Death of a Spy

by Dan Mayland

  Mark stopped outside a building that had the number 11873 scrawled on it in faded black marker—the address Cox had given him. Out front, a wrinkled old man sat on a wooden chair, in the shade of a straggly apple tree, listening to a soccer game on a small radio. He looked drowsy, but cocked his head when he saw Mark approaching. When he smiled, he revealed a mouthful of teeth—top and bottom—that were solid gold.

  Mark extended his right hand. The Azeri responded in kind. His fingers were swollen and calloused. Half-moons of dirt lay under each fingernail. “Hello, my friend,” Mark said cheerfully in Azeri. “And how are Kapaz faring today?”

  Kapaz was the local soccer team.

  “They lead. One to zero. Karim has scored.”

  As he continued to hold the old man’s hand, Mark said, “I’m looking for Rasul Tagiyev, the husband of Aida.”

  Mark spoke Azeri like a native, albeit one who’d grown up in Baku. He was also dressed for the part—wearing a high-end Turkish-made coat and tie that he’d just bought downtown. It was true his facial features—fair skin, dark brown hair, deep-set light brown eyes, slightly droopy eyelids—were more Russian than Azeri, but after many decades of Russians and Azeris intermarrying, they wouldn’t instantly mark him as a foreigner. His left hand clutched a box of rosewater-flavored Turkish delight candies.

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  Mark released the old man’s hand and patted his sport coat. “Oh, but I wish I did. I gave them up three months ago. Had I one now, it would be yours.”

  The old man shrugged and adjusted the tuner dial on his radio.

  Mark knew the street address for Aida Tagiyev, but Cox hadn’t known the apartment number—he’d never visited her home.

  Mark asked, “Would you know if Rasul Tagiyev is receiving guests?” He added, “I worked with his wife at Bazarduzu Construction.” He held up the box of Turkish delight. “I’ve come to pay my respects.”

  Mark figured there was a chance that the old man was a plant. But he’d checked up on Bazarduzu Construction. They employed nearly a thousand people in Ganja alone. So it was entirely possible, likely even, that people from the company would be stopping by. If the old man had been paid to watch the building, all he’d report was that a colleague of Aida Tagiyev’s had come to pay his respects.

  The old man looked Mark over, then shrugged again. “Apartment 214. He is home, I believe.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Mark patted the Azeri’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  It took little effort on Mark’s part to imagine why Aida Tagiyev might have been receptive to taking money from the CIA.

  All of the tenement’s first-floor windows were protected with jury-rigged metal bars. The ground-floor hallway was cold and damp, and smelled of mold. Though the tiled floors had been recently swept, the ceiling paint was peeling where water had leaked in. What little light there was seeped in from a narrow barred prisonlike window on the first stairwell landing.

  The door to apartment 214, however, had been painted a bright green. He knocked—a bit too loudly, he realized, when a moment later an infant begin to cry.

  A short, slender man opened the door as far as the security chain would allow. “Yes?”

  The single word was spoken with suspicion.

  Mark introduced himself as Adil Orlov, a name he’d chosen because Adil suggested Azeri roots, which would explain his fluency in Azeri, while Orlov implied a Russian heritage, which would explain his face. “Would you be Rasul Tagiyev?”

  Thick, dark eyebrows accentuated dark troubled eyes.

  “I am.”

  Mark flashed a deferential smile and explained that he worked for Bazarduzu Construction, in the employee benefits division. “I was so sorry to hear of what happened to Aida.” And he was sorry. Rasul, Aida, their child…they’d done nothing to deserve this.

  Mark held up the box of Turkish delight but it was clear it wouldn’t fit through the narrow opening between the door and the frame.

  Rasul Tagiyev’s eyes began to fill with tears.

  “May I come in?” asked Mark.

  “Someone already came to collect her things.”

  “From Bazarduzu?”

  “Of course.”

  “What things?”

  “Her computer, her badge. They came yesterday.”

  “I see. But I am from a different department at Bazarduzu. I am not here to collect anything.”

