by Dan Mayland
Mark smiled, reminded of why he’d liked Decker. No native Turkmen ever went jogging. If you wanted to stand out in Ashgabat, jogging was a good way to do it. But it sounded like just the kind of thing Deck might do. The guy was a fitness nut, in better shape—despite his nighttime activities—than anyone Mark had ever known.
Thompson said, “I can ask around about him. That much I’m willing to do. But you’re still going to the airport.”
Mark opened the car door and stepped out. “Just tell the Agency I screwed you over. Believe me, they’ll buy it. I’ll deal with the consequences when this is over. Not your fault.”
“I’m warning you, Sava. Don’t do this.”
Mark took one last look around, inspecting the surrounding buildings. It was a hazy day, the sun was bright, and the air felt thick in his lungs. Benches lined the perimeter of the square surrounding the arch, but only a few of them were occupied. All told, even though it was the middle of the day, he could see no more than ten people, half of whom were soldiers.
He hoped Daria was out there somewhere, though. The original plan had been to wait until noon, e-mail Alty8 instructions to come to the base of the Arch of Neutrality instead of the mosque, and then go just close enough to the arch to flush out whoever showed up. Mark had figured that whoever did would be thrown off by the sudden change of venue and that the soldiers guarding the arch would provide some protection. He also knew that the square was always empty, so it would be easy for Daria to watch the situation unfold from a distance. Finally, since the arch was in the center of the city, there would be plenty of places to run to after giving it a quick brush-by.
Mark still hoped to execute a version of that plan, so he turned to Thompson and said, “I’m sorry.”
31
DECKER LAY ON his back in a low crawl space, naked, blinking, nearly blinded by the light that filtered through the interstices of the deck planks above him, and hyperventilating from the pain engulfing his body. After a moment he forced himself to crawl out to the edge of the deck. As far as he could tell, he was on the side of a modest split-level house that had been built into the side of a hill. He’d gotten lucky, because he’d popped out in a spot where the basement floor was nearly at ground level.
The sun hit his face, and for a moment he just lay there, hypnotized by the warmth, not caring that someone might see him.
Eventually he looked around.
The house was situated near the bottom edge of a bowl-shaped ravine, beyond which rose jagged snowcapped peaks. Juniper and tall narrow aspen trees ringed the lower parts of the ravine and lined the banks of a small stream that cut through its center. Looking up, he could see that the top of the ravine consisted of an uneven line of jagged broken rocks, so unforgiving, exposed, and lonely that Decker’s spirits sank. Climbing up unnoticed would be out of the question.
From underneath the house, he heard the distinctive creak of the trapdoor being opened.
What he needed was water. Water and a car.
Two cars sat parked on a long dirt driveway—a green Peugeot and a black Khodro—but they were a hundred feet away and completely exposed.
From inside the pit, Decker heard voices and then cries of alarm. He had to move quickly, but deliberately. No mistakes.
A detached garage stood in back of the house. Decker limped up to it and yanked open the side door. No car, just a large oil stain on the floor where one had been. A pair of baggy, grease-stained work pants, a collection of gardening tools, and a brown jacket hung on one wall.
He put on the work pants as best he could with his cuffed hands. They only came down to the middle of his shins, but the waist was OK. He grabbed the jacket and a pair of sharp pruning shears, wishing he’d also been able to steal shoes.
As he limped out the back of the garage, a door smacked against the side of the main house. He heard boots pounding on the deck, then more cries of alarm. He plunged into a dense cluster of juniper trees at the base of the ravine and watched the panic unfold. One of his captors raced down the dirt driveway. Another appeared on the deck and started shouting orders. Yet another ran off toward the floor of the ravine, head low like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent.
32
Ashgabat, Turkmenistan
MARK HEADED AWAY from the arch, toward the two-story World Trade Complex—though his real destination was the old section of town, where he knew he could get lost in the crowded Russian tenements.
