by Dan Mayland
“It was like this when we got here,” said one of the officers. He placed his cigarette on Mark’s plate and stood up. “Now we just wait for instructions. The movers are outside. You can gather the things you wish to take with you.”
“You and your men didn’t do this?”
“Of course not.”
Mark wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not.
He walked slowly through his kitchen, stepping over the remnants of a takeout Chinese dinner from the week before. In a way, he thought, it didn’t matter that his place was trashed. What would he have done with his stuff anyway? All it meant was that Orkhan would have less to store.
One question that had been eating away at him—how an assassin had known to find him at the library—was answered by the wall calendar hanging in his kitchen. On today’s date, he’d written 8:30, Heydar, library reading room. He’d bought the calendar after taking the job at Western University, to keep track of his classes. Stupid, he told himself. There were some habits he’d developed while working for the Agency—like an obsession with never keeping a set schedule, and certainly never posting his appointments where people could read them—that, evidently, he should have held on to.
In his bedroom, his dresser drawers had been ripped all the way out, his clothes scattered around the floor, and his mattress slashed. More importantly, his laptop was gone.
He looked around, then back at his desk again, then under it, and then in the closet.
The book-length manuscript he’d been working on, Soviet Intelligence Operations in the Azerbaijan Democratic Republic, 1918-1922, had been saved on that computer. Nearly two years of intense research, two hundred thousand words of text. He was only a few months away from finishing it. It was going to be the book that established his academic credentials, his gateway to landing a university job in the States or Europe.
He’d backed it up, though. In several places, just in case.
He wasn’t an idiot; he’d be OK.
Mark rifled through the jumble of papers and pens and scholarly books that were still on his desk. Where was the damn thumb drive? It was neon yellow, and he’d left it to the right of the computer, next to the coffee mug he’d been using as a penholder.
But it wasn’t there now.
“You motherfuckers,” he muttered.
It’s probably somewhere on the floor, he told himself. Besides, he had a third backup, one that he’d made on a CD a couple of months ago. He’d lose a lot of work, but losing two months was better than losing two years. He’d stored the CD in his bedroom closet, in an old shoebox.
The shoebox was upended on the floor of his closet. Scattered around it were old computer cords, spare rolls of Scotch tape, extra pens, envelopes, and Post-it notes—but no CD.
Beginning to panic now, Mark dropped to the floor and searched through everything in the room. The security guards eventually took pity on him, asked what he was looking for, and joined in the hunt. Together they scoured every inch of the apartment.
Eventually Mark’s minders said it was time to leave for the airport. Then the phone rang.
11
Washington, DC
THE CONFERENCE ROOM on the ground floor of the West Wing had an unnatural smell to it, the result of the ozone from constantly running air filters.
“This meeting is called to order,” said the president. “We’re here to discuss how to respond to recent intelligence reports coming out of Iran. I’ll cede the floor to Jim.”
A bald former four-star admiral, currently the director of national intelligence, produced a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and began to pass them out. “The president’s daily brief. The president has already reviewed it and approved its distribution to the Security Council. It provides a summary of all that we know to date.”
The room fell silent, except for the sound of papers rustling, as the vice president, the secretary of defense, the secretary of state, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, and the national security advisor all read the two-page document.
After a minute, the secretary of state smacked her palm on the table. “Good God. Do we have any independent confirmation that this really happened to Khorasani’s daughter?”
“The CIA station in Dubai runs a couple agents on Kish Island,” said the DNI. “They’re telling us local police responded to an incident around the time that we believe the attack occurred. No charges were filed and the police incident log makes reference to a robbery, but evidently that wouldn’t be unusual for a case like this, especially given that she is, in fact, the youngest daughter of the supreme leader of Iran. CIA and DIA think she was targeted by Sunni extremists hoping to inflame the whole situation in the Middle East and goad Khorasani into doing something crazy. Hence the Star of David marks carved on her body.”
“Jesus,” said the secretary of defense. He shook his head, evidently dumbfounded by the report. “When is this transfer supposed to take place?”
“Three days.”
“Has anyone tried to reach out to Khorasani directly?”
“Our back channel through the Turks got shut down two months ago.”
“Is the Mossad report all we have to go on? The Israelis aren’t exactly objective observers here.”
“Persia House,” said the DNI, referring to the CIA group that had split from the Near East Division to focus exclusively on Iran, “reports that two hours ago the Iranian resistance group the MEK confirmed with their CIA liaison key elements of what you just read. The question now is, what do we do about it?”
“Or rather, what are the Israelis going to do about it?” said the president, tapping an arthritic finger on the table. “Because I can tell you all with certainty that the Israelis are going to act soon to stop Khorasani, regardless of what we do. I know they’ve thrown out threats to Iran before and haven’t acted on them. But this is the real deal. There’s no way in hell they’re going to let the Iranians throw a punch like that.”
“How soon is soon?” asked the secretary of state.
