Spy for Hire

by Dan Mayland

  At the airport, Mark had recited his old address to the ambulance driver as the government orderlies had been securing Rad. He’d done so because Rad had said to bring him home to Elizabeth, home to Dad’s house. He’d said his fiancée was living there temporarily, while Rad was in India.

  Mark had just assumed Rad had been talking about the home they’d both grown up in.

  “Huh.”

  “I was wondering why we were going by the old station. Thought maybe you just wanted to see it.”

  “I kind of did.”

  Mark glanced at Rad, and then back at his childhood home. It seemed even smaller than he remembered. He thought of his mom sitting on the steps out front, waiting for him to come home from school, asking how his day had been when he showed up.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Rad.

  “Yeah, sorry for the mess up. So where are we going?”

  They drove across town. Around Spring Street they passed a sign that read HISTORIC MIDTOWN and after that things got nicer. The century-old public library, where Mark used to read for hours in the summer—because the library had air-conditioning and his house didn’t—looked recently renovated. The sidewalks out front were paved with newly laid brick.

  Mark allowed that things might have changed a bit more than he’d thought.

  Five minutes later, they turned onto a street where decent-sized homes sat amid well-tended yards, tall old trees, and mulched flowerbeds. The ambulance stopped in front of a brick house that had an Audi Quattro parked in the driveway. It was one of the larger houses on the street, with wide front steps that led to a large double-door entryway, three front gables, and expansive bay windows on the first floor.

  Rad lifted his head just enough so that he could see out the side window of the ambulance. “We’re here.” He sounded relieved.

  As Mark was stepping out of the back of the ambulance, a pretty, blue-eyed woman with brown curly hair ran up. She wore a tight white blouse, tight jeans, and glittery flip-flops. Her teeth were white, and straight. And she smelled nice, Mark noted, as she pushed past him.

  “Rad!”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Oh my God baby, oh my God, I can’t believe this happened to you.”

  On the plane, Mark had been listening when Rad talked to his fiancée. He knew that his brother hadn’t told her much about what had happened. Just that he was hurt, and was coming home, and could she be there when he got there?

  Mark extended his hand and gave her his first name. “Rad can explain how we know each other later. In the meantime, I think the best thing to do is to get him inside the house.”

  An older woman appeared behind Rad’s fiancée. She had gray hair, a bit of a belly, wore big gold hoop earrings, a gold bracelet, and a velour tracksuit. Her eyes fixed on Rad. “Good lord! Did the monkeys do this to you?”

  “It wasn’t the monkeys, Mom. I was attacked. Well, shot.”

  Her hands went up to her mouth. She looked down at his leg, and then at the bandages on his shoulder. Blood had seeped out of one corner. “This happened in India?”

  “Later, Mom.”

  Mark recognized her. She was the woman his dad had married after the suicide.

  “Shouldn’t you be going straight to the hospital?” she said. She cast a wary glance at Mark, not recognizing him.

  “He’s stable,” said Mark.

  “Oh baby,” said Rad’s fiancée. “This is crazy. If you think you need a hospital, we should get you there now.”

  Mark added, “He should be looked at soon, but you have time to pick your doctor and decide on the right course of action.”

  The ambulance driver and the orderly who’d accompanied him walked around to the back of the ambulance and started unfastening the clamps that held Rad’s gurney in place.

  Then the front door of the house opened.

  Mark recognized Petar Saveljic at once—recognized the slouch of the shoulders, the wide-set darting, reptilian eyes, the hard jawline. His father had gone bald on the top of his head, but he’d always worn his hair short; no hair didn’t look much different than short hair had.

  The only difference was the way his father was dressed. In the seventeen years he’d lived with the man, Mark couldn’t remember ever seeing his father in shorts. Typically, it had just been the soiled blue work pants he wore at the gas station, or the worn-out gray dress slacks he’d put on at home after he’d washed up. But it was unseasonably warm for early November—in the upper sixties, Mark guessed—and he was wearing shorts now, pleated khakis that came down to his knees. His legs were spindly and he wore leather Docksiders with no socks. His golf shirt was a bright yellow.

  Petar Saveljic walked down to the ambulance, his eyes fixed on the driver and the orderly who was sliding Rad out of the back of the ambulance. “The Indians do this to you?” he asked. Though his tone was hostile, he mostly looked worried.

