Death of a Spy (28 page)

58

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Daria was in her Volkswagen Jetta, approaching the bridge that led from Kyrgyzstan to Kazakhstan, when her phone rang. Darkness had fallen. After driving around the outskirts of Bishkek, and then stopping to have dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant she’d never been to before—a place no one would think to look for her—she’d resigned herself to driving to Almaty, where she planned to spend the night in a hotel.

Behind her, Lila was sleeping in a rear-facing car seat that Daria had special ordered from a department store in Europe because she hadn’t been satisfied with the options in Kyrgyzstan. She answered quickly, before the ring tone could wake Lila.

It was John Decker.

“What have you got?” Daria kept her voice low.

“Kaufman just called.”

Decker explained that the CIA believed Mark had been abducted somewhere in Nakhchivan. But that no one knew for sure where he was now.

“This can’t be happening. We just had a kid, John. We were happy.” Daria stopped herself from saying anything more because she knew she’d start crying if she did.

“Mark’s a tough guy, Daria. I wouldn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t go panicking about this or anything.”

“I’m not panicking,” she snapped. “I’m worried, there’s a difference.”

“I didn’t mean panic, I just meant…anyway, there’s another angle to all this. Have you been listening to the news?”

“No.” Daria had kept the radio off so that it wouldn’t bother Lila.

Her spirits sank as Decker told her about the bombing in Tehran, and the Iranian response, and the Russian reaction.

She said, “And Mark is in the middle of this shitstorm. That’s wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.”

“It gets worse. Reading between the lines of what Kaufman told me, the CIA’s not going to just roll over and let the Russians, or the Iranians, invade Nakhchivan.”

“Of course they won’t. Crimea was one thing, but they’ll be afraid that if the Russians start having their way with the Azeris in Nakhchivan, next up will be the oil.”

“Whatever the reason—”

“Oh, that’s the reason.”

“Kaufman tells me he’s been ordered to assemble a team that can serve as a liaison between the Azeri ground forces and any, uh, any military assets we might just happen to have in the area.” Decker let that statement hang for a while, then added, “Should it come to that. I guess the situation is kinda fluid.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“If the Russians or the Iranians attack Nakhchivan, the Azeris would have a hard time holding them off, assuming they even dared to try.”

“One of the many reasons Mark needs to get the hell out of there.”

“Yeah, well, Kaufman—and I guess people way above him—are thinking if we could just give the Azeris a little boost, maybe it would turn out differently, you know?” Without waiting for Daria to answer, Decker said, “The thing is, they need at least one person on this team who’s fluent in Azeri, and there just aren’t many people on the CIA payroll who fit that bill, and I guess the CIA isn’t thrilled about tasking one of their own to something that, well…”

“Has the potential to be a serious cluster. So they want someone they can disown if things go south.”

“Something like that.”

“If communication is the issue, there are certainly plenty of Azeris who speak English.”

“Kaufman wants a translator he can trust. And he’s not going to trust someone that the Azeris serve up. Daria, listen, Kaufman asked me to ask you whether you’d do it.”

For a moment, Daria was dumbstruck, even though in retrospect she realized that, from the way Decker was talking, she shouldn’t have been. She’d sworn off that underworld of secret operations, sworn off contributing to deaths of others. She’d done too much of it already. “But…Kaufman hates me.”

“He doesn’t like you much, that’s for sure. But there aren’t that many people like you out there, Daria. You speak fluent Azeri. You worked for the CIA, but don’t now. All qualities they’re looking for.”

“The CIA fired me, Deck. They don’t trust me worth shit, and I don’t trust them.”

“Yeah, but Kaufman trusts you more than he would a random Azeri guy pushing some crazy Azeri agenda. And he thought that maybe—because by helping to hold off the Russians and the Iranians you’d be helping Mark—you might go for it. This could be your opportunity to get back on the Agency’s good side, Daria.”

“I don’t want to get back on their good side. I don’t give a crap about them. They’re a pack of amoral liars. If it was up to me, I’d shut them down.”

“I’m just the messenger, Daria.”

“Not to mention, I’ve got Lila.”

“I completely understand. So I’ll tell Kaufman no?”