  “Aida”— He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand —“never spoke of anyone named Adil.”

  “I am told she was a good accountant, but in truth, we did not know each other. I am here because there are financial matters I must discuss with you regarding your wife’s estate. Did you know she opted to purchase our company’s life insurance policy when she joined the firm?”

  Two seconds passed. Mark guessed that Aida Tagiyev had possessed no such insurance; few Azeris did. But it was not outside the realm of possibility.

  The baby was still crying in the background, which made Mark wonder whether Lila was awake, and what it would be like to have to raise her in such a place—he envisioned himself pushing a stroller down the rutted street, seeing her clothes drying on lines hung from scrap-wood balconies. What would the schools be like? Terrible, he imagined. He pushed the thought out of his head, and said, “I’m so sorry to have disturbed your child.”

  Rasul was staring intently at Mark. “You said you were from Bazarduzu?”

  “Yes.”

  He undid the lock. “Come in. I will make us some tea.”

  Always it was tea, thought Mark as he sat waiting in the cramped living room. He liked to think of himself as a patient man, but that image of himself was always tested when he visited an Azeri for the first time. They prided themselves on being hospitable—the most hospitable people in the world!—and hospitality inevitably involved taking a long time to prepare tea.

  As he waited, Mark studied what he could of the apartment. The walls in the living room had been painted a pale green and the furniture looked new. Two handcrafted lutes—one long-necked, one short—were displayed on stands in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling shelving lined one wall. In the center, at eye level, was a cranberry-colored crystal vase etched with a starburst pattern. He stood to examine it.

  “Beautiful,” Mark said—quietly, so as not to wake the baby again—when Rasul came out with the tea. Gesturing to the vase, he said, “The quality of Czech crystal can’t be compared to what they make today.”

  Back in the Soviet days, Czechoslovakia had been known for making the best crystal in Eastern Europe.

  “A wedding gift. From my parents.”

  “They live in Ganja?”

  “Baku.”

  Rasul set a tray with pear-shaped clear glasses and a teapot down on a low table. His hand trembled as he poured the tea. Also on the tray was a bowl of sour cherry jam, two baklava pastries, and a Snickers bar that had been sliced into bite-sized pieces.

  “Thank you.” Mark took a sip of tea. It had been prepared the Azeri way—light—instead of the dark Turkish method that he preferred. “Perfect. Do you have any family in Ganja?”

  “No.”

  “And Aida. She was from Baku as well?”

  “Yes. We moved last year. For her job. It was supposed to be temporary.”

  “Will you now move back?”

  Rasul shrugged and stared blankly down at his hands, looking as though he just wanted to be left alone but was too polite to say as much.

  “Please,” said Mark. “Sit a moment.”

  Rasul sat down on a chair opposite the couch.

  Mark ate a slice of Snickers, then said, “About this life insurance. As I said, your wife took out a policy when she signed up with the firm. At Bazarduzu, we consider our employees to be family. We grieved when we heard of your loss. And we want you to know how much we valued your wife’s work. We want to do everything we can to help.”

  “There has been no body, so no funeral, no proper buria
l, no…” Rasul’s voice trailed off. With his right hand he began to use his thumb to touch each joint on each of his fingers, pausing briefly at each joints; it was a habit used by some Muslims, akin to using rosary beads to keep track of prayers. A minute later, he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  “No body?”

  “I saw her at the police station. I identified her, we spoke of funeral arrangements. Then later that day they said she had tested positive for tuberculosis, but she never had tuberculosis, she was healthy.”

  “Did they show you the results of the test?”

  “No, they just said that it was positive and that they were worried about contamination because it was a bad kind so they had to cremate her…I was told it was already done, and that they would bring me the ashes, but then…then nothing.”

  Mark knew tuberculosis was a problem in Azerbaijan, and that people who weren’t visibly sick with the disease could still be carriers. But even if Aida had tested positive, immediate cremation would have been unusual because it was forbidden by the Quran. There was an exception, if burial could potentially cause the mass spread of disease, but drug-resistant TB in a corpse shouldn’t have triggered such an exception.

