Death of a Spy

by Dan Mayland

  Titov pulled off his headset, but held one of the earphones to his left ear so he could monitor any ongoing communication between his men. Then he picked up a satellite phone off the desk and dialed the direct number of his boss, the director of the FSB.

  His call was answered on the second ring.

  Titov quickly explained the situation. When the director began to berate him, Titov interrupted. “It is not the risk to me that is of concern. It is the risk to the operation. What I need now is for you to authorize the early activation of my second unit.”

  Titov had split his operatives into two groups—spies with paramilitary skills, and paramilitaries who had also been trained as spies. The former had come to Nakhchivan weeks earlier and were now with him at the sanatorium. The latter—with the exception of Titov himself, who had originally trained as a soldier—had just entered Nakhchivan the day before.

  “You can’t contain this failure even if we dispatched your second unit this very minute. The men who are threatening you now are no doubt in touch with the authorities in Nakhchivan City as we speak. There’s no point trying to protect your cover—it’s already been blown.”

  “I can draw the Azeris inside, make them think they are safe, and then quickly neutralize them once the second unit arrives. If you can arrange for the operation to launch tonight, then the level of confusion will be such that the Azeris won’t know what hit them, they won’t have time to react.”

  The director cursed.

  “Battles don’t always go as planned, sir,” said Titov. “You and I, we have always improvised. That is why we are here today, why we survived for so long. Will you do it?”

  “I will put the matter to the president. Whether the Iranians are even capable of moving up the timetable, I don’t know.”

  “And my second unit?” When the director didn’t answer, Titov said, “Sir, we can’t wait until after you speak to the president to activate them! By then the battlefield will have changed. Our options will be more limited.”

  Another pause, then, “Activate them now.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But first tell me—how did the Azeris discover your location?”

  Titov hesitated—he didn’t want to tell the director about Sava. “I don’t know.”

  50

  Mark observed as his Russian guard appeared to listen to something that was being transmitted over his radio headset.

  “Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.” The guard turned to Mark. “Put your hands behind your head. Walk to the elevator.”

  Mark stayed seated. The Russian repeated himself. Mark still wouldn’t move, so the Russian—speaking into his radio headset—asked what he should do.

  After listening for a moment, the Russian said, “If you don’t walk, I am to shoot both of your feet, then your arms, then drag you to the elevator. This is your choice. Walk.”

  So subtle, the Russians, thought Mark. But he knew a real threat when he heard it, so this time, he stood.

  “Quickly!” The Russian prodded Mark in the back with the barrel of his AKS-74, an automatic rifle with a folding stock that, like the Grach pistol, was favored by the Russian military. When they reached the elevator, the guard said, “Lower your left hand. Right hand stays on your head. Then press the elevator button.”

  Mark did as instructed. The elevator door opened.

  “Step inside,” said the Russian. “Press level six.”

  Mark pressed levels one, two, and three, but the Russian couldn’t see that because he was still outside the elevator.

  “OK, now what?” asked Mark.

  “Both hands behind your head. Face the back wall.”

  Mark complied, the Russian stepped into the elevator, and the door closed. The barrel of the AKS was now pressed against the left side of Mark’s upper back.

  Noticing that Mark had pushed the elevator buttons for the wrong floors, the Russian cursed, then jabbed Mark in the back, hard, with the barrel of his rifle, causing a spike of pain to shoot through Mark’s chest.

  “You think this is funny!”

  “No.”

  Another hard jab, this time to the kidney. More muttered curses. “Piece of shit. Cocksucker.”

  The business with the elevator buttons had just been a hunch—if the Russian was in a rush to get to the sixth floor, Mark figured it couldn’t hurt to slow him down.

  The Russian cursed yet again as he punched the various elevator buttons, trying to reset them.

  When the elevator doors opened on what Mark guessed was the first floor, he heard two things: one was the sound of the Russian frantically hitting the elevator buttons; the second was the sound of men, maybe fifty feet or so away, arguing in Azeri—one wanted the other to step back from a door, while the other was yelling about someone not having permission to enter.

  Mark felt the pressure from the gun barrel on his back lessen slightly as the Russian repositioned himself. Sensing that his captor was distracted, Mark took advantage of the unexpected opportunity—maybe the only one he’d have. Twisting violently, he grabbed for the rifle.