Several tall fountains, each layered like a wedding cake, stood anchored in the vast square that surrounded the arch. Soon after Mark left Thompson’s car, a man wearing blue jeans and a black jacket emerged from behind one of them. A camera hung from his neck, as though he were a tourist. He was a good hundred feet away, but walking slowly toward Mark as he read what appeared to be a map. Mark took a closer look and thought he detected Chinese features in the man’s face.
Mark bore off a bit toward the northern edge of the square, in the direction of a traffic cop. He had everything under control, he thought. The older Soviet tenements weren’t far away. He’d be fine as long as he moved fast and kept anyone who might be on his tail guessing. Daria should be photographing the whole dance routine from wherever she was hidden; he hoped she’d gotten a good shot of the Chinese tourist.
Then he saw Thompson jogging behind him.
Come on, buddy. Give it a rest.
Mark sped up, but Thompson sped up as well. So Mark let him catch up but kept walking at a fast clip. “Eleven o’clock, the guy with the map and camera. Watch him.”
“You’re going to the airport.”
Mark saw another man approaching. “Shit. More incoming at three o’clock.”
Mark was forced to veer off toward the center of the square.
“He’s one of mine,” said Thompson, struggling to keep up. “I told you all embassies in the region are on alert. I can’t leave the building without a guard tailing behind me. He’s armed and he’s coming for you. You’re going with me to the airport.”
A Caucasian guy with huge forearms and a neck like a tree trunk closed in. An embassy rent-a-soldier, Mark figured.
“Get us back to the car,” Thompson said to his guard.
Mark observed yet another man approaching from the side. He wore a coat that was heavier than the mild weather called for, and looked Chinese. Until a moment ago, he’d been seated on one of the benches on the perimeter of the square.
Mark began to think he’d miscalculated by pushing forward with the plan in spite of the Thompson complication.
“Move!” Thompson’s guard flashed a pistol he was holding underneath his jacket and grabbed Mark’s arm. “The Mercedes on the edge of the square.”
“William, we have to bail. Now!” Mark pointed to an alley that he knew led to the Russian quarter. “Don’t be stupid!”
A gray BMW screeched to an abrupt stop on a street a hundred yards directly in front of them. A man climbed out of the back of the car.
“They yours too?” Mark said to Thompson. “Because if they’re not, we could be screwed.”
“Just get us to your car,” Thompson said to his rent-a-soldier.
In the distance, Mark saw the two Turkmen army soldiers still standing at attention in their glass-walled shelters by the arch.
Thompson’s interference had allowed the Chinese—they were Chinese, Mark was certain of it now—to close in on all sides. The closest was only ten feet away.
“Ogry!” Mark called out in Turkmen. Thief!
“Shut the hell up!” said Thompson’s guard.
“Ogry!” Mark called out again. This time one of the soldiers by the arch turned. After taking a second to assess the situation, he started running awkwardly toward them, struggling to gain speed in his dress shoes and stiff slacks. Mark waved his arms.
The Chinese were upon them in seconds, each one positioning himself at a different point on an invisible triangle. They weren’t big men, but they all looked like professionals. Each of them wore a r
adio earpiece.
“Get the fuck away from us,” said Thompson’s guard. He stuck out his elbows and pushed forward like a bull.
“If any of you lay a hand on me, there’ll be hell to pay!” said Thompson.
Mark felt a sharp stab in his side. When he looked down, he saw the butt of a pistol being held by one of the Chinese. Thompson’s guard turned, saw the gun in Mark’s side, then drew his own. He pointed it at the Chinese and said, “I’m paid to guard this man.” He pushed Thompson forward a foot. “You let the two of us through, you’ll have no problems.”
“Búyào pèng wǒ!” said Thompson. Don’t touch me!
The two Chinese in front appeared ready to back down and let Thompson go, but then one put a hand to his earpiece and nodded. A second later, a single sharp shot rang out. Mark ducked just as Thompson’s guard slumped forward and fell to his knees.
