by Dan Mayland
And then she closed her eyes. God, she was tired. This pace was killing her. If her period wasn’t just late, then she had to start taking better care of herself, and soon.
Her mind swirled as she started worrying about child care, and preschools, and the lousy health care system in Kyrgyzstan, and how she was going to swing it all…
Four hard, sharp raps jolted Daria out of her sleep. Someone was knocking on the front door.
Her instincts told her that it wasn’t just a neighbor coming to ask for a cup of sugar, that it was some sort of law enforcement, or—
They were here for Muhammad. She couldn’t let them inside.
Daria stood up, took a half second to come up with a plan, then raced silently into the bedroom. Muhammad was still fast asleep. She gently closed the bedroom door just as four more loud knocks sounded.
On her way to the balcony off the kitchen, Daria grabbed her iPod and headset from the living room coffee table. As she eased open the door to the balcony, she brought up the last call she’d made, pushed dial, put on the headset, and slipped the device into her back pocket.
On the left side of the balcony, an old rope had been affixed to a rusted bolt that protruded from the exterior of the building. The makeshift fire escape lay on the floor in a tidy circular coil.
Daria took the rope and tossed it over the side of the balcony just as Mark answered her call.
“God, I was afraid I’d get voice mail again. Pick Muhammad up from our condo.” She spoke quietly as she slid gracefully down the rope. “Now.” The second her feet hit the pavement, she tied a quick knot in the end of the rope.
“I can’t. Complete cluster on this end. Holtz got involved in—”
“No time. They’re here for him, I have to draw them away. I can’t take him, it’s on you.”
“Who’s they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you OK?”
With urgency, Daria whispered, “I’ll be fine, just pick up Muhammad!”
She tried to heave the knot, and the length of rope that was attached to it, back up to the balcony. She succeeded, but a several-foot-long loop, too high for her to reach, hung down over the side.
“OK, I’ll figure it out,” said Mark.
“Be quick about it. By the way, I left you a message—he’s from Bahrain. He says the woman he calls Anna, and who’s probably his nanny, is from there.”
Daria ended the call and ran to the stairwell entrance to her condo. As she opened the door, she heard more knocking coming from the hallway.
She climbed the creaky stairs, her footsteps heavy and loud on the oak stair treads. When she reached the second-floor landing, she turned into the hall and feigned surprise when she saw the two men—one a gangly schoolboy redhead with a razor-burn rash on his neck, the other an older man with Asian features—standing outside her door. The redhead held a crowbar in his hand and was in the process of wedging it between the doorframe and the door.
She took a wary step back. As she did so, she noted that the redhead was wearing leather shoes imprinted with the Timberland logo. Bishkek wasn’t like Baku, which had long ago been invaded by Western stores. An American, she figured. Backing away, she said in English, “What are you doing?”
“Miss Buckingham?” asked the older man. He had a long neck and straight black hair that had been parted to the side, and his hairline was slightly receding, resulting in a prominent widow’s peak. He spoke with an American accent, and carried himself like an American—head thrust forward, more overtly aggressive than most of the Chinese intelligence agents Daria had encountered.
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk to you,” he said, adding, “We’re from the US embassy here in Bishkek.”
That she believed. “You’re Agency.”
Neither man denied it.
“Why were you breaking in?” she asked.
“We knocked first. Where are you coming from?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Your prior ties to the US government require that you cooperate with us now, Ms. Buckingham.”
That much was true, Daria allowed. Just because she’d been kicked out of the CIA didn’t mean all her obligations to the Agency had ended. Her original contract had made that clear. There were restrictions on what she could say and do that would apply for the rest of her life.
The young redhead maneuvered himself so that he was between Daria and the exit. Daria didn’t move to stop him.
“I’m fully aware of my obligations,” she said. “What does that have to do with you breaking into my home?”
“We’ve been told you have a child. Not a child of your own. An orphan.”
“And what of it?”
“The US government has an interest in this boy and believes he’s in danger. We’ve been sent to protect him.”
“By breaking into my home?”
The Asian opened his palms. “We were simply searching for the boy. As we were ordered to do.”
“He’s not here. I just returned from dropping him off with friends. And you don’t have to worry about him. He’s safe.”
“Others don’t see it that way. Listen, we don’t have much choice in the matter. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t fight us on this. All we want to do is recover the boy and bring him back to the embassy, where he’ll be safe. Can you help us?”
Daria pretended to consider the matter. “If I take you to the boy, can I go with him to the embassy? He’s young, and scared. No offense, but neither of you guys looks like the mothering type.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” said the Asian.
It was clear the redhead didn’t get a vote.
Daria paused again, as though hesitant. “OK. I just brought him back to Balykchy.”
“Back to Balykchy?”
“Yeah. He was taken from an orphanage there.”
“We haven’t been briefed. Is he at this orphanage now?”
