War II historical fiction thriller Amber Wolf, the first in the Amber War series, is about a young Lithuanian woman who joins resistance fighters. Amber War, the second in the series, tells a little-known story of post-World War II Eastern Europe and the continuing fight against the Soviet occupation. Amber Widow, third book in the series, matches Eastern European radicals against Russia in a vicious game of nuclear chess. Black Amber, fourth book, has cyberterrorists attack the pipeline bringing natural gas from Russia into Germany. In Gypsy Amber, fifth book, Russia unleashes a devious plot to thwart China’s territorial expansion into Central Asia.For more information about Ursula and her books, visit her website at http://ursulawong.wordpress.com.

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Gypsy Amber

Ursula Wong

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Gypsy Amber

Copyright 2020 Ursula Sinkewicz

Published by Genretarium Publishing, Chelmsford, MA

Cover Design by Jack Sinkus

Cover Photography courtesy www.pixabay.com

ISBN: 9781005994105

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no portion of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author and thank you for purchasing this ebook.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is coincidental.

Last Updated August 2020

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Books by Ursula Wong

Amber Wolf (The Amber War Series Book 1)

Amber War (The Amber War Series Book 2)

Amber Widow (The Amber War Series Book 3)

Black Amber (The Amber War Series Book 4)

Gypsy Amber (The Amber War Series Book 5)

Purple Trees

The Baby Who Fell From the Sky

Finding My Father: A Story of Vietnam

For more information about the author and her works, go to: http://ursulawong.wordpress.com

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Gypsy Amber

Chapter 1

Fergana Valley, Uzbekistan, 1929

Stretched out over the thick carpet in the yurt where she lived with her family, Tika looked up from her book at a distant sound. Bells? She cocked her head and listened. Definitely bells. She pictured Bahrom, her father’s oversized camel with tassels and bells strewn around his neck, striding through the desert with his usual air of disinterest. Tika quickly closed the book and slipped it under a corner of the rug, making a mental note to come back later and hide it better. Mama thought reading a waste of time for girls, and this wouldn’t be the first book she’d found and destroyed.

Tika ran outside. Mama was stacking pots and pans on the wooden table, her face barely visible under the head scarf, a dozen slim gold bracelets dangling from her wrist. Where are you going?

Tika ignored her. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the blinding sun. In the shimmering heat, everything on the horizon looked uneven, but gradually the figure of a man riding a camel became clear.

Tika smiled, hitched up her long shirt, and ran toward the man and the bells.

Her feet pounded the ground, puffing up a mist of fine granules to settle in the sweat on her arms. Her breath grew heavy, her lungs stinging from the hot air, but still she ran. The man on the camel dismounted and strode toward her.

Papa. She ran into his arms.

He lifted her off her feet, swinging her around as she laughed. You’re taller every time I see you. He set her down.

What did you bring me?

Papa laughed. A girl almost old enough for marriage needs to learn patience. First, a kiss for your father.

I’m only fourteen, Papa. Tika threw her arms around his neck and squeezed. The camel shook his head as if disgusted with the reunion. He snorted out a gob of snot and lumbered toward the rope corral behind the yurt.

By the time Tika and her father reached the large tent, Mama was waiting, wringing her hands.

How much did you get for the horses? said Mama.

Far less than you expected, said Papa.

What are we going to do?

Papa shrugged.

They came looking for you again yesterday. They want money for their taxes. How are we to pay?

If we pay, they’ll just come back for more.

Mama looked hopeful. We can go to the summer grazing lands. They’ll never find us there.

There’s no hiding from them.

Her face fell. If they take you away, what am I to do? My life will be over. What will happen to your children?

He stepped up to her and squeezed her arms. You will take care of the children. As always.

She moaned. But I’m just a woman.

Papa scowled. Go make me something to eat.

Mama sniffed and went inside.

Tika touched Papa’s arm. You’re not going away again, are you?

Papa took Tika’s hand and led her to the camel, who was drinking from the water sack near the corral where the sheep rested for the day. Papa reached up to the riding saddle and a pouch hanging from the side. He pulled out a small sack and put it in her hands.

