Death of a Spy (23 page)

49

Titov found it impossible to gauge whether Sava was lying or not. Even as a twenty-two-year-old, Sava had been difficult to read, and his stories had always shifted. Though he might not have been a spy at that point, he’d certainly acted like one. If the kid had just broken down and pled for mercy, the interrogation might not have gone on for as long as it had. But Titov had always sensed that Sava had been keeping something in reserve, even if it had just been his dignity. He’d been determined to completely break the kid, to strip him of everything, but he hadn’t been able to do it. Sava had held on. He’d been barely conscious half the time, but had still found the energy to spit—literally and figuratively—in people’s faces.

“What happened after Larry Bowlan picked you up?”

Sava’s eyes looked dead. His mouth formed neither a smile nor a frown. “Of course, as you know, I was addicted to heroin.”

Titov didn’t bother responding. He had many regrets, but what he’d done to Sava wasn’t one of them. After Sava had been set free, and the KGB in Tbilisi left reeling as a result of Bowlan’s death squad, Titov had been demoted to protection duty in Chechnya. Those had been bleak days, and they had become bleaker still when the Soviet Union collapsed. The very existence of the KGB had been called into question, and it had taken many long years for both Titov and the KGB to rise again.

Sava said, “Bowlan took me to a house. In the countryside. He helped clean me up. He fed me. Got me some heroin too, not much, but enough so that I wouldn’t experience any more withdrawal symptoms while still in Georgia. The idea was that he’d patch me up just enough so that I’d be let on a civilian plane. And that’s what happened. A few days after getting to the safe house, I was driven to the airport. Someone from the embassy accompanied me. I was still a wreck, but at least I could walk. The story was I got mugged in Tbilisi. Anyway, I made it home. Kicked the heroin addiction first, then got a call from Bowlan asking whether I wanted to join the CIA.”

“And you said you did?”

“It would appear so.”

“And you never tried to talk to Katerina again?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It was safer that way.”

“You said you tried to call her right after you got back to Tbilisi.”

“I did.”

“What changed?”

“I had time to think about it. Time to realize that maybe she’d be safer if I stayed away from her. I didn’t want you doing to her what you did to me.”

“What makes you think we would have hurt Katerina?”

“You used her, didn’t you? You and your men planted a listening device on her to get to me.”

It seemed surreal to Mark that they were having this conversation about something that had happened such a long, long time ago, so long ago that it hardly seemed real anymore.

“We might have.”

“We both know you did. And I knew that if I didn’t walk away from her you’d try to use her again to get to me. So I let her go.”

Titov tapped his thigh with his pistol. “Still, not a
single
call. Not even a note. You must not have thought much of her.”

“Wrong. I thought I loved her.”

Titov stared into Mark’s eyes. They were as dead when he spoke of love as when he spoke of torture. Either the American was an exceptionally good liar, or he honestly didn’t know about what had happened.

“Did Bowlan try to stop you?” asked Titov. “From contacting Katerina?”

“No.”

“Really?”

A silence. Titov wasn’t sure whether Mark was trying to remember or had decided to ignore the question.

“He might have,” said Mark eventually. “We discussed my predicament, and how best to proceed.”

“How to proceed.”

“You’re asking about something that happened over twenty years ago. And you know the condition I was in. My memory of that time is foggy. Why did you kill Larry Bowlan? And what was the painting of Katerina doing in his room?”

“Ah yes, the painting. Let us talk about it.” Titov’s voice rose a notch. “Because if you really left Georgia when you said you did, without bothering to contact Katerina, you would not have been able to recognize it.”

“Not true.”

“The painting does not even show her face, Sava, so you could not have simply recognized
her
. And I happen to know that this painting, she made it
after
you were captured! So if you never saw her again after you escaped, then there is no way you would be able to recognize this painting.” Titov let Sava think about that for a moment. “That is how I know you lie. No, what happened is that after you escaped you paid a visit to Katerina. You saw this painting. It was still drying, no? And Sava—I
know
what you did when you were there.”

Titov glared at Sava, daring the American to deny the truth.

The elevator door at the end of the cavern opened. One of Titov’s men appeared. He wore a combat headset and carried a short-barreled automatic rifle. “Sir, we have a problem.”