“No, I left him with friends who live near it. I wasn’t sure it was safe to bring him back to the orphanage itself. I was afraid someone might try to take him again.”
The Asian sighed. “Then let’s get going.”
Daria led the way down the staircase. When they got to the street, she began to talk rapidly about what had transpired earlier in the day, drawing the attention of the two CIA officers away from the rope dangling from her balcony.
15
After getting off the phone with Holtz, Decker took off his climbing harness, put on his hiking boots—which he’d stored in a bag near the base of the cliff—shouldered his backpack, cinched it tight, and began to jog down the trail that would eventually lead him to his Ford Explorer.
Jessica had already packed up, and was running a few steps ahead of him, stepping from rock to rock as she rapidly navigated the steep, narrow trail. Her pack was strapped tight to her back, her dirty-blond hair tied back with a blue bandanna.
She’d been a good sport about having to abort the climb, Decker thought. And supportive, without being overly doting, after he’d told her about his father.
Decker’s phone rang. The normal ring tone told him it wasn’t his mother, but he figured it might be one of his brothers.
Still jogging, he pulled out his phone and pushed Talk, wondering as he did so whether this was the call—one of his brothers telling him he was too late.
“Deck, it’s Mark.”
“Oh. Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Ah, climbing. Actually, I’m descending. Had to stop the climb, something’s come up.”
As if he hadn’t heard the bit about something coming up, Mark said, “You in country?”
“Yeah, just south of Bishkek.”
“Great. Listen, I need you buddy.”
“You know, this is kind of like a really bad time.”
Decker was still jogging. He kept his eyes on the trail.
“We’re talking emergency.”
> “I’m hoping to catch a flight to—”
“Delay it. I’ll cover any costs for the switch. We’re talking five-alarm fire.”
“It’s not the money…”
Decker was about to tell Mark about his father, but then he stopped himself. When had Mark ever called him for help before? When had he ever used the word emergency?
Never.
Dammit, he thought. Mark was his friend, arguably his best friend.
Mark didn’t like to climb. Or hike. Or pound beers at the expat bars and talk about football, or do a lot of the things Decker liked to do. But Mark was a friend in the sense that he was a guy Decker had been able to rely on in the past—if Mark hadn’t bailed him out of a tight spot in Iran last spring, he’d be dead—and knew with absolute certainty he could rely on in the future.
Mark said, “I wouldn’t need you for long, I hope. Maybe for just a few hours, maybe for a day or two.”
“Damn, Mark, it’s just that…”
Mark didn’t say anything.
“OK,” said Deck. “I’ll make this work.”
What are you saying? You can’t make this work.
“Thanks. I need you to power down your phone, remove the battery, then get rid of any other electronic devices you might be carrying. Go to the place where I taught you to play narde. Take extensive SD measures before you get there. When you arrive, you’ll find a package.”
SD was short for surveillance detection. Which told Decker that Mark was mighty worried about something. “What is it?”
Tell him you can’t do this.
“Not over the phone. I can’t be sure yours is secure. You’ll know it when you see it. Just be gentle, remove it immediately from the site, hide it, and protect it. We’ll communicate through our mutual account. Check it every two hours. I’ll deliver more intel as soon as I can.”
By mutual account, Decker knew Mark was talking about an anonymous Gmail account to which they both knew the password. It was their backup way to communicate—by saving draft messages to it—just in case normal lines of communication became compromised.
“When—”
“Now. Go there right now.”
“It’s gonna take me some time, buddy. I’m not far miles wise, but it’s a hike to the car and then roads are shit. I mean, I’ll rush, I’m rushing now, but—”
“Just get there as soon as you can. I have to sign off.”
16
Mark hung up on Decker, exhaled, and stared at his phone—hoping to see a text message from Daria. Then CIA station chief Serena Bamford opened the door to the conference room.
A heavyset woman in her mid-forties, Bamford had a full head of wavy dark-brown shoulder-length hair, a pale complexion she’d inherited from her Estonian grandparents, and an unflappable, perpetually cheerful demeanor that masked her considerable intellect. After graduating with a master’s in Russian studies from the University of Michigan, she’d been tapped by the Agency and had gone on to serve as an operations officer in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moscow, and Uzbekistan before being given her own station in Bishkek two years ago.
Mark liked her. The occasional compliments she tossed his way suggested the feeling was mutual, but with former ops officers you never really knew; he figured she could have just been trying to manipulate him.
“Coffee?” said Bamford, sitting down. She wore a navy-blue pantsuit and just a little bit of makeup.
“Do we have time?”
“More than you’d probably like.”
“Sure.”
Bamford pushed an intercom button on the conference table and placed an order with her assistant.
Mark added, “Have him grab a few of those butter cookies they keep next to the coffee machine, would you?”
