Death of a Spy (25 page)

He studied them all as best he could. Some gray hair, but collectively they were much younger than Mark would have expected a group of birders to be. And they weren’t chatting with each other the way they should have been had their plans to visit the sanatorium been suddenly dashed; they all sat stone-faced, staring straight ahead.

One of the men inside the minibus lifted the underside of his wrist to his mouth and spoke a few words.

“Yeah, we definitely have a problem,” said Mark.

Moments later, gunfire erupted from the upper floors of the sanatorium. The Nakhchivani cop fell to the ground as the minibus lurched forward and crashed into the gate.

The gate held. Orkhan fired on the minibus, which backed up twenty feet, then surged forward. This time the gate burst open. The men inside were smashing out the windows with their guns. When Orkhan ran out of ammunition, Mark raised his pistol, and, shooting past Orkhan’s face, fired three shots at the driver. He missed.

“Go!” Mark pointed west. They were outnumbered, and about to be outgunned and overwhelmed. “Cut the corner!”

It was possible to avoid the gate and approaching minibus by driving down a long scrub-covered hill, at the base of which lay the road.

Orkhan steered the van up and over the curb that lined the circular drive in front of the sanatorium, but as he did so, the van’s front tire on the driver’s side blew out and the metal wheel rim smashed into the concrete curb, sending a violent jolt through the van.

Orkhan struggled to steer as the van careened down the hill. Mark swiveled in his seat, looking back. Several seconds passed—then a police car appeared at the top of the hill.

“They’ve got a car.” Mark had to yell so that he could be heard over the rattling of the van. “The cop they shot at the gate—they found his keys.”

Orkhan tried to speed up, but the van swerved dangerously. The police car began descending the hill at what Mark estimated to be over twice the speed of the van. He could see two men in the car.

“What do we have for ammunition?” Mark checked the magazine of his Makarov. He had seven shots left. He opened the dash compartment.

“There’s nothing,” said Orkhan, adding, “We had to move fast with what we had…” Orkhan’s voice trailed off as he focused on keeping the van upright as it skidded down a steep section of hill.

The paved road appeared in front of them. Through his binoculars, Mark focused on the two men in the police car. The one in the passenger seat was leaning out the side window, holding an AKS rifle, waiting to take a shot. When they reached the road, Orkhan tried to speed up. The flat tire ripped away from the rim. Sparks flashed from the wheel well, and the metal rim ground jarringly along the pavement.

Paralleling the road was a deep ditch. Mark gauged that, in about a hundred feet, when the van rounded a gentle corner, he and Orkhan would be out of sight of the police car for at least a few seconds.

“Slow down as soon as we round the bend. Just enough so that I’ll be able to jump out without killing myself.”

Mark climbed out of his seat and squatted on the floor behind Orkhan, next to the van’s cargo door. With his right hand he gripped his Makarov; with his left, the cargo door handle.

Orkhan looked skeptical. “And then what?”

“Then I deal with them.”

“You are not so young anymore, Sava! Perhaps you should stay with me in the van.”

“Screw it, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Don’t. I’ll take care of them, and we’ll meet back in Nakhchivan City. Send a man to the Blue Mosque.” Mark wasn’t trying to be heroic. Splitting up would help confuse the enemy, and Mark would rather take his chances on foot, hiding in the hills and waiting for the right moment to slip back into Nakhchivan City. The alternative—rattling loudly along in an easily identified and barely functional van, out of ammo, and trying to fight off a Russian posse—was a lousy option. Orkhan, however, too fat and out of shape to handle running through badlands, had no choice. “If things go bad for me, call Ted Kaufman. Tell him what you told me. He may be able to help you.” Mark recited the number for Kaufman’s cell.

Orkhan recited the number back while looking around for a pen in the dash compartment.

As the van entered the curve, Orkhan slowed down. Mark yanked open the cargo door, took a quick look down the road to confirm that the men in the police car couldn’t see him, and jumped. He hit the road running, but his speed was still too fast for his legs to handle, so he wound up diving into a somersault roll. The instant he came out of the roll, he slammed into a large waist-high boulder on the side of the road, just above the ditch.

