Spy for Hire

by Dan Mayland

  He heard voices conversing in a language he didn’t understand. He wondered what Marko would do. Rad knew next to nothing about his brother, but he felt certain that the battle-hardened man who had come to see him in the shack in the desert—the man who’d snapped at him to shut up—would fight back.

  A black man in a white coat appeared above him.

  Rad took a few deep breaths. He’d been drugged, he knew that now, and he wasn’t thinking clearly. But he was thinking clearly enough. With his good hand, he reached out, grabbed one of the scalpels, and stabbed the leg of the man in the white coat as hard as he could.

  The man screamed.

  Rad sat up and pushed himself off the table. He was dizzy as his feet hit the ground. He tried to run, but fell on his face. That’s when he remembered his shinbone was broken.

  A foot appeared in front of him and he stabbed it with the scalpel. Then he felt a hand press a rag over his mouth. He breathed in something sweet, and blacked out.

  57

  Mark hopped out quickly, before the car had even come to a full stop, as Bowlan pulled up to the fish market warehouses. It was one forty in the morning. Muhammad was supposed to be transferred to the Saudis in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency hotel in Bishkek in twenty minutes.

  The whole area reeked of a heady mix of saltwater and fish guts, the odor pungent even though the new day’s catch had yet to arrive. As the warm stench rose up in Mark’s nose, it made him feel more alert, as though he’d just inhaled smelling salts.

  As he jogged toward the market, he considered what Bowlan had just told him about Kalila Safi. Assuming Bowlan hadn’t been lied to, then it was just as Mark had suspected—the Saudis weren’t looking out for Muhammad’s best interests any more than the royals here in Bahrain were.

  At the market, men were setting up chopping tables and unloading ice in open, brightly lit warehouses. Mark imagined that the fish would begin to arrive in a few hours—freshly caught grouper, tuna, parrot fish, and shark—hauled in from the shallow waters of the Persian Gulf. They’d be sliced up with razor-sharp fillet knives and weighed on the old cast-iron scales Mark saw out on the chopping tables before being sold to Bahraini housewives or luxury restaurants in Manama.

  The parking lot lay just beyond the warehouses. A refrigerator truck and an old pickup that had a big wooden table lashed to its bed pulled in just as Mark got there; they parked next to several other vehicles that were clustered in an area close to the market.

  One car in the vast lot sat apart from the rest—a silver Buick, in the far southeastern corner. The interior lights were off, but Mark saw the silhouette of a man sitting behind the steering wheel.

  He began to walk toward the Buick.

  When he got close, the driver’s side window opened, revealing a man with a square jaw and high forehead. He wore a white, neatly pressed, short-sleeved civilian shirt and dark blue slacks that looked to Mark like the bottom half of the navy’s blue service uniform. His graying hair had been cut high and tight.

  “Admiral Garver?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark walked around to the other side of the car and slid into the passenger-side seat. Garver offered his hand. It was a stiff, formal gesture.

  Mark glanced at Garver’s hand, shook it, and said, “So why’d you do it?”

  “Mr. Sava. My team and I work closely with your friends at the CIA. That’s why I’m here tonight—because I know you’re involved in a sensitive Agency operation that I also happen to have been briefed on.” Garver spoke with clipped precision, like the high-ranking military officer he was. “So I’ll hear what you have to say. But let’s dispense with the accusations, shall we?”

  “Your friend Gregory Larkin’s already talked, Admiral. There’ll be corroborating phone records. Even if I can’t prove that you shared my personnel file with the Saudis, which I know damn well you did, asking Larkin to illegally violate my file is enough in itself to end your career and then some.”

  Garver was silent for half a minute. He’d turned away from Mark and was staring blankly out the side window. His chin was thrust forward, his lips pursed tightly together.

  “Who else?”

  “Who else, what?”

  “Knows.”

