Spy for Hire

by Dan Mayland

Mark had been playing this game for far too long to walk like a lamb to that slaughter. No, the best way to secure Rad’s safety—and to do right by Muhammad—was to insure that Saeed was properly motivated to do the right thing.

  Money was an option. Mark had over a half million dollars he could wire to Saeed overnight. Though that might do the trick, Mark doubted it would. Saeed was just a representative of the Saudi intelligence apparatus, and to Saudi intelligence, a half million dollars was pocket change. Other common tools—appealing to a person’s ego or conscience, or offering them an opportunity to exact revenge upon an enemy—were also almost certain to fail in this case.

  Dredging up compromising information about Saeed was definitely on the table. Maybe Saeed was an adulterer, or had tried to embezzle money, or was gay—a potentially capital offense in Saudi Arabia. But those were leverage points that—if they even existed—would take time to uncover.

  Extortion through other means was possible, though. Especially if it were combined with some of the cruder tools of his trade. A plan began to form in Mark’s mind.

  PART III

  47

  Mark caught a cab back to the Manama Sheraton. By now it was a little after six. The sun was beginning to wane.

  He connected to the hotel’s Wi-Fi and used his iPod to call Kaufman. When he got sent into Kaufman’s voicemail, he hung up and called again. And then hung up and called a third time. This time Kaufman answered on the fourth ring.

  “I can’t talk to you, Sava. You’re radioactive on the seventh floor.”

  The offices on the seventh floor of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, were occupied by the men and women at the very top of the Agency’s bureaucracy.

  “Someone on the inside shared my personnel file with the Saudis, Ted. I think it was Rosten.”

  “He wouldn’t. Not the file of a former operative.” Kaufman, however, sounded less convinced than his words implied.

  Mark explained all that had happened since he’d taken Muhammad from the Saudis, concluding, “I don’t know what deal Rosten tried to cut with the Shias, but whatever it was, it didn’t work. So now he’s going to throw the Shias under the bus and back the royals. But for that to happen, he needs for me to deliver the kid. He was worried I wouldn’t, so he shared my personnel file with the Saudis so they could put the squeeze on me.”

  “I’m sorry about your brother, but maybe you should just deliver the kid. Did that ever occur to you?”

  “My personnel file is chock full of intel from my time with Central Eurasia. Your division. This isn’t just a shot fired at me, it’s a shot fired at the whole division. If Rosten did this, you need to sound the alarm. Or, if it turns out management approved this, at least have the decency to tell me so I know what I’m dealing with.”

  “Mark—” Kaufman sighed.

  It was a weary, maybe even frustrated sigh, but Mark was guessing that in the end Kaufman would help. His old boss was like that—always complaining, never eager—but when it came to defending Central Eurasia’s turf, he was a seasoned infighter who looked out for his own.

  “This isn’t just about me, Ted. Something big is going on down here. I don’t know what it is, but—am I telling you something you already know? Do you already know what the hell is going on here in Bahrain?”

  “Unfortunately, no. All I know is that yesterday the deputy director personally ordered me to order you to show up at the embassy in Bishkek, and that once you got there you were supposed to do whatever Rosten told you to. Beyond that I’m in the dark.”

  “You know as well as I do that there should be a record of whoever accessed my file. There’s only a handful of people with that clearance.”

  “I’ll pull your file and find out who else has accessed it. But if it turns out it’s Rosten, or someone even higher up, things are going to get sticky.”

  Mark called Larry Bowlan. “So, how’d you like a job?”

  A pause, then, “Have you been drinking, Sava?”

  “I mean it.”

  “No, ‘Hello Larry, how’ve you been since the last time we talked’? No, ‘Sorry for hanging up on you but thanks for hanging around the office for an extra hour, after everyone else has gone home’? Just insults?”

  “I’m not insulting you.”

  “I have a job.”

  “I mean a real job. Hundred and fifty thousand a year base salary for intel work, with an opportunity for bonuses depending on risk factors.”

  “You pulling my leg?”

