The Colonel's Mistake

by Dan Mayland

  They retreated to the balcony, where Decker crouched down and cradled his big head in his big hands for a moment. “It’s just the heat,” he said.

  “Compared to last week this is nothing.”

  Decker took a deep breath. “I’ll call the embassy.”

  “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Just then Mark noticed an irritating flash of light, like an errant ray of sunshine, fixing on his eye. The next second he was rocketing sideways, tackled by Decker.

  He blacked out momentarily. When he came to, Decker was on top of him.

  The wind had been knocked out of his lungs, rendering him unable to speak. He tried to lift his hands up to Decker’s throat, intending to choke him, but Decker pushed them down.

  “Keep below the wall.” Decker gestured with his chin to the waist-high brick parapet on the edge of the balcony.

  Mark kept quiet until the excruciating pain gripping his chest subsided a bit. “Get the fuck off me.”

  “Someone just took a shot at you, sir.”

  “I said get off me!” The remains of Mark’s crushed reading glasses slipped out of his shirt pocket. He could smell lamb meat—probably from a döner kebab—on Decker’s breath.

  “Check out the door,” said Decker.

  Mark looked up and observed a tiny bullet hole right around where his head had been.

  “I saw the red sight dot on your face.” Decker rolled off him but stayed below the balcony wall. “The bullet hit the far wall at about the same height it penetrated the glass. Judging from the angle, whoever took a shot at you has to be almost right across from us.”

  That would be the Kura Araksvodstroi apartment complex, thought Mark, with a constricting feeling of dread and anger. A run-down 1950s-era Soviet behemoth, it was a veritable rabbit warren of dilapidated apartments. A shooter could hide for weeks in that building and never be found.

  He looked at the sliding glass door again, just to confirm that he wasn’t going insane. The bullet hole was still there. He suddenly felt old. He wondered what underworld he’d let himself get sucked into, and how he could get the hell out.

  They rolled into the apartment, keeping close to the ground. But when Decker went to open the door to the common hall, Mark blocked him silently with his hand.

  He reminded himself that the carnage at the Trudeau House almost certainly hadn’t been inflicted by one person. Which meant the guy who’d just taken a shot at him was probably part of a team.

  A few seconds later the door handle moved almost imperceptibly, as someone gently tried to twist it open. But Mark had locked the door behind him before entering the apartment, and now the lock engaged. He put a finger to his lips and gestured to the rear bedroom.

  When he and Decker were behind the bedroom door, Mark whispered, “Your gun.”

  “Screw that. I’m the protection.”

  “That closet,” said Mark, pointing. “The wall inside it abuts the next apartment. Cut a hole and crawl through it. I’ll watch the door. Your gun. Now.”

  Decker handed it over. Seconds later, there was a screeching sound as he used his knife to saw through the drywall.

  From the crack he’d left in the open bedroom door, Mark had a clear view of Peters’s front door. He kept Decker’s pistol trained on it.

  “I’m good, boss. Going through,” whispered Decker from the closet.

  Then the front door popped open. A guy with a crowbar was pushed aside by two clean-shaven men who charged into the apartment with silenced assault rifles.

  Mark scurried cockroach-like into the closet. Decker was already through the hole in the wall, on his belly in the bedroom of the adjacent apartment. They crawled on their knees through the kitchen and out into the common hall. At the end of the hall was a stairwell, which they descended four steps at a time.

  “What are we talking for exits?” called Decker, in a loud whisper.

  Mark pictured the building in his head. “A main one in the front, a small one in back, and a main one on the west side. East side, nothing.”

  When they got to the second floor of the building, they tried doors to apartments on the east side until they found one that was open.

  Decker ran past a woman holding a crying baby. As she screamed at him to get out, he raced to the open balcony and vaulted over the edge without even pausing. Mark followed in Decker’s footsteps, but when he got to the balcony himself, he hesitated. The drop was about fifteen feet.

  “Lower yourself over the side.” Decker was standing unhurt on the pavement. A few pedestrians had stopped to gawk. “Relax as you fall, keep your knees bent, and roll on the ground if you need to.”

  “Yeah, that’ll work,” said Mark, but he jumped anyway. Instead of rolling he hit with a sack-of-potatoes thud and wound up twisting his ankle. Decker pulled him up and they started to run.

  Before the latest oil boom, Fountains Square had been where the prostitutes hung out, but now it was just an extension of the Nizami Street shopping bonanza. Well-tended flower gardens lay planted around the central fountains.

  Mark stopped short in the center of the square. Bent over and panting, he rested his hands on his knees. A veiled woman in a black skin-tight T-shirt, skin-tight jeans, and high heels bumped into him. Mark eyed her—she was chatting on a cell phone, which made him suspicious, but decided he was just being paranoid.

  His ankle was killing him and sweat dripped off his forehead. He noticed Decker, who had stopped beside him, wasn’t even breathing hard.

  “I think we’re clear,” said Decker.