  Mark said, “I need you to tell me what’s going down on this island, Admiral, and then I need you to contact Saeed for me. The only other person who knows is the head of the CIA’s Central Eurasia Division. He’s the one who investigated the breach and confronted Larkin.”

  “Why only him?”

  “Because I need you motivated to help me. And I’ve noticed that people who have already permanently lost everything they love in life are hard to motivate. The division chief of Central Eurasia is a guy named Ted Kaufman. I know him well. I asked that he not turn you in just yet so that if you were to help me, I’d have something to give you in return. Like a chance to avoid prison.”

  Another long pause.

  Mark added, “I’m pissed to hell about what happened with my file, and about what the Saudis have done to my brother—”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “But I’m not looking for revenge. I’m looking for results.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Mark didn’t know whether Garver was playing dumb or was genuinely out of the loop; either way, he didn’t want to talk about it—at least not with Garver.

  “I did what I thought was right,” said Garver.

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Don’t patronize me. Is your brother hurt?”

  “I’ve told you what I’m here for, Admiral. Either you’re going to give me what I want, or you’re going to take it on the chin. What’s it going to be?”

  “It happened six days ago,” said Garver, continuing to stare out the side window.

  Mark waited, then said, “What happened?”

  “The king was turning sixty-two. It was a small party, mostly just family. The next morning, people started vomiting. At first, they thought it was food poisoning. But the sick just kept getting sicker. Are you familiar with ricin?”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  Ricin was a powerful poison, one that was widely available and relatively easy to produce since it came from castor beans. Mark recalled that the KGB used it during the Cold War. Saddam Hussein had produced a bunch of it. Various terrorists had tried to use it.

  “Yeah, that was my reaction. A purified powder was dissolved and injected into the wine. Many of those who got sick have already died. The king is in a coma and on kidney dialysis. Given the damage to his liver and heart, it’s thought that he’ll die soon. Two of his adult sons died in the last couple of days, and another will likely die within hours if he hasn’t already. The people don’t know the extent of what’s happened, but rumors are flying on the street. The king’s uncle, the prime minister, was one of the few who didn’t drink at the party. He’s been doing everything he can to prevent the papers from reporting on the absence of the royal family, hoping the king will get better and take control, but he won’t be able to do that much longer—it’s unlikely the king will get better, and they won’t be able to hold off on the burials much longer. An announcement is going to be made no later than noon today. This island is a bomb that’s waiting to go off.”

  Mark had known that some trouble was brewing, but this was infinitely worse than he’d imagined. He couldn’t help but think that if he’d been on his home turf, in some Turkic-speaking country, he’d have sensed more was wrong.

  “Who did it?”

  “Sunni extremists who hate the fact that the Sunni royal family drinks alcohol, and turns a blind eye to prostitution, and does business with the US Navy. One of them worked at the palace. He’s confessed. The irony is that it’s the Shias who will benefit. They’ll call for elections. And if that happens…” Garver shrugged as he stared out the front windshield. “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t. A lot will depend on what happens t
o that boy you have in your possession.”

  “He’s one of the king’s grandsons,” said Mark. Muhammad’s true parentage was one of the many things that Kalila Safi’s brother had revealed to Larry Bowlan.

  “Yes, he is. And Muhammad’s father, the king’s second oldest son, died three days ago, as did his mother. Which means if the king dies, the boy is next in line for the throne. He won’t actually rule, of course, there would be a regent for that—probably the prime minister, who is next in line for the throne after the boy. But the boy could be the difference between the monarchy surviving and falling. The country wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of an old politician like the prime minister. No one likes him. But if the prime minister was just a placeholder for the grandson of the king? That could be another matter entirely.

  “Unfortunately, the Shia political leadership in Bahrain also realize the importance of the boy. When Muhammad was brought to the hospital to be monitored for food poisoning, he was placed in the care of a doctor who was secretly a Shia partisan. This doctor knew what was happening to the royal family, and immediately grasped what it meant for the line of succession if the sick began to die. He was the conduit to the Shia leaders who decided to kidnap the child and blame it on the same zealots who had poisoned the royals.”