Tika glanced up at him, smiling. You got me something after all. She untied the drawstring and spilled some coins into the palm of her hand. The bag was full of them. She’d never seen such coins. Each one was twice the size of her thumbnail. Some were gold and others silver, and all had uneven edges and smooth spots from being handled. They looked old. Most held the engraving of a warrior holding a lance. She thought they were decorations for a necklace or bracelet. She didn’t care for jewelry like Mama did and tried not to show her disappointment. She put the coins back in the bag.

They’re Persian coins. And very valuable, said Papa.

Tika glanced at the yurt. Did you want me to save these for Mama’s birthday? She loves trinkets. Anything shiny pleases her.

Papa took her face in his hands. They’re rare and precious ancient coins. You must do everything you can to protect them.

You want me to hide them until you give them to Mama? said Tika, confused.

"Child. I’m giving them to you. They’re worth a lot of money."

We’ll use them to pay the Soviets?

No. You’ll use them to save your life.

Papa?

If I give the Soviets all we have, what am I going to do when they come back for more? They’ll just take me away anyway and you’ll have nothing. There’s no way out with them.

Tika’s stomach grew tight.

Don’t tell your mother or your brother about this.

The girl swallowed hard. What do you want me to do with them?

Papa gazed into her eyes. "You’re the only one with sense enough to know when to use them. Your mother will give them to the Russians. Your brother will spend anything that’s left on foolishness. He’s too lazy and selfish to do anything else. But you will save the coins, Tika. And use them only when you really need to."

But the Soviets. Mama said they’ll take you away if we don’t pay.

He glanced at the yurt. She’s already talking to the matchmaker about you. Resist. If she forces you to marry, don’t give any of the coins to your husband, because he’ll want all of them.

How do you know, Papa?

Because I know men. Use the coins to get out if you can. Or for your education. Use them to get yourself a better life. Whatever you do, don’t waste them. Don’t waste your life. Hide them well and tell no one. Let this be my legacy to you, my precious daughter. He hugged her close.

Tika’s eyes misted.

Papa dropped his arms and squinted into the distance.

Tika followed his gaze to a spot on the horizon that was gradually becoming larger.

He looked down at her, his eyes filling with tears. Promise me. Only when you really need them. Only when they can get you a better life or save the one you have.

I . . .

He grabbed her shoulders and shook them. Promise me.

Yes, Papa.

The dot on the horizon became an open-air vehicle, closing the distance fast. Tika pictured the same long rectangular body on wheels that she’d seen yesterday.

Go now. Hide them. Save yourself. Remember what I told you. Remember me.

Tika ran to Bahrom’s favorite spot behind the yurt and dug desperately into the sandy soil with her hands. The camel butted her rear with his head, as if encouraging her to hurry so he could lie down and rest after the long journey. When the hole was deep enough, she dropped in the sack. Glancing over her shoulder at the sound of the engine growing ever louder, she quickly filled in the hole. Guiding Bahrom forward, she unbuckled the straps on the riding saddle and encouraged him to lay down with a tap to his legs. The great camel snorted, sighed, and lowered his substantial body on top of the buried treasure.

Finally, you’re home. A male voice—the man from yesterday.

Tika could barely make out the distant words. She knew it was one of the men in the vehicle. A Soviet. She hurried to the pile of dry grass hidden under a tarpaulin. She threw back the covering and picked up an armful of hay. She lay it down in front of the camel. Bahrom chomped a mouthful of the food.

What are you doing? Another voice. Close. Tika spun around to see a soldier holding a rifle across his chest.

Mama screamed from the other side of the yurt. No! Don’t take him!

Tika wanted to grab the gun and shoot the soldier. Anything to save her father. Think fast!

The camel needs tending, she said.

The soldier grunted.

Damn Russian.

Tika followed him around the yurt to the vehicle. Papa was in the backseat. Mama wailed. Tika’s brother was nowhere in sight. He should have heard the engine, wherever he was. He should have come, but he was never home when they needed him.

The first voice spoke. You gypsies need to learn what happens when you don’t cooperate. Consider this a lesson. He sneered and climbed into the vehicle. The soldier with the rifle got in next to Papa, and they drove off.

Sand trailed in a cloud as the vehicle gradually got smaller and disappeared into the horizon.

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AUTUMN 2021

Chapter 2

Central Asia, Uzbekistan-Turkmenistan Border

The woman had been calling herself Bibi for a long time, although it wasn’t her first alias. In the off times when she thought of the name given her by her parents, it seemed odd and foreign. An alias was more suited to the disguises she wore to protect her anonymity, further assured by the fact that anyone who suspected she was an imposter didn’t live for very long.

