Spy for Hire

by Dan Mayland

  Mark called to his brother. “Over here!”

  Rad looked groggy and confused. He slowly lifted his head, glanced around, and finally saw Mark. “Marko?”

  A tall black man with a stethoscope draped around his neck, a clipboard in his hand, and a satchel hanging from a strap on his shoulder—Mark assumed he was the doctor he’d insisted accompany his brother—limped off the plane and over to the two men in scrubs.

  Right on his heels were three Saudi intelligence officers whom Mark recognized from the shack in the desert where he’d last seen Rad. One of them was the older Saudi he’d first encountered in Kyrgyzstan.

  Mark approached the doctor.

  “Wait,” commanded one of the Saudis. He pushed himself between Mark and the doctor, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, dialed a series of numbers, and then handed the phone to Mark.

  Mark put the phone to his ear.

  “The prince,” said Saeed.

  “Go to the Golden Tulip Hotel.”

  “That’s where you kidnapped him.”

  “And that’s where he still is.”

  “We have videotape of you leaving with—oh, I see. He wasn’t in the suitcase.”

  “Room 432.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  The older Saudi remained standing near Rad. The other stood near Mark. Behind them, positioned just outside the executive flight terminal but still well within sight, was Larry Bowlan. Next to Bowlan stood three large Arabs—cab drivers Bowlan had paid an inordinate amount to stand around looking tough. The real plan, if things turned violent, was for Bowlan to call airport security. Which wasn’t much of a backup plan, but was better than nothing.

  Ten minutes passed. A cell phone rang. The Saudi standing next to Mark took a step back, as though guarding himself against the possibility of a physical assault. Then he slipped his left hand into his jacket and pulled out the ringing phone. His right hand was up inside his jacket. Gripping a pistol, Mark assumed.

  The phone had barely reached the Saudi’s ear before he lowered it again and handed it to Mark.

  “If you don’t deliver that child to Kalila Safi, if you try to cut some side deal with the CIA or the Shias, I’m coming after you.”

  “Nice doing business with you too, Saeed.”

  As soon as Mark handed the phone back, the three Saudis started walking toward the plane. After ten steps, one of them called back to the doctor and the two men in hospital scrubs. Although Mark couldn’t understand what was said, the man’s tone was sharp and insistent.

  The two men in hospital scrubs started off toward the Saudis.

  “Hey, wait a second,” said Mark to the doctor. “What’s his condition?”

  The doctor gave a theatrical French bof and a shrug. In French-accented English, he said, “His condition is he’s an asshole who attacks those who try to help him. Beyond that, he suffers a bullet wound to his left shoulder. I have cleaned and dressed this wound. Because the bone was not hit, the main danger of course is infection. I gave him an intramuscular shot of antibiotics last night, and I give him a second dose now along with a booster shot of morphine. After that, he takes these.”

  The doctor handed Mark two pill bottles. “Percocet for the pain, and Keflex, an antibiotic that will prevent infection.”

  “What about his leg?”

  “It was broken. I set it and immobilized it. He will need a cast in a week when the swelling goes down.” The doctor pulled two syringe packs out of his satchel, and then two ampules. He quickly prepared the injections then, without warning, jabbed one needle, then the other, into Rad’s thigh.

  “Jesus!” said Rad, suddenly opening his eyes.

  The doctor finished with the injections and dropped the syringes on the tarmac. “I have to go.” He shouldered his satchel, and limped off. Mark walked over to Rad and put his hand on the bed, next to Rad’s good arm. “Hey.”

  Rad’s eyes were glazed over, the result of the morphine, Mark figured.

  “My arm,” said Rad. “I can’t feel my arm. It’s completely paralyzed.” His words came out slurred.

  Mark reached down to Rad’s bad arm and pinched the forearm skin. Hard. Rad cried out and tried to pull his arm away.

  “You still have some feeling in it,” Mark observed.

  Rad looked as if he was trying to focus on Mark’s face.

  Mark added, “I’m going to transfer you to another plane. I’ve got something I have to do, so you’ll have to wait for an hour or so, but after that I’m taking you home. You’re going to be OK. Everything’s going to be OK.”