  “Only the CIA found out about the plot.”

  “Yes. They’ve infiltrated the Shias.”

  “And instead of forcing the Shias to return the boy, the CIA cut a deal with them. They’d help hide the boy and then support elections in Bahrain, elections the Shias would win, if in return the Shias guaranteed that the Fifth Fleet could stay.”

  “It was a deal with the devil,” said Garver, his voice rising. “What kind of human beings help to steal a two-year-old boy from his family? And mark my words—when and if the Shias ever take over this island, the Fifth Fleet’s days in Bahrain will be numbered. It won’t matter what deal the CIA has cut with them. Those Shia fools aren’t ready for democracy. This place will go to hell and then to Iran.”

  Garver took a moment to collect himself, then continued, “I knew what the CIA was up to, I was kept in the loop. The only way to stop it was to tell the Saudis what was going on. So I did—I told them where to start looking for the boy. Then I told them you had the boy, and shared your file with them. And I’m glad I did. And now you need to let the Saudis bring that boy back to Bahrain and give him back to his family. Surely now you can see it’s the right thing to do?”

  Mark didn’t answer. He doubted Garver knew about Kalila Safi. “I need to talk to Saeed,” he said.

  “I already told him I was meeting with you. He said he suspected you would try to use me as a conduit to get to him but that he won’t talk to you. He just wants you to keep your end of the bargain.”

  “Text him.”

  It was five minutes till two. Mark assumed Saeed would be waiting for a confirmation that the boy had been delivered to the hotel.

  Garver pulled his phone out of his front pocket, turned it on, and tapped on the touchscreen. “I’ll try. What do you want me to say?”

  Mark spelled out the name Prince Bandar bin Fahd and then recited the YouTube address for the video clip of Fahd.

  “That’s it?” asked Garver.

  “That’s it.”

  A few seconds later, Garver said, “OK, I sent it. What now?”

  “Now we wait.”

  “What does this Fahd guy have to do with anything?”

  “Better you don’t know.”

  “Can you really stop the CIA from investigating me?”

  “Probably.” Mark would certainly try to hold Kaufman off. Garver’s actions had directly led to Rad’s being shot, but Mark had done plenty of things himself that had resulted in unintended consequences for innocents. Garver had just been doing what he thought was right—and in Mark’s book, that counted for something.

  They didn’t have to wait long for Saeed’s response. Less than a minute after Garver had sent the text, the pickup truck that had pulled into the parking lot while Mark was walking in flipped on its high beams just as another car pulled up beside Garver’s car.

  “I guess Saeed got the message,” said Mark. He stepped out of Garver’s car and into the glare of the approaching headlights. Behind him, at the edge of the parking lot, a low embankment rose up. Near the top, amid a cluster of palm trees, a man was standing with what looked to Mark like an M4 rifle.

  Mark just stood there, bathed in a cold white light, waiting.

  58

  Saeed stepped out of the car to Mark’s left, exiting from the passenger side. Though he was still wearing the same dark gray suit as earlier, he’d removed his tie and his graying hair looked ruffled.

  Guess we’re going to bargain after all, thought Mark.

  Saeed approached quickly. His exceptional height—around six foot six, Mark guessed—combined with unconcealed anger, made him look dangerous. “Where is the prince?”

  He sounded flustered. Mark had hoped Saeed would have some family or tribal relationship to Prince Bandar bin Fahd; almost everyone in a position of power in Saudi Arabia had some ties to the royal family. Fifty-fifty, he’d guessed. Now he put the odds at eighty-twenty, in his favor. Either way, Saeed wouldn’t be able to just ignore the fact that a Saudi prince had been kidnapped.

  “This is the deal,” said Mark. “In a few seconds, I’m going to walk away. Your men aren’t going to follow me.”

  “No.”