  “No, Larry. This is the real deal. A real offer. You’d be working for me. I’ve been doing some private contract work—”

  “I know what you’ve been doing. You’ve been working for that clown Bruce Holtz. Honestly, I thought a guy like Holtz was a little beneath—”

  “I’m going out on my own.”

  “As of when?”

  “As of now.”

  “You’re not inspiring confidence.”

  “I can guarantee your salary for a year.”

  Bowlan didn’t answer right away. “I’d be more comfortable with a year and a half.”

  “You’re seventy-one years old, Larry. And you haven’t exactly led what I’d call a healthy life. You could be dead in six months. Take a chance.”

  “I quit smoking. Doing the patches.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Year and a half.”

  “Fine.” Mark knew Bowlan would have taken a year contract—would have taken six months for that matter—but he didn’t want to haggle too much with his old boss. He needed Bowlan motivated.

  “And I want a contract.”

  “I’ll have one drawn up within the week.”

  “Really?” Bowlan sounded surprised, in the way someone who’s just been told they’ve won the lottery might sound surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “When do I start?”

  “Well, see, that’s the thing.”

  “Here it comes, the catch.”

  “You start now. That’s why I called.”

  “I thought the contract wouldn’t be ready for a week?”

  “Maybe sooner. Hell, I’ll fill out a contract on a napkin and fax it to you now if you want. But I’m juggling a few things at the moment, and I can’t be dealing with lawyers. If you really want the job, you’re going to have to work on faith for a few days.”

  “When’s my first paycheck?”

  “Whenever I get around to paying you,” Mark snapped. Then, thinking better of it, he added, “Whenever, Larry. Tomorrow if you need it.”

  Bowlan took a moment to answer, but Mark was certain it was just for show. He’d known Bowlan would be an easy recruit, and not just because of the money. Bowlan wanted to be back in the game.

  “OK. You got yourself a deal, Sava. But I would advise you not to try to take advantage of the elderly. I may be a few years past my prime, but I’m a vindictive son of a bitch and I don’t have a lot to lose, so keep that in mind.”

  “Welcome aboard, Larry. You’re officially the first employee of Global Intelligence Solutions.”

  Mark had signed a non-compete agreement with Holtz, but he figured that wasn’t going to be an issue for much longer. The Central Eurasia Division would almost certainly put out a burn notice—whether formally or informally—on Holtz. CAIN’s business in Central Asia was about to dry up, at least as long as Holtz was running the show.

  “Did you just make that name up?”

  “This is the deal…”

  Mark brought Larry up to date, including about what had happened to his brother.

  Instead of expressing sympathy or alarm, Bowlan said, “So you’re telling me this isn’t a private intelligence op that you’re undertaking on behalf of a paying client. This is just a bail-out-you-and-your-brother op.”

  “The first thing I need you to do is track down a few Saudi princes for me. I’m sure you get a steady stream of them coming into Dubai.”

  “We do…” Bowlan sounded wary.

 
Laws in Saudi Arabia allowing polygamy, combined with astounding wealth, meant that there were thousands of members of the Saudi royal family. Many had business interests in places like Dubai and Bahrain, destinations that were popular not only for their pro-business tax and regulatory policies, but also because of the availability of alcohol and prostitutes—two attractions that were in short supply in Saudi Arabia.

  “I need you to find me a few that have recently left Dubai for Bahrain. Is that something you can handle?”

  “I can tap into the Emirates database, but when I do, I’ll leave a trail. It’ll be questioned, and if I don’t have good answers, which I won’t, I could be—”

  “Fired, I know. That’s not relevant now.”

  “And prosecuted. The same way whoever broke your cover can be prosecuted.”

  “That’s the job, Larry. Take it or leave it. I didn’t promise a risk-free working environment.”

  “Understood. But keep in mind, my data tap might be questioned in two days or two minutes. Point is, if you were counting on my having access to the consulate resources in the days and weeks to come, don’t.”