  “It wasn’t the Indians, Dad.”

  “We’re going to need help getting him up the steps and into the house,” said the ambulance driver.

  At that point, Petar Saveljic noticed Mark. He stared at his oldest son for a few seconds, looking confused, and maybe afraid, as though he wasn’t sure to believe what he was seeing. He took a step back, as if pushed by an invisible hand. “Marko?”

  “I’ll help bring him inside,” said Mark. “Then I have to take off.”

  “Marko?” He squinted, incredulous.

  “It’s a long story. Rad can explain.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rad’s fiancée, looking from Mark’s father to Mark.

  Rad said, “This is Mark. You know—”

  “You mean—”

  “Yeah. The one—”

  “Oh my God.” Her hand went up to her mouth.

  “Congratulations on your engagement, by the way,” said Mark.

  “Two of us are going to need to be on each side of the gurney,” said the ambulance driver, taking a position near Rad’s head. “Grab the metal bar underneath securely. We’ll roll him to the steps, then lift.” He turned to Mark’s stepmother. “Ma’am, if you could get the front door for us?”

  Petar Saveljic’s living room in the new house was nothing like the gloomy living room of Mark’s childhood, whose dark walls had been decorated with religious icons—medieval-style paintings of men long dead. This was a sunny space with cream-colored walls and glossy oak floors. Books with gilded spines, which looked as though they’d been bought for purely decorative purposes, lined built-in shelves that framed a gas fireplace with a marble mantel.

  But then Mark saw the icon.

  It was small, no more than six inches wide by maybe a foot tall, encased in a pine frame that had been painted black. Tucked into one of the corners in the bookshelf, it was the only thing in the entire living room that he recognized. The sight of it caused his heart rate to quicken.

  There he was, Saint Sava, looking as dour and two-dimensional as ever.

  Mark tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help himself.

  It was an ugly painting, of a dead man who meant nothing to Mark. Saint Sava had been the founder of the Serbian branch of the Eastern Orthodox church. Although Mark didn’t care about the man himself, the painting meant something to him because his mother had viewed it as her own personal good-luck charm; she’d even taken to rubbing the old saint’s nose when she was in need of extra good luck—before Mark had a big exam, for instance, or when his father had been applying for a second mortgage on the house. Saint Sava’s nose had gotten a little smudged from his mother’s right index finger.

  Even from a distance, Mark could see that the nose was still smudged, and it touched him.

  He turned away.

  His father didn’t know he’d taken the name Sava. No one outside the CIA knew. And no one inside the CIA knew why he’d taken the name—that he’d done so simply hoping that it would bring him some luck. That’s the way he’d thought back when he young. He’d been more superstitio
us then, more willing to believe in things like luck.

  “All right then,” said the ambulance driver, turning to leave after Rad had been safely deposited in the middle of the living room.

  “OK, brother,” said Mark. He’d seen enough. “I’ve got to leave now too, but I’ll give you a call soon, see how you’re doing.”

  “You’re going? Just like that?” asked Rad’s fiancée.

  Mark’s father hadn’t said a word since they’d all entered the house.

  Mark turned to her. “Get him seen by a doctor sooner rather than later.”

  “What should I tell BP?” asked Rad. “About what happened?”

  “Tell them the truth,” said Mark. “Or lie, if you’d prefer. Your choice. If BP insurance won’t cover the hospital costs, the government will. Someone will be calling you.”

  Mark let himself out the front door, following on the heels of the ambulance driver, and didn’t look back until he heard it open behind him. It was his father.

  “Marko, wait.”

  Mark stopped. His father shut the front door behind him and walked down a few steps.

  “Does Rad…”

  His father’s hushed voice trailed off as Mark locked eyes with him. Petar descended the rest of the steps, but kept a hand on the railing.

  “Does Rad what?”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No.”

  Petar Saveljic looked visibly relieved. “I just don’t know how he’d handle it.”

  Mark turned to walk away again, when his father asked “And you? You’re good?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.”

  “Well, thanks for… for bringing Rad home, I guess. He said you helped him? I don’t understand…”

  Mark turned and began to walk down the driveway, but the thought of his mom’s painting in there was gnawing at him. He turned back to the house. His father was still standing there, watching him.