  A shot rang out. Mark felt a sting by his hip but his left hand already had a purchase on the AKS and he was pushing the barrel away. More shots were fired, but they went wild into the elevator walls. Glass shattered. Mark kicked at the Russian’s crotch with his right foot and tried to bite the Russian’s trigger hand.

  A blast of automatic rifle fire, lasting several seconds, sounded from what Mark could now see was a reception area of sorts.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  The command was spoken in Azeri.

  The door to the elevator began to close, but before it did so there was a popping sound, like a water balloon bursting as it hit pavement. Mark felt something wet on his face. The Russian’s grip on the rifle relaxed. Mark ripped the gun away and fired a single round into the Russian’s leg. But then he realized his shot had been unnecessary—that the rear of the Russian’s head was mostly gone, and that the water-balloon-popping sound he’d heard had been the man’s skull exploding.

  Mark threw out his hand and pushed the open button just before the elevator began ascending to the next level. Two men in rumpled civilian clothes stood ten feet from the elevator, Uzi machine pistols aimed at him. One of the men wore plastic sandals. Mark let his AKS rifle drop and held up his hands.

  “Your name!” shouted the older of the two, in Azeri.

  “Mark Sava.”

  “It’s him,” said the second.

  “Come with us,” said the first.

  “There are more Russians here,” said Mark.

  “How many?”

  Mark considered how many he’d encountered, how many he’d heard. “At least six, maybe more. Some might be on the top floor. That’s where this guy”—Mark gestured to the corpse on the floor—“was taking me. Be careful, they’re all armed, mostly AKS-74 rifles, a few short-barreled carbines too.”

  51

  Outside the sanatorium, a white Ford van with tinted windows screeched to a stop underneath the large portico in front of the main building, just beyond the reception area where Mark stood.

  “Go,” said one of the plainclothes Azeris, ushering Mark along. “Quickly.”

  Five more men rushed into the sanatorium. Two appeared to be local cops; the rest were dressed in plainclothes, but carried themselves like trained soldiers.

  Mark was directed to the front passenger-side door of the van. He yanked it open, then did a quick double take. Behind the steering wheel sat Orkhan Gambar. A Makarov pistol lay on the dashboard and an Uzi rested on the floor of the van, between the passenger seat and driver’s seat.

  Concealing his genuine surprise at seeing Orkhan—Mark had hoped Orkhan would send help, but hadn’t imagined he’d deign to show up in person—he said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you drive in what, ten years? What happened to the chauffeur?”

  Orkhan was wearing what he always wore—a dark suit with a pressed white button-down shirt—but he�
�d removed his tie. The way he was seated, his considerable girth had stretched his shirt so that his ribbed undershirt was visible between the buttons. The bags under his eyes sagged more than usual. His Turkish nose appeared especially enormous.

  “Get in,” said Orkhan.

  Mark did, wincing because of the increased pressure sitting put on his ribs. “What are you doing here?”

  “I received your call, of course. We tracked your cell phone signal to this sanatorium but then it disappeared. What happened?”

  “They were holding me in the salt mine below the sanatorium. Were you already here in Nakhchivan when I called?”

  “No. But I was near the military air base at Sumqayit.”

  Mark still didn’t understand why Orkhan, who commanded an army of men, would have seen fit to drop everything he’d been doing and immediately hop on a flight to Nakhchivan. He said as much.

  Orkhan said, “There have been some developments. In Baku. It was better that I leave. And I also think we must talk. What are my men walking into?”

  “Russians.”

  Mark repeated the information he’d already relayed to the Azeris inside the sanatorium, prompting Orkhan to lower the driver’s-side window of the van and call to the Azeri who stood guard in front of it.

  “Go! We will take care of ourselves out here. Coordinate with Salimi on the interior assault.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have reinforcements coming?” asked Mark.

  “No.”

  “You should.”

  Orkhan shook his head, “Not a possibility. But if I include the two of us, we have fifteen men to their six. It should be enough.”

  “I said they had at least six, and those Russians in there are professionals.”

  Orkhan let out a weary sigh. “My wife’s brother-in-law is the only man I trust here in Nakhchivan. He was the one who assembled this team—with men he trusts. They are good men, experienced men, but even if they were not, the army is not an option. The Interior Ministry forces are not an option. Because of complications I don’t wish to discuss, most of my men in the National Security Ministry are not an option. So there will be no reinforcements. There is no one else.”

  “You’re in trouble, my friend,” said Mark.