  Mark continued as if Bowlan hadn’t spoken, “At the same time, I need you to search arrival records for a woman named Kalila Safi. She would have flown in from Bahrain around three days ago. Fifty-six years old. Find out everything you can about her. How’s your Arabic?”

  “I’m still as sharp as ever.”

  Mark recalled that Bowlan, thanks to a few courses at Yale fifty years earlier, was able to speak a formal form of Arabic. It was a variation of the language that virtually no one spoke in real life, except maybe when giving a dry academic dissertation, but Larry was at least able to make himself understood—albeit barely.

  “Glad to hear it. Track her down and talk to her. Tell her about Muhammad. Get her take on what’s going on.”

  “Hang on. I’ll call you back.”

  It occurred to Mark that he hadn’t eaten anything since his two early-morning Cinnabons and that he should be hungry. He wasn’t, but he was feeling a little lightheaded and weak, so he went down to the main dining room and ordered the all-you-can-eat buffet. He ate a lot—pasta Alfredo and Chinese dumplings and chicken parmigiana and bread rolls with too much butter—forcing himself to fuel up quickly for what he anticipated would be a long night. He drank three cups of lukewarm coffee as he ate, and then one more after he’d already paid for his meal and was just camping out at the table, feeling jumpy and impatient.

  He didn’t like the fact that he had to rely so much on Bowlan.

  Come on, Larry. Enough already.

  He thought about Rad, and then forced himself not to. He thought about Daria, and hoped she was safe. He wanted to call or e-mail her, but didn’t want to have to explain his plans. She wouldn’t approve—of that he was certain—though she’d approve of the result if he managed to pull it off.

  Finally, fifty-two minutes after they’d last spoken, Bowlan called back.

  “OK, you ready?”

  Mark was relieved to hear the old man’s voice again. “Shoot.”

  “Kalila Safi did pass through customs three days ago. And if she’s the Kalila Safi I think she is, she’s the sister of a wealthy developer here in Dubai. I left a few messages at residential and business numbers I was able to dredge up for the developer, but no one’s called back.”

  “Great. Keep pushing until you talk to Kalila herself.”

  “Yeah, I got it the first time. As for the Saudi princes, I got two live ones. First is Bandar bin Fahd. He works for a private equity firm in Manama and is the son of a provincial Saudi governor. It’s a pretty good bet that what he really does is just invest all the money his dad makes by bilking the government. He left Dubai for Bahrain yesterday. Then we’ve got Abdulaziz bin Salman, son of the deputy minister of agriculture, lists his job as civil engineer. He left Dubai for Bahrain two days ago.”

  “Spell the names.”

  Bowlan did.

  Mark googled them with his iPod, then said, “Nothing on Abdulaziz. With Bandar, I’m looking at a bunch of hits related to his private equity work… and, hold on… and a press report that says he was caught with three prostitutes at the Four Seasons in London, bit of a minor scandal.” Mark took thirty seconds to skim the rest of the article. “He’s also a grandson of the king, but he isn’t anywhere close to being in line for the throne. Does he travel a lot to Bahrain?”

  Mark heard Bowlan pecking slowly at a keyboard. “Pretty regularly, looks like once or twice a month.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where he stays while he’s there?”

  “Ah…” After a minute, Bowlan said, “No. Those records would be with customs in Bahrain. But he lists the Hilton here in Dubai under his contact info. I’m looking at two years of data here, multiple entries each month, and he always stays at the Hilton. I’d bet he does the same thing at one of the higher-end hotels in Manama. Probably keeps a suite there like an apartment. The Saudis with money to burn do that. They like the room service.”

  “Is there a Hilton in Bahrain?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mark googled it. There wasn’t. Nor were there any Hilton affiliates. “Is he married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he travel with his wife? Or a bodyguard?”

  “I doubt he’d travel with his wife. One, it would cramp his style. Two, Saudi women don’t travel much. However, he does list one travel companion on all his applications. Could be his driver, bodyguard, lover, all of the above, whatever.”