  Mark wondered—had the shooter been waiting for them specifically, or had he just been watching the apartment to see who showed up? Because if the whole thing had been a chance encounter, then Mark figured he could risk going back to his apartment, back to his life. But if he’d been specifically marked, if they knew he was the former chief of station/Azerbaijan and had been helping Daria…

  “You want to tell me what that was all about?” said Decker.

  “I don’t know.”

  Decker had been out on the balcony too, completely exposed, standing directly to his right. Had the shooter simply flipped a coin when deciding who to go after first? Or had he, Mark, been the primary target?

  Mark considered the laser sight, the lookout point in the Kura Araksvaodstroi apartment block, and everything he’d seen at the Trudeau House. It all pointed to a disturbingly high level of professionalism and planning. But any professional worth his salt would have tried to take out Decker first. Then he would have gone after the weak guy.

  But the shooter hadn’t done that. Which meant he’d been specifically targeted.

  Mark took a minute to catch his breath. As station chief he’d spent all his time behind a desk. The last time he’d been in the field was six years ago. “Listen, I need to take off but I want to thank you for what you did back—”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m perfectly cognizant of the fact that you saved—”

  “If you need me, I’m available. I can help. You’re CIA, aren’t you?”

  “Who said that?”

  “One of the embassy marines. He was just guessing.”

  “I don’t work for the government anymore,” said Mark. “The best thing you can do for yourself is to get back to the embassy, tell them what happened, and then hop on the first plane out of town. It’s possible you’re a target now too.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Evidently.”

  “And I need the work.”

  Mark remembered the speed with which Decker had reacted on Peters’s balcony. After taking a moment to think, he said, “You’re way too young to have retired from the SEALs. Why’d you leave?”

  “There were opportunities here.”

  Mark studied Decker, observing his discomfort.

  Decker added, “I was stationed here for a while. I made some contacts.”

  “Like who?”

  “One of the secretari
es at the embassy.” Decker gave a name Mark didn’t recognize. “She works in the ambassador’s office.”

  “You know her professionally?”

  “Ah, I would say more personally.”

  “And that’s how you got this job? Because you were screwing a secretary in the ambassador’s office?”

  Decker shrugged. “I think they tried to get somebody from Xe first. I was the only person available on short notice.”

  “How long were you a SEAL?”

  “Three years.”

  “What team?”

  “Five.”

  “What’d you do in Azerbaijan?”

  “Training.”

  “Who, Azeris?”

  “Actually, I’m not allowed—”

  “To guard the BTC?” said Mark. The BTC was the thousand-mile-long oil and gas pipeline that ran all the way from Baku to Tbilisi to the Turkish port of Ceyhan on the Mediterranean Sea. Mark remembered that, a couple years ago, a SEAL crew in Azerbaijan had been sent over to train a special Azeri naval unit to guard it. “Don’t answer if that’s what you were doing.”

  Decker looked as though he’d just taken a bite of something rancid, but he didn’t answer.

  “Look around, John. Are any of these people dressed like you?”

  Decker didn’t respond.

  “You can’t do anything about the fact that you’re twice the size of everyone here, but you can do something about your clothes. Go shopping. Buy black pants, black shoes, and a brown shirt. Dye your hair brown. Fit in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if you want, meet me back here in three hours. By then I’ll know if I have work for you.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “No guarantees,” said Mark.

  “I understand.”

  Mark walked to the McDonald’s on the perimeter of the square. A grubby yellow payphone stood not far from the entrance and he used it to call Nika.

  “Dinner won’t be ready until five thirty,” she said. “But come at four anyway.”

  “Listen, I’m not going to be able to make it.”

  The line went silent, then Nika said, “I already bought everything.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Inside my apartment, in the kitchen.”

  “Don’t go near the windows. Where’s Sabir?”

  “At the kitchen table, doing his homework. I’m looking at him right now. You’re scaring me.”

  Mark rested his head on the interior wall of the phone booth. The cool metal on his forehead felt good. “I just think it would be better if we played it safe.”

  “Played it safe? I’m making dinner, Mark. What’s not safe?”

  “A little while ago someone took a shot at me. I’m afraid they might try again.”

  “Took a shot at you? You mean with a gun?” Nika’s voice was incredulous.

  “Ah, yeah.”

  “You’re telling me someone tried to kill you?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “Because of something to do with your drunk foreign service friend?”

  “It’s actually more complicated than that. I can’t get into it now, you’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “This isn’t a matter for the police.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “I can deal with it. I know people, from when I used to work at the embassy.”

  “This is crazy, Mark.”

  “The reason I’m calling is that I’m worried that whoever’s after me will try to use you to get to me. You’re going to need to leave for a while, until I sort this out. You have a sister in the north, in the mountains.”

  “What am I supposed to do about work? I’m teaching summer classes. Sabir is in summer school. We can’t just pick up and leave.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” said Nika, raising her voice.

  “You need to pack your bags. Now. Then veil yourself and go down to the parking garage. Put Sabir in the trunk of your car—”

  “No, Mark.”