Situated on the edge of the badlands ten miles northwest of Nakhchivan City, atop an old salt mine, the Babak Sanatorium was housed in a grand old prewar building that had originally been built to accommodate asthmatic Soviet pensioners seeking refuge from the damp, cold hinterlands of central Russia. More recently, it had been restored by a group of overly optimistic Turkish investors hoping to lure aging pensioners from Turkey and Iran to the restorative air of the mine.

The venture had failed—it turned out the appeal of traveling to a police state and paying top dollar to sleep in a salt mine was limited—and one month earlier, the FSB had bought the property from a Turkish bank. One week ago, Titov had begun quietly transferring his men and matériel from South Ossetia into Nakhchivan, using the sanatorium as his base.

Now, upon exiting the elevator that led from the mine to the ground floor of the sanatorium, Titov was greeted by one of his men, a twenty-five-year-old Muscovite who was the son of the FSB’s Saint Petersburg director.

“How many are there?” asked Titov as he half-walked, half-jogged around a dormant fountain that stood in front of the elevator.

“Six cars, fourteen men.”

“Where are they now?”

“Nine have taken positions around the perimeter of the sanatorium, five are at the front door.”

“Weapons?”

“Makarov pistols and a few Uzis. No heavy armor.”

“What do they want?”

“To search the premises.”

Why was this happening? The advance team from FSB counterintelligence had paid off the local police. The sanatorium had no close neighbors; it was surrounded by badlands and desert.
Sava
. Somehow he’d led the Azeris here. Titov didn’t know how the American had done it, but the fact that they’d shown up so soon after Sava’s arrival wasn’t a coincidence.

“What have you told them?”

“We asked if they had a warrant to enter. They said no, but that they intended to enter by means of force if we didn’t allow them entry.”

“Do you believe them?”

Titov had reached the front lobby. Though it had been retrofitted with shiny ceramic tile and gaudy chandeliers, there was no furniture, which gave the room an empty, sterile feel. Through the glass doors he saw one of his men arguing with what appeared to be an Azeri police officer.

Titov ducked into a room off the lobby where ten different LCD monitors hung from walls; each displayed a live CCTV feed from different points around the sanatorium. They confirmed what he’d already been told: the sanatorium was surrounded.

Titov had confidence in his men; they were highly trained, and the tunnels were filled with arms that—although earmarked for the upcoming operation—could be used now to mount a robust defense. But once the fighting started, the Azeris could call in reinforcements, the army even. The tunnels would be inspected, the weapons would be found. Their cover would be blown.

Titov grabbed a radio headset, confirmed that the transmitter was set to block intercepts by rapidly changing frequencies, then called out a series of codes. He listened as each of his men responded, then instructed one of them to relay a message to the man who was dealing with the Azeris at the entrance—
continue to stall
.

Titov pulled off his headset, but held one of the earphones to his left ear so he could monitor any ongoing communication between his men. Then he picked up a satellite phone off the desk and dialed the direct number of his boss, the director of the FSB.

His call was answered on the second ring.

Titov quickly explained the situation. When the director began to berate him, Titov interrupted. “It is not the risk to me that is of concern. It is the risk to the operation. What I need now is for you to authorize the early activation of my second unit.”

Titov had split his operatives into two groups—spies with paramilitary skills, and paramilitaries who had also been trained as spies. The former had come to Nakhchivan weeks earlier and were now with him at the sanatorium. The latter—with the exception of Titov himself, who had originally trained as a soldier—had just entered Nakhchivan the day before.

“You can’t contain this failure even if we dispatched your second unit this very minute. The men who are threatening you now are no doubt in touch with the authorities in Nakhchivan City as we speak. There’s no point trying to protect your cover—it’s already been blown.”

“I can draw the Azeris inside, make them think they are safe, and then quickly neutralize them once the second unit arrives. If you can arrange for the operation to launch tonight, then the level of confusion will be such that the Azeris won’t know what hit them, they won’t have time to react.”

The director cursed.

“Battles don’t always go as planned, sir,” said Titov. “You and I, we have always improvised. That is why we are here today, why we survived for so long. Will you do it?”

“I will put the matter to the president. Whether the Iranians are even capable of moving up the timetable, I don’t know.”