  60

  Kalila Safi was a petite woman, and she wore a frumpy tent-like black chador over a black headscarf. She had thick dark eyebrows, and an ugly hawk’s beak for a nose. Mark knew better than to make her uncomfortable by offering to shake her hand when they met inside the executive flight terminal. She wouldn’t even meet his gaze. Her face was lined with worry, her eyes deep-set and dark.

  A short bearded man, who claimed to be Kalila’s brother and was accompanied by four massive bodyguards, introduced himself. Mark shook his hand, and then an awkward moment of silence passed between them.

  Mark had nothing to say to them—he’d know soon enough whether they’d been straight with him—and evidently they had nothing to say to him either.

  Larry Bowlan stood off to the side with his three cab-driver bodyguards.

  “All right then,” said Mark. “Should we wait on the tarmac?”

  Ten minutes later, an old Dassault Falcon, with a registration number on the tail that matched the number Decker had told Mark to look out for, touched down.

  As it taxied toward the executive flight terminal, Kalila Safi clasped her hands in tight to her chest and began to bounce, with what looked like nervous anticipation, on the balls of her feet. She mouthed silent words that Mark couldn’t understand but guessed were a prayer.

  So far, so good, he thought. She didn’t look like she was faking it.

  The plane, which was owned by a charter company frequently used by CAIN, pulled to a stop about a hundred feet away. The fuselage door opened, and the air stairs were lowered.

  Decker appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright sun. Mark raised his arm and waved—what a relief it was to see his friend—but Decker was looking in the wrong direction. As the big former SEAL stepped off the plane, he tried to lower his head at just the right moment so that he wouldn’t bang it on the plane, but he banged it anyway.

  Mark saw Decker turn, snarl at the doorframe, and give it a little smack with the palm of his hand. But once Decker reached the tarmac, he turned back to the door, smiled, and extended his long meaty arms out wide.

  Muhammad appeared. He was smiling too, holding what looked like a dirty stuffed duck in one hand and a plastic shovel in the other. He took a step toward Decker and then half-fell, half-jumped into Decker’s arms.

  Decker swirled Muhammad around a few times, placed him on the ground, and then tousled the kid’s black hair with his oversized hand.

  At that point, Kalila took off at a run. “Muhammad!”

  “Deck!” Mark cried out. He made eye contact with his friend. “Like we talked about!”

  Kalila didn’t bother to hold her chador clasped underneath her chin, so the long swath of fabric slipped to the pavement. Muhammad didn’t notice her at first, but when she called his name again, his face brightened and he began to toddle eagerly toward her.

  At that moment, Mark knew for certain that he’d made the right choice. Decker, who’d witnessed the same thing, gave Mark a thumbs-up. Kalila had passed the final test, the test the Saudis who’d tried to take Muhammad from the orphanage had failed. If Muhammad hadn’t responded to Kalila, Decker would have picked the boy up, reboarded the plane, and taken off.

  “Anna, Anna,” called Muhammad, which Mark now knew to be the little boy’s way of saying Nana—a common way of referring to one’s grandmother in both Arabic and
English.

  For Mark was now sure that Kalila’s brother had not lied to Larry Bowlan last night—she was indeed Muhammad’s maternal grandmother. As such, according to Sharia law, she was entitled to custody of Muhammad now that Muhammad’s mother had died. More important from Mark’s perspective, she’d been helping to care for Muhammad since he was born. She loved him, and apparently he loved her back.

  Kalila picked Muhammad up and began kissing his pudgy cheeks and speaking rapidly to him in Arabic, her face streaked with tears.

  Well, good for them, thought Mark. That’s one thing that worked out at least. God knows, not much else had gone right for Kalila Safi lately.

  According to Kalila’s brother, her husband had died three years ago. Then, just before Muhammad had been kidnapped, and as her daughter—the youngest wife of a prince of Bahrain—lay dying, Kalila had been kicked out of Bahrain. The prime minister had worried that she might take custody of Muhammad upon the death of her daughter and bring him to live with her Shia relations in Dubai.