  “After I’m gone, you’re going to arrange for my brother to be transported, while in the care of a physician, to Dubai International airport. He will be brought to the Executive Flight Services terminal, the one reserved for private flights. I’ll be there to collect him, either on the tarmac or just inside the terminal. Only then will I tell you the location of the prince.”

  Saeed smacked the back of his right hand into his left palm. “No!”

  “This transfer will take place at seven in the morning—five hours from now. As for Muhammad, I’ll likely give him to Kalila Safi. Assuming her brother hasn’t been lying to me, like everyone else has.”

  “And how would you determine whether he’s lying? You know nothing of that family. Nothing.”

  “I have a few ideas. But when and if I do reunite Muhammad with Kalila Safi, under no circumstances will I disclose how and when this transfer will occur.”

  Saeed took a step closer to Mark, towering over him. “We will stop it.”

  “I’m giving you half of what you want here. If it were up to the CIA and the Shias, Muhammad would grow up with some middle-class family in Central Asia, never knowing who he really was. Bahrain would never know what really happened to him. By giving him to Kalila, I’m doing the right thing by the kid, but also giving you and Bahrain’s prime minister an opportunity. If you want Muhammad back in Bahrain, you’ll have to bargain with Kalila and her family, not with me.”

  “She comes from a family of Shias, Sava! Do you know this? Kalila Safi became a Sunni when she married, but she comes from a family of Shias. Her brother, who she stays with in Dubai, is a Shia. You are condemning this child to be raised by Shias!”

  If there was one thing Mark was sick of hearing about, it was the Sunnis and the Shias.

  “Kalila Safi has been caring for that child since he was born and she’s legally entitled to care for him now. End of story.”

  He started walking toward the embankment behind the parking lot.

  “My men will shoot you.”

  “Go for it.”

  He didn’t think the Saudis would really do it. Shooting him wouldn’t get them Muhammad, and it might mean the death of a Saudi prince. But he couldn’t be sure. People acted in irrational and self-destructive ways all the time.

  Mark heard a few lonely cars speeding along King Faisal Highway. He reached the embankment and began to climb, ignoring the armed man at the top. A suppressed shot spit out and a little bit of dirt kicked up by his left foot. He kept climbing.

  “St
op!” The shooter spoke in Arabic-accented English.

  Mark didn’t stop. He didn’t even look up. Two more shots spit out. He didn’t notice where they went.

  He reached the top of the embankment, crossed a small road, hiked up another embankment, and then stepped over the guardrail that marked the edge of King Faisal Highway. Larry Bowlan was waiting for him on the shoulder of the road, in his rented Lincoln sedan, about a hundred yards down the road.

  “Airport,” said Mark.

  “We going to have problems leaving the country?”

  “No. They’ve already decided to let us go.”

  59

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Mark stood on the tarmac just outside the Executive Flight Services terminal at Dubai International Airport and watched as a Gulfstream jet landed on the shortest of the airport’s three long runways and then taxied slowly over to the executive flight parking area. The early morning sun was pleasantly warm on his face. A light breeze blew across the runways. The sound of massive jetliners landing and taking off mixed with the rumble of tow tractors hauling trailers packed with luggage.

  He and Bowlan had arrived on a commercial flight two hours earlier. They’d been deposited at terminal three, a Quonset-hut-like building whose claim to fame was that it was the largest structure in the world when measured by floor space. After using his British passport to procure an on-arrival visa, he and Bowlan had caught a shuttle to the Executive Flight Services terminal—a section of the airport reserved for private flights. It was tiny in comparison to Terminal 3, except when judged by the volume of wealth and power that regularly flowed through it.

  Directed by an aircraft marshaller, the Gulfstream came to a stop about fifty feet in front of the executive flight terminal, between two other private jets. A minute later, the fuselage door of the plane opened.

  A man dressed in blue hospital scrubs walked partway down the air steps, reached out his arms to receive one end of a hospital gurney, then helped lift the gurney off the plane, extend its collapsible legs, and set it on the tarmac. Rad squinted in the bright sunlight.