Bibi’s fair skin, inherited from her Russian father, belied a gypsy bloodline on her mother’s side. Her last name, Cavar, was new, but not unusual in Central Asia. Slavic names were common here because the area had belonged to the Soviet Union decades ago. Before that, oases dotting the land marked the great cities of the Silk Road, where emirs ruled and massive camel caravans brought goods from southern Europe through the desert to China and back again.

Bibi’s taxi stopped in front of the nondescript gray building controlling entrance into Turkmenistan. After paying the fare, she rolled her canvas bag inside, and placed it on the luggage scanner. A crowd of people pushed behind her, many carrying large packages wrapped in blue cellophane, or bags of goods to sell on the Turkmenistan side. After selling whatever they had, they’d buy fresh goods to resell back on the Uzbekistan side tomorrow. International commerce, Central Asian style.

Deep down, Bibi knew them because of Grandmother Tika. Bibi knew how they felt and what they thought. The blood of Central Asia flowed in her veins. Her ancestors had been nomads from the Fergana Valley traveling with their flocks to grazing lands every summer. But she belonged to Russia now. Happily. Willingly. Bibi’s mother had treated her like a breeding sow by arranging an early marriage. But Bibi had used Grandmother Tika’s coins to run away to Moscow and university. She’d sent her parents letters telling them where she’d gone. But they never responded, leaving Bibi without a home and family. Then Nina Ditlova, now assistant to the president of Russia, had saved her. Nina had given her a purpose and a country. Bibi would do anything for Nina.

Bibi glanced back at the ever-increasing line, glad she’d come early. She went through the metal detector, picked up her bag, and got in behind a group of jean-clad westerners in the line for foreigners. That line was shorter than the others, but moved just as slowly past the dirty green walls.

The men looked sweaty and the children hungry. The air smelled of body odor. The women, in brightly patterned dresses and scarves draped around their heads, appeared resigned to the inevitability of spending hours there. Bibi could feel their gazes. She wore loose black pants and a jean jacket. Underneath, close to her heart, she wore a chain with a single ornament—a Persian coin. It was bad to carry anything personal—anything that hinted of one’s past could be dangerous. But the coin had been given to her by Grandmother Tika and symbolized the strength and trust they’d shared. Bibi wore it always.

An older man in one of the lines next to her put his package on the floor and sat on it. Bibi was taller than most men in the room. Her height and blonde hair, cut very short, were also inherited from her father, a low-level government administrator who never amounted to much. In addition to the physical traits, she’d inherited his steely composure—something she’d found useful in her line of work. She’d also inherited his indifference to religion.

Bibi clutched her Russian passport, grateful they’d given her a worn one with many canceled visas.

Finally her turn, she stepped up to the counter. A middle-aged man in blue military dress sat behind it, separated from her by a glass partition marked with fingerprints. His dark hair was shiny from gel. A trickle of sweat ran down her back. Bibi smiled. He took her passport from the opening under the glass, and slowly turned the pages. He looked up at her. She broadened her smile, trying to make it look genuine.

Were you here on business or pleasure? said the man. His face was like stone.

Bibi took in a sharp breath. Pleasure.

He stared at her. Bibi continued to smile. Failure at this point would be a disaster. She’d heard stories about Uzbek prisons. He stamped the passport and handed it back.

Come back soon, he said.

Bibi let out a slow breath, grateful that men were essentially the same everywhere. Thanks.

She passed a group of tourists in jeans and T-shirts standing next to their luggage, probably waiting for their companions to get through the line. She went outside through the glass door. Compared to the fetid air inside, the sweltering sun felt cool. She crossed a large open area to the next guard, who had an automatic rifle strapped to his back. He looked at her passport photo and then at her. She smiled. He waved her on. She fell in line behind another group walking along the narrow path to the next guard who blocked the only break in a long fence topped with loops of barbed wire. He slowly looked at each passport. Sweat ran down Bibi’s cheeks as she waited. She wiped it away. Like the last guard, he examined her photo and her face. He pronounced her surname. She smiled. He waved her through. A woman’s smile works magic.