Crawling, he forced himself to move forward as he slowly caught his breath. His chest felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. His broken ribs were burning—he’d connected with the rock right around where they’d been hurting.

He’d planned to hide in the ditch beside the road, but the boulder was large enough to provide decent cover, so he hid behind it.

Seconds later, the police car appeared, roaring toward him at top speed. When it was within fifty feet, Mark ducked his head out from behind the rock. He forced himself to ignore the pain, took quick aim at the guy in the passenger seat, squeezed off three quick shots—one of which he thought might have hit home—then fired three more shots at the driver.

When the car barreled past him, it had already begun to swerve off the road. It hit the ditch, bounced high, then rolled.

Mark charged toward the car; along the way, he picked up the AKS assault rifle that had been thrown from it, confirmed that the magazine was full, tossed his Makarov into a ditch, flipped the safety on the AKS to automatic fire, unfolded the stock, and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.

He was having trouble breathing, which he attributed to being out of shape. Slow it down, he told himself. He felt light-headed. It was a struggle to suck in enough air.

The police car had landed upside down. Both men inside were lying on the ceiling, which was now the floor, of the car. Their bodies were immobile, and twisted into unnatural configurations. Mark approached the driver’s-side door and tried to take a few deep breaths to gather his strength, but it hurt his chest when he tried to breathe too deeply, so he took several shallow breaths and then smashed out the window with the butt of his rifle. He dragged the driver out onto the dirt, then fell to his knees.

What the hell is wrong with me?
The sun was bright in Mark’s eyes.
Don’t pass out
. He took a second to gather his strength, then focused on the Russian.

Blood ran freely from the man’s left eye, temple, and mouth. He was lifeless, shot through the head. On a lanyard that hung from the Russian’s neck was a name tag that, in Russian and Turkish, read V
ICTOR
P
ETROV
, B
IOLOGICAL
R
ESEARCH
In
STITUTE
, S
T
. P
ETERSBURG
U
NIVERSITY
and under that, in smaller print next to bird-themed logo, N
ATURE
T
OURS
AND
A
VIARY
E
XPEDITIONS
, K
ARS
, T
URKEY
.

Mark coughed a bit, spit in the dirt, searched the driver, and extracted a black Grach pistol from a shoulder holster. He checked the clip—five bullets left—so he wedged it between his belt and the small of his back and then walked around to the other side of the car. He smashed out the passenger-side window and examined the second Russian. He detected a bullet wound to the chest—he’d been trying for a head shot and had evidently missed—but the guy appeared to be dead anyway. Mark searched him, finding an identical Grach. After removing the magazine, which he slipped into his front pocket, he tossed the pistol into the ditch that paralleled the road.

OK, Mark thought. You’re safe for the moment. Now concentrate.

He coughed again, then doubled over because of the pain in his chest. God, why was it so hard to breathe? He stood slowly and felt around his wounded ribs. Everything was hot; he thought maybe he was bleeding there, that maybe he’d been shot and just hadn’t noticed, but the fabric of his shirt was dry.

Assess the situation. You’re armed, but you’ve got angry Russians above you.

Mark glanced back toward the sanatorium. The roof was just visible. Could they see him? Had they watched the crash?

Behind him, were the badlands; in front, the low desert valley that led to the Aras River. His plan had been to run through the badlands, lose the Russians, then make his way back to Nakhchivan City, maybe call a cab when he got to the main highway, but God, he felt awful, and—

Mark felt for his prepaid, the one he’d stuffed down his pants. Gone. There would be no cab.

Damn.

Maybe Orkhan had stopped after all, or wasn’t that far away, he thought. He felt an almost irresistible urge to lie down right where he was, but instead forced himself to slowly jog down the road, in the direction Orkhan had gone. He’d only made it a few yards, though, when he glanced behind him.