  “Don’t fight me on this, Nika! Put him in the trunk of your damn car so that if anyone’s watching your apartment, waiting for a woman and her son to leave, they only see a single woman. And make sure your face is completely veiled. If they try to get to me through you, both you and Sabir could be in danger.”

  “Who’s ‘they’? Who would want to kill you? And what does Sabir have to do with this? He’s just a boy.”

  Nika was whispering frantically, reminding Mark that her son was probably within a few feet of her, listening. What a mess. And what a delusional mistake it had been to have let his mess of a life get intertwined with the lives of these two decent, normal people.

  “He doesn’t have anything to do with this. Nor do you. But this is a seriously ugly situation and I don’t want to take any chances. Drive directly to your sister’s place—”

  “Who are you?”

  “Don’t tell anyone you’re leaving. Don’t tell your sister you’re coming. You can let Sabir out of the trunk when you’re twenty kilometers clear of Baku.”

  “I could lose my job,” said Nika, plaintively.

  “I’m sorry.” Mark scanned the crowds in Fountains Square, wondering if anyone out there had a fix on him. He was sorry, genuinely so, but he had to go. “I’ll contact you through your parents when it’s OK to return. In the meantime, get out. I mean it, Nika. Get out now.”

  Mark watched from a distance as Nika’s car exited from the parking garage underneath her apartment building. She was wearing a black veil and there was no sign of Sabir. He looked to see if anyone took off after her as she pulled onto Vagif Avenue in the direction of the Baku Zoo. She appeared to be clear.

  From a bench in front of the Nizami Cinema he called Ted Kaufman and told him about what had happened at Peters’s apartment.

  Then he gave Kaufman two options.

  First, Kaufman could hire him back temporarily as an independent contractor. In return, the CIA would receive a report on any progress he made in figuring out what was driving the violence in Baku. Second, he would investigate anyway and keep his findings to himself.

  “I’ve got no problem hiring you as an independent,” said Kaufman. “We’ll have a new Agency team in Baku by tomorrow. You can work with them.”

  “I’m not working with any new team,” Mark said. “And I’ll need money.” He mentioned a figure he knew Kaufman wouldn’t like.

  “We’re not funding your retirement,” said Kaufman coldly. “Show a little patriotism for Christ’s sake.”

  “That’s the going rate for independents.”

  “Going rate, my ass.”

  “And then I have to figure expenses on top of that, expenses that I anticipate will include lots of bribes—”

  “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “—and subcontractor payments. That figure’s a weekly rate by the way, payable in advance.”

  “What subcontractors?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Not if you’re on my payroll.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “What is it with you?” said Kaufman. “I mean really, you think now’s a good time to go asshole on me?”

  “This new team of yours that’s flying in, anybody on it speak Azeri?”

  Kaufman didn’t answer.

  “Anybody who’s ever set foot in Azerbaijan?” After that last question was met with more silence, Mark said, “I’m not good with Daria and me playing the sitting-duck routine while you send over a couple jackasses who have no intention of doing anything other than holing up in the embassy and writing reports based on what the Azeri government feeds them or what they read in the English-language newspapers. We can either agree to use each other, or you can ignore me and take your chances. Your choice.”

  The line was silent for a whi
le. Eventually Kaufman said, “Hold on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Mark had his answer: the Agency had agreed to his terms. So after stopping off at the British-owned LPM International Bank and withdrawing $50,000 from a numbered CIA account—the five hundred-dollar-bill bank bundles fit easily into a small canvas shoulder bag—he called Orkhan again.

  Martyr’s Alley, a long open-air memorial to all the Azeri protestors killed by the Soviets in 1990, was perched on a ridge high above the old walled city of Baku. A limestone tower, under which burned an eternal flame, anchored one end of the memorial.

  Orkhan walked purposefully toward the flame and placed a red carnation inside an eight-pointed Azeri star at its base. After a moment of feigned reverence—he thought the protestors who’d died had been stupid not to just wait for the Soviet Union to collapse—he strolled to a point a few feet away from Mark.

  “This is not an ideal place to meet,” he said tightly.

  Martyr’s Alley was just a short walk away from the Ministry of National Security. The whole area was infested with Russian and Iranian spies. Orkhan wondered whether any were watching now.

  He glanced down at the yellow cranes that lined the enormous shipping docks far below them.

  “Thank you for seeing me again,” said Mark.

  Mark, Orkhan observed, was still wearing the same filthy shirt he’d had on earlier that day. And he hadn’t bothered to shave.

  “What do you want?”

  “Since we spoke this morning, I’ve encountered complications.”

  The Americans were a bloodthirsty people, Orkhan thought, as Mark described what had happened at Leonard Peters’s apartment. More so even than the Russians. Ask any one of them and they’d deny it. They’d claim to regret the necessity of whatever violence they were in the process of inflicting and point to some righteous cause that had forced their hand.

  But always there was blood.

  “Baku is a safe city,” he said. “You brought this with you.”

  “I brought nothing with me.”

  “Then your government did.”

  “We’re the ones getting killed, not doing the killing.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” said Orkhan.