One of the Chinese grabbed Thompson and started shouting commands as he pulled the CIA station chief over to the gray BMW.
Mark pivoted and tried to punch the Chinese behind him but his fist slipped off the man’s chin. Another shot was fired and one of the Turkmen soldiers fell. Mark felt a blow to the head. He didn’t pass out, but was dazed enough that he could do nothing to prevent being dragged over to the BMW.
33
DECKER COULD HEAR his captors frantically searching for him, but the ravine was a large area to cover, and Decker had been trained to be patient and use natural cover to his advantage.
When he’d slowly picked his way far enough through the junipers that he could see the twisting mountain road at the end of the driveway, he took out the pruning shears and tried to loosen the nut and bolt that held the blades together. His fingers trembled and were so weak that he gave up and used his teeth, chipping one of his rear molars in the process. When he finally got the blades separated, a stiff wire spring fell to the ground. He straightened the spring and used it to pick the lock on his handcuffs. He spread juniper needles over the discarded cuffs and stuck the two loose blades in his pocket.
By methodically threading his way through the trees, lying flat on the ground and covering himself with dead branches whenever one of the guards came near, he eventually half-crawled, half-limped to within a hundred yards of the mountain road. He took his time, remaining perfectly still for minutes on end and willing himself not to pass out. The longer they searched, he knew, the wider the search perimeter would need to become. Time was his friend if he could force his body to keep going.
Eventually, one of his captors sped off in a car.
Decker edged forward on his belly until he was within fifty feet of the road. The driveway intersected the road maybe a quarter mile below him. He tried to shake the dirt out of his hair and wipe his face clean, but all the cuts and bruises made it a painful process. There was no way he was going to look anything approaching normal anyway, so he gave up and started crawling up and away from the driveway, paralleling the road as he did so. He was able to advance maybe a quarter mile more, until the terrain became too steep and the road ducked into a small canyon. To continue forward would mean he’d have to come closer to the road, potentially exposing his position.
He lay there, perfectly still, for an hour—listening to the traffic pass. Early on, one car sped up the hill as if in pursuit of something, but after that, all appeared to be normal.
It was his extreme thirst that finally led him to inch closer to the road.
When he caught a glimpse of a white van slowly winding its way up a section of road below him, he checked for guards. None were visible, so he crawled the rest of the way to the pavement, stood next to a rock that concealed his bare feet, and stuck out his thumb. It was a wild, but calculated, risk. He was barely able to maintain consciousness, he couldn’t stay hidden in the trees forever, and on foot he would be too weak to put any real distance between himself and his captors.
He faced uphill, so that the driver of the van wouldn’t be able to see him, and tried to stand in a way that didn’t draw attention to his injured left leg. The van slowed down, but only so that the driver could honk his horn at Decker and curse him.
The sound of the horn cutting through the silence of a peaceful sunny day was jarring. His captors must have heard it as far back as the house.
Another car appeared. Decker stuck out his thumb again. This time the driver just slowed down and gave him a nasty look. A man in a car going down the hill took one look at Decker’s face and turned away.
But then a black sedan that was slowly laboring up the hill, its tailpipe smoking a bit as it burned oil, pulled over to the side of the road a few yards ahead of Decker. Two pairs of skis had been affixed to a roof rack. Decker dipped his head down, trying to hide his face as he approached the car. The rear door opened.
“Where do you go, my friend?”
The question was in English. They must have known, just from looking at him, that he was a foreigner. He collapsed in the backseat.
“Merci,” he said. His voice came out as a low croak. He kept his head down, eyes pointed to the floor of the car. He thought that if he could just get to the Caspian, he could steal a boat. Water was his ally. “The coast,” he said.
“We can take you part of the way, we go skiing at Dizin—look at me, please.”
Decker raised his head up a fraction of an inch and made eye contact with the driver.
“A’udhu billah!” I seek refuge with God.