“Forty-eight hours tops. The only question is whether we get ahead of the shit storm by joining them, or whether we sit on our asses and take our lumps as they come.”
12
Baku, Azerbaijan
THE CALLER ID that popped up on Mark’s landline phone just said International. Probably Langley, he thought, wanting to make sure he was clearing out. He was tempted to just let it ring.
He picked up.
“Sava here.”
“Is this Mark Sava?” It was a man, and he sounded slightly out of breath.
“Ah, yeah, that’s what I said.”
“Did you get my messages?”
Mark glanced down to the rapidly blinking light on his answering machine. “No.”
“I tried calling yesterday, and earlier today.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
Mark’s minders looked at him impatiently.
“John. I’m John Junior’s dad.”
“I think you have the wrong number.”
“You said you were Mark Sava. John gave me this number. He said he sometimes stayed here, that you were his friend.”
A lightbulb clicked on in Mark’s head.
“Are you talking about John Decker?”
Eight months ago, when the CIA was under siege in Baku, Mark had worked with Decker. They’d gotten along well enough professionally, and Decker had proved his worth many times over. Then three months ago, Decker had shown up uninvited at Mark’s apartment and asked whether he could crash there for a week or so, seeing as he was between contractor jobs. Mark hadn’t been thrilled with the arrangement, but he’d said OK.
“I’m trying to reach him.”
“He’s not here,” said Mark. “Honestly, this isn’t a good time.”
“I haven’t heard from him in two weeks, no phone calls, no e-mails, nothing. I’ve left a million messages for him, he just doesn’t answer.”
Mark heard a couple of dogs
barking. Speaking in a thick New England accent, a woman said, “Tell him about my birthday.”
Mark recalled that Decker had grown up in the north woods of New Hampshire. Born into a military family. That female voice in the background reminded Mark of Decker.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Mark. “I haven’t heard from him in months, so if you were in touch with him two weeks ago, then your contact information would be a lot more up-to-date than mine.”
“We’re just a little bit worried here. It was his mother’s birthday yesterday. He always remembers to call.”
“You know, Mr. Decker…I can tell you’re worried, but really there’s nothing I can do.”
“If you hear from him, will you tell him to call home?”
“Absolutely. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ve caught me at a rough time. I have to go.”
Mark tried to call Orkhan on the way to the airport.
Orkhan’s secretary claimed not to know where her boss was or when he’d be back, so Mark explained the situation with his computer and backup disks and said he expected the Azeri government to help recover his stolen belongings.
Orkhan needs to look into it personally, he said. Personally!
The receptionist said she’d relay the message.
Mark figured Orkhan was probably listening in on the conversation, blowing him off.
He took stock of what he had—a change of clothes, a black diplomatic passport that he was supposed to have turned in when he left the CIA, a credit card, and $456 in cash because the Azeris had let him stop at his bank in downtown Baku to close out his checking account.
He still hadn’t decided where to go. He thought back to that morning, drinking a cup of thick Turkish coffee at an outdoor café in Molokan Gardens in downtown Baku. That was just before meeting Heydar—what?—five hours ago? Everything had been so pleasantly normal.
He used to thrive on chaos when he was younger, but now…now he was getting too old for this crap.
The Ministry of National Security agent driving the car weaved in and out of the heavy traffic, stopping and starting with sudden, aggressive jerks.
Mark turned in his seat to look back at the city. Several green-domed mosques were sandwiched in among gleaming new skyscrapers. In the distance, bleak desert hills—dotted with oil derricks—marked the southern edge of the city. He’d always liked thinking of Baku as an exotic oasis in the desert, secluded from the wider world. He loved the medieval walls of the old city, the long promenade along the Caspian with its carnival rides and tea shops, the views from the heights at the southern end of the city, the fourteenth-century caravansary restaurant where he’d often met with visiting diplomats in smoke-blackened private rooms.
He was romanticizing the place, he knew. Much of Baku was just a dump. But it had been his dump.
He told himself to let it go. Moving on might be better for him in the long run anyway.
What would anybody want with his damn book, though? What good would it be to them? What was the point, just mindless destruction?
He thought about how Buddhist monks would spend days constructing an intricate sand painting, only to destroy it right after they’d finished. The exercise allegedly helped them embrace impermanence. Which was exactly what he needed to do.
Let it go.
Embrace impermanence.
Those fucking Russians. I bet it was the fucking Russians.
They were obsessive about their history; they’d probably been monitoring him and decided they didn’t like what he was writing. Maybe instead of embracing impermanence he’d just hunt down the Russian dickwads who’d stolen his book and rip their damn throats out.
He started to think through the logistics of how he would launch such a hunt, and the money and time and risk involved, and the odds of it turning out successfully, and then he sighed.
Orkhan pulled up to the airport in his armored black Jeep Commander as Mark was being escorted to the international terminal.
Mark’s minder led him to the back of Orkhan’s car. Orkhan opened the door and Mark climbed in.
