When the traitor arrives, the nurses give me crutches and lead me to another hospital room. It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of walking with the crutches—the f*****g headache certainly doesn’t help—and by the time I get there, they have the guy sitting on a bed, with Colonel Sharipov and an M16-toting soldier flanking his sides.
“This is Anton Karimov, the officer responsible for the unfortunate incident with your plane,” Sharipov says as I hobble toward them. “You are welcome to ask him whatever questions you have. His English is not as good as mine, but he should understand you.”
One of the nurses drags a chair over, and I sit down on it, studying the profusely sweating man in front of me. In his early forties, Karimov is on the plump side, with a thick black mustache and a re