  “The Sava icon,” said Mark. “I see you brought it over from the old house.”

  His father looked as though he didn’t know what Mark was talking about. Then, “Oh, yeah. That.”

  “Give it to Rad.”

  A pause, then, “Sure, maybe I will. Why?”

  “Not maybe. I’m telling you to give it to Rad.”

  Petar Saveljic’s eyes narrowed as an angry, cunning frown formed on his face. It was an expression that was still intimately familiar to Mark—even after twenty-eight years of being away. Twenty-eight years ago, that expression would have meant something bad was coming. Not now, though. Mark had been in the spy business long enough to know when he had the upper hand. He didn’t even have to speak the threat aloud. His father just needed a moment to figure it out for himself.

  A long moment passed. Mark heard the ambulance backing out of the driveway. He’d been hoping to ask the driver for a ride.

  “Yeah. Yeah, OK. I’ll give it to him.”

  “Give it to him today. Tell him that his mother used to think it was good luck. Tell him you’re giving it to him for good luck. As an engagement gift.”

  “All right.” A pause, then, “Who the hell are you, Marko?”

  “I’ll be seeing you, Dad.”

  Mark walked out the driveway and kept going when he hit the road. The setting sun was shining in his eyes. He felt happy, but the lack of sleep combined with the beer he’d downed with Decker was catching up to him. He turned his head away from the sun, and for a moment felt lightheaded—so much so that he needed to stop briefly to keep the world from spinning.

  62

  Kyrgyzstan

  Daria Buckingham drove from Balykchy to Bishkek in an old Lada she’d borrowed from the orphanage. The windows were rolled down, even though it was chilly outside, because she enjoyed the feel of the cold air on her cheeks, and the warm air from the car’s heater blowing on her legs. She was looking forward to the coziness of winter, to the snow she was certain would make Bishkek feel like the lonely outpost on the steppe that it once was. The snow, she imagined, would bring people together, would make it feel as if the city was under siege. People would bond together to make it safely to the spring.

  A text message came in on her phone from an unknown sender, interrupting her thoughts. She was about to check it, but then remembered how a family of Kazaks had recently been killed by a teenage driver who’d been texting while driving. She was going to stop for gas soon anyway, she’d check it then. She had to learn to be comfortable with less risk in her life. She had new responsibilities to consider.

  Her period still hadn’t come, her breasts were tender, she was tired, and the smell of onions turned her stomach in a way it never had before. It was happening.

  She hoped the text that had just come in would be from Mark, telling her what his flight number was for his return trip to Bishkek. He’d finally called her yesterday morning to let her know he was in Dubai of all places, and that Muhammad was safe and with his grandmother. So good news on that front, but when she’d pressed him for details, he’d just said that it was a long story, that he needed another day or so to fully wrap things up, and that he didn’t want to talk about any of it over the phone. He’d sounded distracted, and tired. But at least he was safe. After not hearing from him for over a day, she’d been worried.

  She imagined that Mark would be home in time for a late dinner, that they’d be able to sleep in the same bed together that night. When she’d been hiding with friends in Balykchy, she’d thought of him often, wishing she’d been able to tell him her secret before the call from the orphanage had upended her plans.

  She wondered how he was going to react when she finally did tell him. He’d be a good father, of that she was almost certain. For a moment, she even allowed herself to hope that the news would lead him to get out of the spy business for good.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I am deeply indebted to the team at Amazon Publishing—especially Jacque Ben-Zekry, Andy Bartlett, and Alan Turkus—and to my agent, Richard Curtis. Their counsel, kindness, and support buoys me.

  Christina Henry de Tessan did another wonderful job editing this novel. I’m also grateful to Corinne Mayland, David Mayland, Tim Gifford, and Scott Stone for helping with the copy edits. XNR Productions of Madison, Wisconsin, did a great job with the maps.

  Many reporters, scholars, and ex-CIA officers lent insight to this novel through their books. An annotated bibliography can be found at DanMayland.com.

  About the Author

  Photograph by Corinne Mayland, 2012

  Dan Mayland lives in Pennsylvania with his family and frequently travels to the remote corners of the world that he writes about. His first book, The Colonel’s Mistake, was the inaugural novel of the Mark Sava series.