  Mark had no idea whether the prime minister’s original fear had been justified. But in retrospect, it looked like kicking Kalila out of Bahrain as a way to try to keep Muhammad in Bahrain had been a stupendously bad call.

  Mark made eye contact with Decker, who gave a little lackadaisical salute. Mark nodded and returned the gesture. He wished Daria could have been here to witness the reunion. She’d have been out on the tarmac crying with Kalila and Muhammad, he imagined, arms wrapped around them both. He’d call her soon. At least now he’d be able to tell her he’d done right by the boy.

  Kalila was running back toward her brother as fast as she could with Muhammad in her arms. As she passed by, Mark called out an enthusiastic, “Good luck!” prompting Kalila to dip her head and turn from him as if he’d uttered a vulgarity.

  At that point, Muhammad noticed him too. Mark forced his mouth to form something approximating a smile. “Hi!” he said brightly, waving to the boy.

  Muhammad’s eyes widened with recognition. Then he scowled and clung tighter to Kalila as she walked away. After all that had happened, Mark didn’t blame the boy.

  Mark spoke briefly with Bowlan—they agreed to reunite in Bishkek in one week—then joined Decker in front of the Dassault Falcon and shook his hand.

  “How’s your dad?” He’d talked with Decker on the phone a few hours earlier.

  “Out of the ICU. Looks like this isn’t the one. I’m gonna go home for a bit anyway, though.”

  “I appreciate your being there for me, buddy. If I had known—”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you, so don’t worry about it. Anyway, the kid was pretty cool, and I had some help.”

  Decker told Mark about Jessica, how she’d helped him and how they’d been climbing in the mountains south of Bishkek when Mark’s call had come in.

  “By the way, we should go climbing sometime,” said Decker.

  “I’m forty-five years old.”

  “I’d take you up the easy routes. It’s better than just wasting away in the city.”

  “I like wasting away in the city.”

  “Whatever.” Decker pulled out a small bottle of Dr. Pepper from a combat chest rig he was wearing under his jacket, chugged it down in three big gulps, then fished a tin of Skoal Straight chewing tobacco out from his front pocket. He held the dip tin between middle finger and thumb and snapped it down rapidly several times, thwacking his index on the top of the tin with each flick of his wrist.

  After lifting the top of the tin off, he inspected his work. “A damn nice pack,” he determined. Deck reached into the tin with his thumb and index finger and transferred a huge wad of tobacco to his mouth. “You want some?” he asked, speaking through the dip.

  “That stuff stinks,” said Mark.

  “Didn’t want to dip around Jessica or the kid. Been jonesing for one, so you gotta suck it up. By the way, Holtz and I had a bit of a falling out. He wasn’t too keen on me taking the kid.”

  “I’m done with Holtz,” said Mark. “I’m going out on my own. You can work for me if you like.”

  “Sure.” Decker turned away from Mark and spit a glob of dip juice onto the pavement. “So where’s our plane?”

  61

  New Jersey, USA

  Mark didn’t have to escort Rad all the way from Dubai to Elizabeth, New Jersey, but he wanted to. It was time to go back.

  Elizabeth was an old town. It had been the first capital of New Jersey. George Washington and Alexander Hamilton had walked its streets during the Revolutionary War. But little of that history was evident now. Now, Elizabeth was the kind of place Mark guessed people thought of when they laughed about New Jersey being the armpit of the nation. The city of Newark and its busy airport lay on the town’s northern border. The Port Newark-Elizabeth Marine Terminal, a huge shipping port, was to the east. Massive oil refineries, and an industrial wasteland known as the Linden Generating Station, lay just to the south.

  Mark could see the power plant now. He and Rad were being driven down the New Jersey Turnpike in a private ambulance. The smell of toxic smokestack emissions and rotting marshland near the plant reminded Mark of some of the old oilfields outside of Baku.