“And my second unit?” When the director didn’t answer, Titov said, “Sir, we can’t wait until after you speak to the president to activate them! By then the battlefield will have changed. Our options will be more limited.”

Another pause, then, “Activate them now.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But first tell me—how did the Azeris discover your location?”

Titov hesitated—he didn’t want to tell the director about Sava. “I don’t know.”

50

Mark observed as his Russian guard appeared to listen to something that was being transmitted over his radio headset.

“Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.” The guard turned to Mark. “Put your hands behind your head. Walk to the elevator.”

Mark stayed seated. The Russian repeated himself. Mark still wouldn’t move, so the Russian—speaking into his radio headset—asked what he should do.

After listening for a moment, the Russian said, “If you don’t walk, I am to shoot both of your feet, then your arms, then drag you to the elevator. This is your choice. Walk.”

So subtle, the Russians, thought Mark. But he knew a real threat when he heard it, so this time, he stood.

“Quickly!” The Russian prodded Mark in the back with the barrel of his AKS-74, an automatic rifle with a folding stock that, like the Grach pistol, was favored by the Russian military. When they reached the elevator, the guard said, “Lower your left hand. Right hand stays on your head. Then press the elevator button.”

Mark did as instructed. The elevator door opened.

“Step inside,” said the Russian. “Press level six.”

Mark pressed levels one, two, and three, but the Russian couldn’t see that because he was still outside the elevator.

“OK, now what?” asked Mark.

“Both hands behind your head. Face the back wall.”

Mark complied, the Russian stepped into the elevator, and the door closed. The barrel of the AKS was now pressed against the left side of Mark’s upper back.

Noticing that Mark had pushed the elevator buttons for the wrong floors, the Russian cursed, then jabbed Mark in the back, hard, with the barrel of his rifle, causing a spike of pain to shoot through Mark’s chest.

“You think this is funny!”

“No.”

Another hard jab, this time to the kidney. More muttered curses. “Piece of shit. Cocksucker.”

The business with the elevator buttons had just been a hunch—if the Russian was in a rush to get to the sixth floor, Mark figured it couldn’t hurt to slow him down.

The Russian cursed yet again as he punched the various elevator buttons, trying to reset them.

When the elevator doors opened on what Mark guessed was the first floor, he heard two things: one was the sound of the Russian frantically hitting the elevator buttons; the second was the sound of men, maybe fifty feet or so away, arguing in Azeri—one wanted the other to step back from a door, while the other was yelling about someone not having permission to enter.

Mark felt the pressure from the gun barrel on his back lessen slightly as the Russian repositioned himself. Sensing that his captor was distracted, Mark took advantage of the unexpected opportunity—maybe the only one he’d have. Twisting violently, he grabbed for the rifle.

A shot rang out. Mark felt a sting by his hip but his left hand already had a purchase on the AKS and he was pushing the barrel away. More shots were fired, but they went wild into the elevator walls. Glass shattered. Mark kicked at the Russian’s crotch with his right foot and tried to bite the Russian’s trigger hand.

A blast of automatic rifle fire, lasting several seconds, sounded from what Mark could now see was a reception area of sorts.

“Drop the weapon!”

The command was spoken in Azeri.

The door to the elevator began to close, but before it did so there was a popping sound, like a water balloon bursting as it hit pavement. Mark felt something wet on his face. The Russian’s grip on the rifle relaxed. Mark ripped the gun away and fired a single round into the Russian’s leg. But then he realized his shot had been unnecessary—that the rear of the Russian’s head was mostly gone, and that the water-balloon-popping sound he’d heard had been the man’s skull exploding.

Mark threw out his hand and pushed the open button just before the elevator began ascending to the next level. Two men in rumpled civilian clothes stood ten feet from the elevator, Uzi machine pistols aimed at him. One of the men wore plastic sandals. Mark let his AKS rifle drop and held up his hands.

“Your name!” shouted the older of the two, in Azeri.

“Mark Sava.”

“It’s him,” said the second.

“Come with us,” said the first.

“There are more Russians here,” said Mark.

“How many?”

Mark considered how many he’d encountered, how many he’d heard. “At least six, maybe more. Some might be on the top floor. That’s where this guy”—Mark gestured to the corpse on the floor—“was taking me. Be careful, they’re all armed, mostly AKS-74 rifles, a few short-barreled carbines too.”