Daria glanced back at Lila. She seemed content now, occasionally kicking her legs or raising her arms a bit. Leaving her at this stage in her life, even for a little while—Lila had never even fed from a bottle—was unthinkable. Helping out Ted Kaufman and the CIA, that too was unthinkable. As was helping Azerbaijan or the United States kill twenty-year-old conscripted Russian soldiers.

But so was not even lifting a finger to help Mark.

Ever since she’d received the text from him, Daria couldn’t help but think that she was letting him down in what could be his moment of greatest need. And by letting Mark down, was she also letting Lila down? If Mark were to—she tried not to even think the word
die
, but there it was—if that should happen, and she had done nothing to try to prevent it, how would her daughter judge her in the years to come? How would she judge herself? What wife would do such a thing?

Yes, the deal with Mark had been that, in the event he ever sent such a text, Daria was to focus on keeping herself and Lila safe. Protect what remained of the family. But Mark was part of the family. By helping him, she would be helping Lila.

“Daria, you still there?” asked Decker.

59

Nakhchivan, Azerbaijan

When General Dmitry Titov had arrived at the restaurant atop the Tabriz Hotel an hour and a half earlier, the dining room had been nearly full with dinner guests. But now it was empty save for himself, three of his men, two overly solicitous young waiters, and an officious pear-shaped supervisor in an ill-fitting suit who was bossing the waiters around.

Which meant it was almost time. Titov’s men had killed all the Azeris who’d stormed the sanatorium—except for one who may have escaped with Sava—and then had hastily cleared out all the weapons and communications equipment, anticipating that the operation would be approved for tonight. As soon as it had been, Titov had come to the Tabriz.

Because the Tabriz was the tallest building in all of Nakhchivan City, boasting unparalleled views of most of the downtown from the top floors, it was of both strategic and tactical military value. As a result, the Russian army intended to occupy it; Titov himself had made the recommendation.

The risk, however, was that as soon as the Russian army crossed the border, the Azeris would think to fortify the Tabriz, particularly the upper floors. So Titov had further recommended that he and his men secure the top floors early, just before the invasion started, so that the Russian army wouldn’t encounter any unnecessary resistance when they finally did arrive.

Titov continued to peck away at his dinner—chicken served with a pomegranate walnut sauce, boiled potatoes, and wild herbs that had been picked in the mountains the day before—until he observed a cook leaving via the single elevator that serviced the restaurant.

It was nine-thirty. The kitchen had closed a half hour earlier. Titov guessed there was another cook still in the back, cleaning up. Perhaps a dishwasher too. He didn’t want to take more life than necessary, but considered it likely that everyone else in the restaurant would stay until the last diners—in this case, he and his men—had left.

He downed the last of his beer, then nodded to a short man with a lazy eye who sat across from him.

One of the waiters, who’d been watching from nearby, approached the table.

“Another beer, sir?” he asked Titov.

“Please.”

“Where is the bathroom?” asked the lazy-eyed man.

“This way, sir,” said the waiter. “Come, I will show you.”

Titov’s man followed behind the waiter—until they passed under the security camera that was affixed to the ceiling above the door to the men’s room, at which point he reached underneath his baggy tracksuit jacket, withdrew a silenced snub-nosed pistol, calmly shot the waiter twice in the back of the head, then fired three more quick shots into the rear of the security camera.

The sound of the camera being blasted apart attracted the attention of the second waiter and the pear-shaped supervisor. As they turned toward the sound, Titov shot the second waiter twice in the back, then once in the head, before aiming his pistol at the supervisor, who by now had noticed the dead waiter by the security camera.

As the manager dropped to his knees and began to pray—
Allahu Akbar—
Titov shot him.

Addressing his two remaining operatives, who had remained seated, Titov said, “The kitchen.” He drew his finger across his throat and made a clucking sound. “Go.”

Soon, two quick spitting sounds came from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of metal pots falling to the floor.

To the man with the lazy eye, Titov said, “Go get the gear.”

Many of Titov’s men had dispersed, first to cut the telephone cables that led from Nakhchivan City to surrounding Azeri military installations, and then to rendezvous at the northern border to assist with the invasion. Those who had accompanied him to the Tabriz had checked in using their fake Russian passports—they were traveling as businessmen negotiating a deal for the import of crop fertilizers—and had taken three rooms on the twelfth floor, directly below the restaurant. Their luggage had been loaded with weapons and communication equipment.