A man was sprinting down the hill in front of the sanatorium. He was maybe a half mile away, but headed straight for the crash site. Mark rounded a bend in the road. No sign of Orkhan. He looked southeast, searching for a pass, or a gully, between the badland hills. He saw one, took a few shallow breaths as he steeled himself to the task, blinked as he wiped some sweat out of his eye, and began to run.

52

Orkhan reached the main highway and turned left toward Nakhchivan City.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. Several cars were approaching—he was traveling far slower than the speed limit—but none from the road that led to the sanatorium. As the cars buzzed by him, the occupants inside stared with alarm at the disabled van. Shortly thereafter, a cop car passed, going in the opposite direction. Orkhan sounded his horn repeatedly and brought the van to a stop. The cop executed a quick U-turn and raced up behind the van.

Orkhan collected his cell phone and handheld radio, but left his Uzi on the floor. As he stepped onto the pavement, the cop called to him.

“Get back in the vehicle.”

Instead of obeying, Orkhan strode forward. The cop put his hand on the grip of his belt-holstered gun. Orkhan, his face twisted into a snarl, ignored it.

“Stop!” ordered the cop. Then, gun drawn, “Step back to your vehicle.”

Speaking slowly and deliberately, as if issuing a threat, Orkhan said, “You will take me to Nakhchivan City.” Showing zero concern that the cop might shoot, Orkhan reached into his back pocket and produced his government identification. He held it up in front of the cop’s face.

“Sir, I—” The cop suddenly focused on the identification.

“And you will take me there now,” said Orkhan.

The cop swallowed hard. He glanced at the gun he was pointing at Orkhan and then lowered it. “Are you—”

“Yes. I am that Orkhan Gambar. Your minister of national security. And you will either do as I say—immediately—or I will have you arrested and shot.”

53

Mark glanced behind him. The Russian he’d seen running down from the sanatorium was no longer visible, but couldn’t be more than a few minutes away. He also noticed the rubber treads from his shoes were making faint impressions in the dry ground, so he jogged to a dry rocky streambed where his footprints wouldn’t show up; he was too light-headed to keep his balance on the uneven terrain, though, and he twisted his ankle and fell, which in turn caused the muscles around his rib cage to spasm.

As he lay on the rocks, curled into a fetal position, he considered the last time he’d broken his ribs, back in 1997 when he’d been hit by a car in Tajikistan. He didn’t remember it hurting this much. A little pain, which he’d alleviated by self-medicating with vodka over the course of several days. He’d only been twenty-nine years old, though. His body had been much more flexible, much more—

Get your head out of your ass and move!

He pulled himself to his knees. Using the AKS as a cane, he rose to a standing position and continued along the dry streambed, pushing himself as fast as he could.

Which wasn’t fast at all. The harder he tried, the more his injured ribs burned and the more difficult it was to breathe.

The Russian would be here soon, and he wouldn’t be able to outrun the guy. Something had gone seriously wrong with his body. Had Titov drugged him? Or had that hit he’d taken when he jumped out of the van done more damage than he’d thought?

Mark stopped, because he didn’t have the energy to go any further. He had to find cover, and now, but there was no cover to speak of. The assault rifle felt so heavy. He wanted to let it slip from his hands. Instead, he let his whole body slip to the ground. The sharp rocks hurt his knees.

He raised the rifle and aimed where he expected the Russian to appear. But after a minute, he grew too weak and he let the gun fall to the rocks. He’d have to use a pistol, he thought, just as another coughing fit wracked his body.

His chest muscles spasmed again. When the spasm subsided, he pulled the Grach out from behind his back and spit. What sprayed onto the bleached river rocks was bloodred.

At that moment, the Russian appeared at the entrance to the canyon. His eyes and rifle were fixed on Mark. Mark tried to raise his pistol, intending to shoot, but found that he couldn’t do it. As the world began to spin, the Russian became a blur. Mark slumped back and hit his head on the rocks. The sun was bright in his eyes, too bright. He tried to suck in a breath, but it was so hard. If he could just sleep for a moment, he thought, he might be able to regain his energy.