  She’d been cremated, Mark concluded, because her body had been evidence. He was reminded of how quickly Larry had been embalmed.

  “The police haven’t come here?”

  “No. There was no reason for her to have been walking on the road to the mountains. I know the police think she was having an affair. But she wasn’t.”

  “Did you tell the police this?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, but they said there’s nothing they can do, that it was a traffic accident, and she had a disease, and that is that. Is there anything you can do? I would at least like her ashes.”

  Mark sighed. The CIA owed Rasul Tagiyev for what his wife had done for the Agency. But it seemed clear that the police were either in on the killing, or were being pressured to cover it up. “I wish that I could help.”

  “Please.”

  “I don’t have any influence with the police.”

  “Bazarduzu, it is a powerful company. They might have influence.”

  “If I could help you, I would. But I can’t. You could try to call Bazarduzu directly. Or maybe write a letter to the president. He might be able to help, but I can tell you with certainty that I cannot. I’m sorry. I wish it were otherwise.”

  Rasul frowned as he nodded.

  Mark said, “Now, about that life insurance.”

  “Honestly, I wasn’t aware she’d taken out a policy.”

  “It was for five thousand dollars. I was authorized by the company to bring your payment to you in cash. The company knows that this must be a trying time for you and your child, both emotionally and financially.”

  Mark reached into his satchel and retrieved the money Cox had given him. He considered also giving Rasul one of the two tubes of Desitin, but decided that would be weird, and anyway, he wanted to save both for Daria.

  Rasul’s hand came up to his mouth. “This money. You intend to give it to me?”

  “It’s yours. Your wife designated you and your daughter as the only beneficiaries. The one thing I would suggest is that you accompany me to a bank and that I officially sign the money over to you there. Because once I sign it over to you, then it becomes your responsibility. If it were to be stolen, if any of your neighbors…” Mark let his voice trail off. Rasul knew better than anyone that he didn’t live in the safest of neighborhoods. “To avoid all chance of that, I recommend that the transfer be made at a bank. Do you have one you prefer?”

  “We keep an account at Ganjabank.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Now? You wish to go now?”

  “I wish to do as you wish, Mr. Tagiyev. I am available now, or if now is not convenient for you, I am more than happy to arrange to meet you at the time of your choosing.”

  “I’d have to take the baby with me.”

  “Of course. This is no problem.”

  “Then I can go now.”

  Mark accompanied a bewildered Rasul Tagiyev and his daughter to the downtown branch of Ganjabank, waited until a bank officer emerged to usher them into a back room, then thrust the money at the young man.

  “Here,” said Mark. “You don’t need me to set up your account. Good luck. I am so sorry for your loss.”

  “But…” Rasul was flustered. With one hand he held his daughter, with the other he took the envelope. “…don’t I need to sign—”

  “The relevant papers will be mailed to you shortly. In the meantime, your bank deposit receipt will serve as proof that the transfer from Bazarduzu to you was made.”

  With that, Mark left the bank, bought a pack of cigarettes—Winstons, like Cox had been smoking—and hailed a cab. Minutes later, he was staring once again at the tenement house where Rasul lived. The old Azeri was still out front.

  “Rasul has forgotten the baby’s bottle. Can you blame him?” Before the old man could answer, Mark produced the pack of cigarettes and matches. “A gift. For giving me directions earlier.”

  Mark bounded up the stairs so that by the time he got to the second floor he was breathing heavily. Work smart, he told himself, glancing both ways down the hall. Get in and get out quickly, minimize the risk, and be prepared to run like hell if you have to.

  He noted with satisfaction that it took him less than a minute to pick the lock with the improvised set of tools he’d made just before buying the Turkish delight—a thin triple rake and a hook pick, both made from bobby pins and electric tape; thicker versions of the same made from the steel wire used in binder clips; and a tension bar made from a bent pair of tweezers. As a desk-bound station chief, his tradecraft skills had started to atrophy, but they’d grown considerably sharper of late.