“Yes, sir. And the prisoner?”

“Him too. We’ll set up a communications station there.” Titov pointed in the direction of a baby grand piano. Most of the restaurant was carpeted, but the red marble floor around the piano might offer some protection from small arms fire coming from below, should it come to that.

The operative who had disposed of the cook in the kitchen was standing in front of the elevator door.

“You,” Titov pointed. “Station yourself in the stairwell on the twelfth floor. Alert us when guests enter and leave their rooms. Don’t interfere with them unless you have reason to believe that they intend to interfere with us.” To his remaining operative, Titov said, “You, make sure the roof is clear.”

He assumed the Azeris on the lower levels would eventually realize that something was amiss on the restaurant level. There was the broken security camera. And the employees who had never left. But the Azeris were lazy, and lacked personal initiative; it was likely that by the time anyone was sent to investigate the anomalies, it would be too late—the invasion would already be well under way.

60

Mark first became aware of sounds—a faucet running, a door closing, clipped words spoken in Russian. He was comfortable, and warm, and enjoying the sense of weightlessness; he sensed that the sounds posed no threat to him, that they were there purely for entertainment.

But then, some errant synapse fired in his brain, and he thought,
Lila is hungry, she needs to be fed
…

Lila, where was she? He wanted to check the bassinet at the foot of the bed, but he couldn’t see; it was too dark in his bedroom. Lila had to be there, but…now he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t even hear her breathing. He couldn’t hear Daria breathing either. Only this strange intermittent tapping sound, as though a mouse were scurrying around between the walls.

The lamp, where is it? To your left on the end table. Mark opened his eyes, froze for a moment, then shut them again. He forced himself to remain perfectly still.

Your breathing, control your breathing, if you breathe too fast he’ll know you’re awake
.

He focused on what he had just seen, tried to reconstruct the picture in his head.

Seated five feet away was one of Titov’s operatives—the tall gaunt one with narrow-set eyes who had followed Mark out of the Tabriz Hotel earlier in the day. He was tapping on some sort of tablet computer device.

Mark recalled the attack at the sanatorium, and trying to escape with Orkhan, and collapsing in the desert. But after that, nothing.

No, not nothing. An image of a needle flashed across his mind—they’d slid it into his arm—and then an enormous stainless-steel needle, this one plunged into his chest. What in God’s name had that been?

Control your breathing. Don’t show anger.

Breathing
, thought Mark a moment later
. He was breathing easily
.

And he didn’t feel drugged up any more. He focused his thoughts on his chest. There was pain there, pressure, but it was bearable. In the left side, he felt something foreign, pressing against his shirt. He sensed tape on his arms. Holding an IV line in place?

Think.

Broken ribs, jumping out of the van driven by Orkhan, slamming into that rock on the side of the road. He’d been having trouble breathing, he’d spit up blood.

But he could breathe now, which suggested the needle in his chest—now that he thought about it, he realized it was right about where his left lung should be—might have been there to help him. To drain away blood so that he could breathe again?

Which would mean the Russians had saved him. But why? It certainly hadn’t been an act of mercy.

So that Titov could continue to interrogate him, of course.

In his mind, Mark tried to study the scene he’d glimpsed when opening his eyes. He’d focused on the Russian, but what else had he seen? He recognized the décor of the room they were in. It was…institutional, like…

The Tabriz Hotel
. That’s where he was. He recognized the slate-gray carpet and the heavy ivory-colored window shades and the black lacquer table and the floral-patterned bedcover. There was more, though. He was seated, but not in a normal chair; he’d glimpsed footrests—he studied the mental image in his head—and a bit of a wheel by his foot.

A wheelchair
. That was how they’d gotten him into the hotel, they’d just wheeled him through the front door. An invalid taking a nap.

So he was in a wheelchair, at the Tabriz Hotel, the Russians had treated his punctured lung, and he was being guarded by one of Titov’s men. Mark wasn’t sure of his strength—he wanted to try flexing his arms, or stretching his legs, to give himself a better sense of his physical condition, but he didn’t want the guard to know he was conscious.

A blanket had been draped over his lap and forearms. He risked briefly tightening the muscles on his arms and concluded that, while some of the tape he felt against his skin may have been there to hold in place IV lines, it was primarily there to secure his arms to the armrests.