“I’ve been speaking to Heydar.” Orkhan frowned deeply.
The back of the car was sealed off from the chauffeur in front by a plate of soundproof glass.
“And?”
“And I have concluded I was too quick to judge the boy. Heydar found out that you were leaving and he was gravely disappointed. He considers you his best teacher.” Orkhan paused, as if preparing to reveal some important bit of information. “He now tells me he thinks he can pass this SAT if he studies harder.”
Given the look of stoic pride on Orkhan’s face, Mark decided not to mention that the test wasn’t pass-fail.
“I sometimes get frustrated with him, and forget that he is just a boy,” said Orkhan. “I was not interested in my studies at that age either.” He shook his head.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find another tutor,” offered Mark.
“Heydar doesn’t want another tutor. He wants you.”
For a brief moment, Mark though Orkhan might be saying that he could stay in Azerbaijan. Maybe this whole mess could be put to rest right now. Maybe—
“He asks that when you get to America, will it be possible to do a videoconference once a week?”
A long moment passed. Mark reminded himself that one should never burn one’s bridges unless the enemy was directly upon you. Orkhan wasn’t the enemy. But still.
Orkhan added, “I will pay, of course, for all the equipment, and for all the charges. If you require a charge yourself, that will be no problem provided it is reasonable. You have already repaid your debt.”
He looked outside to the airport. In the distance, at the end of one of the runways, he could see the top of a mound of twisted, weed-strewn metal, the remains of previous plane crashes that had been swept off the runway and left to rust. He was going to miss this place.
“I’ll call you,” Mark said. “When I’m settled.”
“Heydar will be grateful.”
That resolved, Orkhan unlocked the door of the Commander, a sign that it was time for Mark to leave.
“What about my computer?”
“What computer?”
Mark explained about his apartment, and his missing laptop and files. “Didn’t your secretary mention it?”
Orkhan said, “Of course I will have my men look for it. Anything they find will be stored with the rest of your belongings.”
“My book was on that computer. It means a lot to me.”
As Mark was stepping out onto the sidewalk, Orkhan said, “Next time you should back up off-site.”
“What?”
“Back up off-site, you know, through the Internet. Heydar tells me about this—he is not always as stupid as he seems. The young, they know these things.”
“I’m only forty-four. That’s not old.”
Orkhan shrugged. “Have a good trip, my friend.”
13
Baku, Azerbaijan
THE PERKY TWENTYSOMETHING woman at the Azerbaijan Airlines ticketing window informed Mark that there were no direct flights to the States, but that a red-eye was leaving for London in three hours. From there he could catch a flight back to Washington.
If that was where he wanted to go.
It had been nearly three years since Mark had been stateside. The thought of going back now felt to him a little like going back to imperial Rome after a long stint manning a lonely outpost in the German hinterlands. It wasn’t that he’d gone native, as some in the CIA had feared. But it was true that being abroad for so long had changed him. He suspected he knew how to navigate the intricacies of Azeri culture better than his own.
Back home, things were more complicated, more personal. There was too much lingering rancor.
“Sir?” prodded the woman.
Mark pictured the sterile halls of CIA headquarters in Langley. He imagined being hooked up to a polygraph when he first showed up, and then being debriefed by a bunch of youn
g, well-intentioned analysts who’d never been to Azerbaijan. Did he really want to go back to that?
But Baku had changed since he’d first arrived. The airport terminal was modern and clean, having been recently renovated. At his local grocery store, the Russian checkout lady was no longer reflexively rude. There were giant malls, 3-D cinemas, and wireless hot spots all over the city. Armani and Tiffany had invaded years ago.
With all the oil money sloshing around, the idea that Baku was still the hinterlands was a fiction. Christ, he could see the sign for the airport Holiday Inn from where he was standing. He’d been hiding in a remote corner of the world, but the world had found him.
Langley, he thought. It would only be for a few days. Inevitably he’d run into people he knew, but that too could be minimized. But then what?
“Yeah, get me on the flight to London,” he told the ticketing agent. “But route me all the way to Washington, DC, if you can.”
“What class will you be flying, sir?”
Mark glanced back at his minders from the Ministry of National Security. One of them shrugged. Orkhan had approved payment for the flight home but evidently hadn’t been more specific than that.
“Make it first.”
While waiting for his flight, Mark ate a plate of bad lamb kebabs and downed a half-liter bottle of extra-strong Xirdalan beer—the local favorite—at the Holiday Inn bar.
As he watched BBC News on a flat-screen television and nursed a second beer, he remembered that he was scheduled to teach a senior seminar on American foreign policy during the Cold War the next morning.
At a computer station in the Holiday Inn, he composed his resignation—effective immediately—to the chairman of the International Relations Department, added a vague apology for the abruptness of his departure, CC’d half a dozen colleagues, and clicked Send. That done, he turned to the long list of unopened e-mails in his account.