  The ambulance turned off on exit thirteen. Minutes later, Mark was staring out the window at the streets of southeast Elizabeth where he’d grown up. His first reaction was that the place didn’t appear to have changed much. He even recognized some of the stores—Deanna’s Hair Salon, Joey’s Italian Sausage, the Cuba Bakery… Other shops, he didn’t—Payless Liquors, Gupta Auto Repair, a Portuguese deli, a pharmacy with a neon sign that read TARJETAS TELEFONICAS DE VENTA AQUI—but they weren’t so different from what used to be there.

  Driving down the same roads he’d walked as a boy made Mark realize that, while he’d never regretted leaving, he liked his hometown.

  It was on these streets that he’d first learned to fit in, to go unnoticed, to survive—where he’d learned that, even if a place looked a little rough around the edges, that didn’t mean it had nothing to offer. The town had a fast tough rhythm to it that Mark knew was still a part of him.

  As he thought yet again of how and why he’d left, all those years ago, he realized he was dead tired. Tired of thinking about the past, but also just physically tired. The plane ride from Dubai had chased the sun, adding nine more hours to an already long day.

  For the first part of the trip, he’d hung out with Decker instead of sleeping. When they weren’t playing electronic narde on Decker’s cell phone, or drinking beer from the minibar, Mark had been on the phone with Kaufman, making sure that the CIA was going to fix it so that Rad would be allowed back into the US without a passport.

  After a refueling stop in Paris, Decker had gone to sleep and Rad had woken up. Rad had been more lucid at that point, and had been able to call his fiancée on the plane’s satellite phone. He and Mark had talked some—about what had happened in Bahrain, about Mark being a spy, about what Rad had been doing with his life—but Rad had mostly been focused on his pain. And a good hour of the flight had been devoted to figuring out how to get Rad safely to and from the bathroom.

  As a result, Mark hadn’t gotten any sleep the whole trip.

  “Jesus, you guys really fixed up the old station,” Mark said when they got to Coventry Avenue. Instead of seeing his dad’s old gas station with the lousy four pumps and the neon Save-A-Lot sign, there was a huge BP sign out front. And eight shiny new pumps. And a convenience store.

  “Where are we?” Rad tried to look over his shoulder, to catch a glimpse of the gas station. From his prone position, however, Rad couldn’t see the street the way Mark could.

  “Coventry Ave.”

  “Oh, the old station. Yeah, we redid that eight years ago. You should check out the one right off the turnpike. That one’s got twelve pumps.”

  Mark hadn’t even known that his father had expanded beyond the original station. He and Rad had mostly avoided the subject of their father du
ring the flight.

  “And you were the project manager for all this?”

  “You bet.”

  Rad began to talk about how their father had first secured the rights to a BP franchise, how that had led to the purchase of a second station, then a third, and how Rad had helped put together the business plans for the banks, how he’d gotten tight with all the Jersey contractors, how…

  Mark wasn’t really listening. They were pulling up to the old house now. The same chain-link fence stood out front, with several plastic garbage cans lined up just behind it. The aluminum siding looked pretty much the same, just a little more chalky and faded. Up near the roof one of the aluminum soffit panels had fallen away, revealing intricate wood detailing badly in need of a paint job.

  He wanted to think of this house, this town, his mother—the faded movie in his head that comprised the first seventeen years of his life—as something unrelated to the person he was today. But it was becoming increasingly hard to do so. He remembered the smell of freshly laundered clothes, the creak the basement steps had made when he’d sat down, the weak light from a forty-watt incandescent bulb in the stairwell, the drip-drip-drip from a leaky utility-sink faucet.

  He remembered the textured ceiling in his room, the bathroom with the pink tile, the way his brothers used to splash bathwater out of the tub…

  The ambulance came to a stop. The driver engaged the parking brake, walked to the back of the ambulance, and pulled open the doors.

  “We’re here,” said Mark.

  Rad lifted his head and squinted as he looked out the rear of the vehicle. “What are you talking about?”

  “We’re here.”

  The concrete sidewalk out front was riddled with black dots—old gum, Mark knew. He used to walk the sidewalks of Elizabeth and instead of trying not to step on a crack, he’d tried to avoid the gum dots.

  “Mark, Dad doesn’t live here anymore. We moved when I was in college. That was like, over ten years ago.”