  In the enclosed balcony, which extended out from the kitchen and was being used as a pantry, he opened the one double-hung window that looked out onto the street; he didn’t relish the thought of dropping from the second floor to the ground, but he’d done such a thing before, and wanted to be sure he had an emergency avenue of escape, should it come to that.

  He checked his watch—five past two. He’d give himself ten minutes, any more than that and he’d be pushing his luck.

  When people had something to hide, experience had taught Mark that, more often than not, the bedroom was where they chose to hide it. There was a perception of safety, that at least at night, in the darkness, an intruder couldn’t steal in and take the item without being detected. So it was in Rasul and Aida Tagiyev’s bedroom that he began his search.

  He could still detect what he perceived to be the scent of Aida, or at least the perfume she’d worn. The smell of rose petals was in the closet, where her dresses hung, and inside the dresser, where her T-shirts and jeans and undergarments were neatly folded. It was a smell distinct from the earthy smell of Rasul’s clothes, or the diaper smell of the child.

  He searched the closet, under the squeaky mattress, under and inside dresser drawers, behind the mirror that hung on the wall, between the stacks of unused diapers, underneath the plastic bag that lined the garbage bin… He worked methodically, mentally dividing the bedroom into quadrants and searching everything in one quadrant before moving on to the next. When he came upon a small Canon pocket camera that was stashed inside Aida’s rhinestone-encrusted jewelry box, he thought maybe he’d found what he was looking for. The SD memory card inside it would be where a spy might think to hide files. But when he slotted the card into the external adapter that was connected to his iPad, it was blank.

  It took him four minutes just to finish the bedroom. Another three to search most of the kitchen—in the freezer, underneath a cookie tin, under the small microwave, above the cabinets…in all the drawers. At this rate, he knew he wouldn’t have nearly enough time to conduct a thorough search of the rest of the apartment. Rasul could arrive at any moment. He glanced out the window above the kitchen sink. The
old man out front was gone.

  Think.

  Mark reasoned that, if it was here, it would be hidden in a place where neither Rasul nor anyone else would be likely to stumble upon it. So what in the apartment would Rasul be unlikely to use? Mark had already gone through all of Aida’s personal effects in the bedroom, but now he searched through the cleaning supplies under the sink—hell, maybe Rasul helped clean, but maybe he didn’t—and inside her winter boots and jackets in the closet near the front door, and…

  Fifteen minutes after he’d broken into the apartment, he found it—a small unlabeled thumb drive—in the bathroom, inside an over-the-counter medication bottle for menstrual cramping. He slotted it into a USB port on his external adapter and a single Excel file showed up.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. It was as he’d hoped.

  All that Raymond Cox had told Mark about Aida had suggested she was reliable and organized. The type of person who almost certainly would have been sure to back up any important files in her possession. Mark had been a bit worried when Rasul mentioned that a representative from Bazarduzu had come by to collect her laptop, but reasoned that she would have been unlikely to store such an incriminating file there. Which left an external memory source, or online. And if it had been stored on a memory drive, well, the only place she’d visited between work and where she was murdered was home.

  He’d been hoping that whoever had killed Aida had either been too careless or too stupid to think to search her apartment for it. They had been.

  31

  Mark exited the same way he had entered the building, then ducked into a maze of alleys that cut between the tenements. Once he was sure no one was following him, he made his way to a main road and hailed a cab. From the back seat, he scrolled through the Excel file.

  All the text was in Azeri. The heading was labeled BAZARDUZU CONSTRUCTION: ANNUAL FINANCIAL STATEMENT AND SUPPLEMENTARY INFORMATION. Under that was a table of contents that listed BALANCE SHEETS, STATEMENT OF EARNINGS, STATEMENT OF CASH FLOWS, and SUPPLEMENTAL STATEMENTS. Listed as a subset under SUPPLEMENTAL STATEMENTS was GENERAL AND ADMINISTRATIVE EXPENSES, CONTRACTS COMPLETED, CONTRACTS IN PROGRESS…