She crossed a broad open area of broken concrete to a dirty, Soviet-era bus with bedsheets hung over the windows, blocking the view. She scrambled up the steps as those behind her pushed and shoved while passing their packages up to others, who threw them on top of a growing mound where the front two seats had been removed. The paint had worn off the bench frames and the cushions were thin. The heat was stifling. Bibi felt the stares of people sitting behind her.

The bus started off, and the driver steered across a large pavement that eventually narrowed into a road. He navigated around concrete barriers set there to prevent speeding. When the bedsheets moved, Bibi got a glimpse of the roadside, covered in brush and scrub grass. Beyond that were open fields.

A few minutes later, the bus stopped. Bibi got off and followed the line of souls to the next building. This time the man behind the glass partition wore a military green shirt. I’m just a tourist. Nothing more. Visiting the country. He barely looked at her. He stamped her passport, handed it back, and waved her on.

Outside, she took a deep breath of Turkmen air as she walked past a boom barrier where guards used mirrors to examine the undercarriage of a fruit truck. She went to a shaded area about fifty meters down the road and sat on the bench. Bees swarmed around an open bottle of Fanta lying on its side in the tall grass. She should have felt relieved that she’d gotten through so easily, but things were only beginning.

A white SUV covered in dust pulled up beside her. She recognized the driver, Zareef: former Afghan NDS. She’d heard he would do absolutely anything for money.

Is it ready? she said.

Zareef nodded.

She gave him a hard look and glanced at her watch. We have a schedule to keep.

Don’t worry.

He put her bag in the back seat and she climbed in next to it. Zareef was dark—handsome enough. But his value was in knowing the roads and in his ability to acquire necessary provisions. You could buy many things here, with enough money and baksheesh to make those involved forget your face. Zareef could get explosives and weapons—whatever she needed—because of his Afghan ties. Besides that, his mother was from Turkmenistan, so he spoke the language, which was a plus. Just in case. Turkmen wasn’t one of the seven languages Bibi had mastered—a talent that had gotten her into this business in the first place.

She watched the back of Zareef’s head as he drove. She didn’t trust him because she didn’t know him. But she needed him, so he was in. For now.

Several hours into the trip, they stopped in the desert to urinate. Bibi relieved herself behind bushes the Soviets had planted over forty years ago to prevent erosion. She caught Zareef watching her. She had no choice but to ignore it, for their work wasn’t done. Sometime later, they stopped to eat a disk of bread and cold lamb kebobs that Zareef said his mother had prepared.

After ten hours driving through the cheerless Karakum, with its rolling hills and signs warning drivers to yield to camels, Ashgabat rose like a stone giant out of the sand. It was dark now. Zareef stopped outside a deserted market and got out, while Bibi changed her clothes in the car. Even here, the pavement was meticulously clean. No one was around, except for two mature women hurrying down the street in colorful headdresses, long scarfs, dresses, and cheap shoes. The streets of Ashgabat were often devoid of people.

Bibi glanced back. Zareef was carefully lifting a black oversized purse out of the trunk. When she was ready, she got out of the car. She had sandals on her feet, and under the jean jacket, she’d added a gold embroidered maroon tunic. It was tucked into her pants, and the jacket buttoned to hide it. Her head was bare. Around her neck she had a black scarf. She looked like a tourist from some large western city like New York or London. Zareef handed her the purse.

You sure this will do the job? she said.

Your lack of confidence is astounding. But yes, it will do the job. And then some.

You’ll be waiting for me?

I’ll pick you up in a delivery truck.

Make sure you bring that. She pointed to the bag she had brought from Uzbekistan.

Bibi gently placed the purse over her shoulder. She walked past the pine trees hiding the SUV and went down the street. There were no cars out—something that would be strange for most cities, but not Ashgabat. She walked to the nearest hotel, about two blocks away. A few tourists were in the lobby. Going up to the concierge, she asked him to call for a taxi.

The concierge, an older man, frowned. She knew why. Women weren’t supposed to go anywhere alone. But there weren’t many people in the world with the skills or inclination to do the kind of work she did. Being a woman was usually a plus, despite the prejudices she encountered. Business was very brisk.

She followed the concierge outside. The taxi arrived in minutes. The concierge opened the car door for her.

She instructed the taxi driver to take her to the Bagt Kosgi, the famous wedding palace. The building had several stories and was topped by an enormous sphere surrounded by square frames. It complimented the other geometric shapes rimmed in carnival lights that