A regular diet of lousy meals at the Shanghai and too many snacks in between hadn’t done much for his physique, but Mark figured now wasn’t the time to turn things around. Especially since he knew the embassy was partially supplied by the Base Exchange at the Manas Air Base. The coffee was Starbucks, the cookies Pepperidge Farm.
Bamford’s assistant soon showed up with two coffees, several sugar packs and stirrers, and a pile of cookies heaped on a paper plate. He set it all down on the table. Mark took a bite of a butter cookie and leaned back in his chair.
“So,” he said.
Bamford smiled. “So.” She arranged three packs of sugar together, ripped them all open at once, dumped the sugar in her coffee, mixed it slowly with a stirrer, and then took a sip.
“I take it Kaufman called?” asked Mark.
“Yep.” Bamford added, “Sorry about Daria, by the way.”
Mark eyed Bamford before asking, “Why should you be sorry about Daria?”
“We had to pick her up. Kaufman’s orders, but he was just acting on orders himself. Something about a boy from one of her orphanages. Langley wants him here at the embassy for protection. Apparently she’s cooperating.”
Concealing his relief that it was the Agency who’d come for Daria, Mark said, “Good luck with that.”
“You know something I don’t?”
Mark declined to answer the question. He wasn’t about to tell Bamford that John Decker was on his way to pick up Muhammad, but he didn’t want to lie. Bamford wasn’t the enemy.
“Anyway,” continued Bamford, “I know you’re here to see Rosten, but he won’t get here for at least an hour or so. In the meantime, I thought I’d be social. See if you needed anything.”
Mark pointed at the coffee and cookies. “I’m good now, thanks.”
“Or if you wanted to tell me what the hell CAIN was doing running a Near East op in my station without telling me? Or the ambassador, for that matter.”
Mark stared at Bamford. Her friendly expression hadn’t changed, but her tone of voice had.
She was pissed.
Mark didn’t blame her. A chief of station was supposed to be informed of all intelligence operations going on within her station, and for good reason—in addition to private contractors, the army, navy, air force, and the State Department all had the ability to run intelligence ops. If the chief of station didn’t know what everyone was up to, the potential for overlap, or for one operation to unwittingly interfere with another, was high. Though employed by State, the ambassador, as the representative of the president, was also supposed to be kept in the intelligence-op loop.
“Listen, Serena. I just found out about it this afternoon, so it’s not as though I personally was running some kind of black op in your station without letting you know about it.”
“But Bruce Holtz was. Wasn’t he?”
Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Bamford already knew.
She said, “You want to tell me what that op was?”
Mark told her. The way he figured it, keeping Central Eurasia happy was more important than not pissing off Near East. Always prioritize existing friends over potential friends. Holtz had broken that rule when he’d taken the job from Near East.
After Mark had finished, Bamford shook her head, exhaled, and said, “What the hell.”
“I know.”
“So what happens to the kid once he gets to the embassy?” she asked. “Should I be looking for babysitters?” She turned up her nose. “Like I don’t have anything better to do. Or is Near East just going to deal with him? This whole thing stinks.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about that. At least not in the near future.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Daria’s going to do what she thinks is right for the boy, Near East be damned.”
Sounding both resigned and defiant, Bamford said, “And you’re going to help her.”
“Hey, I’m trying to work with you on this, Serena. Don’t shoot the messenger. You want my advice—”
“I don’t.”
“—just let this play out.”
“Any chance you could take this fight with Near East elsewhere? Like anywhere othe
r than my station?”
Bamford leaned back in her chair. One of the things Mark liked about her was that she was calculating. If she thought she could win, she’d fight; if she thought she was going to lose, she’d back off. Or in this case, if she saw a bunch of idiots fighting in her station, she’d do what she could to get rid of them.
“I’m hoping I don’t have to fight at all.”
“Yeah, I don’t think Rosten got the memo.”
17
John Decker sped into a curve on the narrow, twisted dirt road that led out of the mountains south of Bishkek.
“Christ, Deck,” said Jessica. She’d pushed herself back into her seat, and was bracing her legs against the floor, as if preparing for a crash. “Would you slow down?”
Decker hadn’t realized how fast he was going. He braked.
“Do you want me to drive?” asked Jessica.
“No.”
“This friend who called you. I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you just tell him about your dad?”
After Mark’s call, Decker had told Jessica he needed to pick something up in Bishkek, as a favor to a friend, but he hadn’t been any more specific than that. He could tell she thought he was nuts, but was too polite, or unsettled, to say much about it. They hadn’t known each other for that long, after all.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell him about my dad. He hung up before I could mention it.”
Decker looked in his rearview mirror. Mark had mentioned taking surveillance detection measures. Decker had been doing so inadvertently just by hauling ass as fast as he had been, but he told himself he should start checking for tails.
“He hung up on you?”
“That’s just how he is.”
“Some friend.”
“He’s actually a pretty good guy.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I just have to pick something up and hold on to it for a little while.”