“I was robbed. Drive. Please.”
The driver frowned deeply. As though he’d just realized that he may have picked up a complete psychopath.
When the car didn’t move, Decker said, “Drive! Please!”
The driver slowly pulled away. Through the rear windshield Decker saw one of his captors—a man with a short-cropped beard—running after them.
34
Ashgabat, Turkmenistan
“I AM THE political liaison to the American ambassador!” yelled William Thompson.
Mark’s vision was blurry. He put a hand on the back of his head because it felt as if he were bleeding there, but everything was dry—just a bruise, he concluded, filling with blood from the inside.
The Chinese hadn’t killed him in the square. Which meant that now, despite the attempt on his life in Baku, they must want to talk to him. They’d probably want to kill him afterward, but for the moment they wanted him alive. That bit of knowledge was a tactical advantage.
“I am a diplomat, do you hear me?” said Thompson. “And I know damn well you all work for the Guoanbu. I know this! My government will soon know this. Are you trying to start a goddamn war?”
“Quiet!”
Mark and Thompson had been stuffed into the backseat of the gray BMW, squeezed together by a Chinese who sat on their right, clutching a gun. The Chinese in the front passenger seat was also pointing a gun at Mark and Thompson. The driver made a sharp turn, and the car’s tires squealed. Mark felt for his wallet. It was gone. So were his cell phone and passport.
Thompson turned to Mark. “Why is this happening, Sava!”
The car made another sharp turn. They had left the showy white-marble part of the city and entered a neighborhood lined with old mustard-colored Soviet apartment buildings festooned with a riot of satellite dishes and air conditioners and rotting wood shutters.
“Quiet!” said the Guoanbu agent in the passenger seat of the car.
“I don’t know.” Mark wished everyone would stop yelling.
After speeding through the glum Soviet part of town, they came to a warren of dirt lanes framed by small houses with ramshackle fences protecting little gardens. A couple of minutes later, they skidded to a stop next to an old Russian Lada with bald tires. Everyone climbed out of the BMW and into the Lada.
They took off again, this time more slowly, in the direction of the vast Kara-Kum Desert that began just beyond city the limits. It occurred to Mark that the dunes of the Kara-Kum would be a convenient place to dispose of bodies.
But then t
hey circled back toward downtown Ashgabat. Soon Mark saw the white marble and blue-tinted glass of the President Hotel looming in the distance.
It was Thompson who finally said, “They’re taking us to the Chinese embassy. You will all regret this.”
The Chinese sitting next to Thompson in the backseat smashed the butt of his gun into Thompson’s temple, knocking the station chief’s glasses off his face and opening an inch-long gash that started to bleed.
“Quiet.”
They passed the enormous white-marble embassy of the United Arab Emirates. In the distance, a soldier in an olive-green uniform stood in front of a tall fence. A large red-and-yellow Chinese flag hung from a tall flagpole behind him.
The Chinese in the driver’s seat pulled out an identification badge, as though getting ready to show it to the embassy guard.
Mark figured it was a near certainty that if they drove through those gates, he and Thompson weren’t ever getting out. You don’t abduct and rough up a US station chief and then let him live to tell Washington who did it. After the interrogation, that would be it. He glanced at the Chinese with the exposed gun in the front passenger seat.
The Chinese stared back at Mark and slowly shook his head, as if to say don’t even think about it.
The entrance gate to the Chinese embassy was less than a hundred feet away.
Mark visualized manually unlocking the car door he was pushed up against and rolling out onto the road. They wanted him alive to interrogate him? Well, he’d run and dare them to shoot him. Alone, without Thompson dragging him down, it’d be a footrace, and he’d have a head start.
The car slowed to make the turn into the embassy. Mark was about to go for the lock when out of the corner of his eye he saw a police car on the opposite side of the road careen up onto the grassy median. The police car bounced over the curb, swerved sharply, and then lurched into their lane, going against traffic.