  “OK—e-mail me Bandar’s photo.” Mark gave Bowlan an e-mail address.

  “You got it. That’s it?”

  “Get in touch with Kalila Safi.”

  “Yeah, I know. I meant besides that.”

  “What’s your cell number?”

  Bowlan read it off.

  “I’ll be calling you soon,” said Mark. “Be ready to move.”

  48

  Mark agreed with Bowlan’s assessment that Prince Bandar bin Fahd of Saudi Arabia probably stayed at one of the upscale hotels in or around Manama, but that didn’t help much. Bahrain was a wealthy nation. There were lots of upscale hotels. And it was a near certainty that every one of them would have a strict confidentiality policy that would prevent them from revealing whether Bandar was a guest. So he figured he’d work the prostitution angle instead.

  He caught a cab, got dropped off in the busy Awadhiya section of Manama, spent fifteen minutes ducking in the front doors and out the back doors of various shops until he was certain he’d gotten rid of anyone who might have been tailing him, then caught another cab—this time to the Juffair district of Manama, not far from the US naval base.

  Mark didn’t know anything about prostitution in Bahrain. But he was betting the area around the navy base wouldn’t be a bad place to start learning about it.

  Al Shabab Avenue was the main drag of Juffair, a long Americanized strip of road lined with a Chili’s, Baskin-Robbins, Dairy Queen, McDonald’s, and dozens of other Western chains. Given its proximity to the naval base, Mark was also counting on finding what he saw next—a sign advertising a GENT’S SALOON. Next to the saloon was a Chinese massage parlor.

  He put his eyes up to the tinted window of the saloon and saw that it wasn’t a saloon at all—it was actually a barbershop whose owner had added an extra letter o to the word salon.

  But the Chinese massage parlor looked like the real deal. The doorframe around the front entrance was grimy, the red-and-white neon sign above the door, garish. When Mark stepped inside, he noted the red carpet was in need of a good steam cleaning.

  A slender Asian woman who looked to be about sixty greeted him. She sat in a dim front parlor, at a desk trimmed with what looked like Christmas icicle lights. Behind her hung a poster depicting a buxom, dark-haired woman riding a Chinese dragon. The place smelled like licorice-infused incense and cigarettes.

  Mark told her that he’d come for a massage, asked what her
prices were, and listened as she told him.

  The businesslike way she spoke, the assurance with which she carried herself, the way she looked at Mark as she might an article of clothing she was considering purchasing—all these signals made Mark reluctant to try to tap her for information. He assumed that she’d sell him information for the right price, but he feared she’d tell him anything she thought he wanted to hear, true or not.

  “The regular fifteen-dinar massage will be fine,” he said.

  The woman frowned. “The special massage is much better.”

  “With someone who speaks English?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “OK, I’ll take the half-hour special massage.”

  “One hour is the best price.”

  “I only have a half hour.”

  The woman frowned again.

  “Take it or leave it,” said Mark.

  He paid in advance and tipped the woman five dinars. She led him down a narrow hall. Red lightbulbs set in cheap brass wall sconces had been fitted with tiny white lampshades. The eerie light cast distorted shadows onto the walls.

  The woman opened a door at the end of the hall. Inside was more red light.

  He walked into the room and closed the door behind him. It was a small space, no more than eight by ten feet. Just enough room for a massage table and a small end table, on which sat an incense burner, some sticks of incense, and a big bottle of citrus-scented oil.

  He ran his hand over the massage table, confirmed there weren’t any residual body fluids on it, and then hoisted himself onto it.

  “Lie down please. Clothes off.”

  The masseuse picked up the bottle of citrus-scented oil. Her arms were slender, and her small breasts were partially visible through her negligee. About thirty years old, Mark guessed, although maybe that was the light—she could have been older. He caught a whiff of perfume.

  “I prefer to talk first,” said Mark.

  The woman had been about to unscrew the cap on the bottle of oil, but she stopped. “You paid for a massage.”

  “Do you ever have any Saudi clients?”