  Orkhan leaned across Mark and pulled open the glove compartment. Inside was another Makarov. He grabbed it by the barrel and offered the grip to Mark.

  Mark asked, “Do you want me to join the search inside?”

  “No. You are helping with exterior security. If I tell you to shoot someone, shoot them. And after my men secure the interior of the building, you will help us interrogate the prisoners. I am hoping you will know the right questions to ask.”

  As Mark took the pistol, he assessed their position. The roof of the portico provided cover from the sanatorium’s upper-level guest rooms. And they had a clear view of the front reception area, the glass doors of which had been shot out. An assault from the road, or from the rear of the sanatorium, was possible, but he and Orkhan would have some time to react to either. The van itself afforded them some protection, and mobility. It wasn’t a terrible position. “OK,” he said. “We talk.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Mark glanced down to his right hip. Beneath it, his shirt was sticky, and not from sweat. He inspected the wound. The shot had just grazed one of his modest love handles. It wouldn’t bleed for long.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You said you had information for me. What is this information?”

  Orkhan sat grim-faced as Mark told him that Russian forces had been massing not only in South Ossetia, but also at bases in Armenia and Dagestan.

  “Who told you this?”

  “The CIA’s Central Eurasia Division has been monitoring the situation.”

  “So your boss, this Ted Kaufman in Washington. He told you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe him.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Russians are preparing to invade us,” concluded Orkhan flatly. “This much is obvious.”

  Mark had certainly considered that possibility—why else would the Russians be secretly massing forces at all their bases closest to Azerbaijan?—but an unprovoked attack on Azerbaijan would trigger an international outcry. Which the Russians might be prepared to weather, as they had when they stole Crimea from Ukraine, or when they seized disputed territories in Georgia. But if the Russians were to interfere with all the oil flowing to the West via the BTC pipeline, or with the natural gas that was slated to flow to Europe from Azerbaijan via the proposed Trans Adriatic Pipeline, that the US and Europe would be hard-pressed to stand for. There was too much money at stake. Mark explained his thinking to Orkhan.

  “Yes, but these Russian dogs, you have dealt with them for decades, I know. But you don’t know them like I”—Orkhan tapped his chest three times with his index finger—“know them.”

  Mark recalled his time with Titov back in the 1990s. But he also recalled his time with Katerina, and all the other Russians he’d known over the years, many of whom he still counted as friends. “I think I know them well enough, Orkhan.”

  “Then you should not be shocked by what you see happening now! The Russians have never accepted the loss of Azerbaijan, or Georgia, or Kazakhstan, or Kyrgyzstan, or Ukraine, or—”

  “I get it,” said Mark. What Orkhan was really saying was that some Russians, including the Russian president, considered all the former Soviet states to be within Russia’s rightful sphere of influence. “But an unprovoked invasion of Azerbaijan…I don’t see it happening.”

  “Oh, it will not be unprovoked. We must speak of Nakhchivan. What do you know?”

  “I was told an airstrip was built, in secret, in the south. Our satellite data picked up the construction phase, but nothing shows up now. What’s going on there?”

  Orkhan exhaled loudly through his nose. Then he dipped his hand into his inner suit-coat pocket and produced a lemon-flavored cough drop. As he unwrapped it, he said, “Would you like one? I have plenty.”

  “No.”

  Orkhan sucked on his cough drop for a while. “And it is the CIA who has hired you to investigate this restricted area?”

  “No, the Russians hired me.”

  Orkhan flashed him a look.

  “It’s a joke.”

  “Not funny.”

  “The CIA noticed Russian troop movements in South Ossetia, so they hired my firm to investigate. When the man I sent got murdered—he was also a friend—I was pulled in to figure out who killed him and why. My investigation led me here.”

  “And who did kill him, this friend of yours?”

  “A Russian general named Titov.”

  “He is the commander of the special forces unit of the FSB known as Vympel,” said Orkhan matter-of-factly. “Promoted last year. His qualifications are questionable, but the director of the FSB is his krisha.”

  Krisha was the Russian word for roof. In the Russian mafia, it meant the person to whom one paid—often unwillingly—protection money. In the Russian FSB, which often competed with the mafia in the protection racket game, it meant much the same thing.

  Continuing, Orkhan said, “Titov first started paying his krisha when they served together in Afghanistan and Titov was dealing heroin on the side. His krisha was his commanding officer. This is common knowledge, everyone knows it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “This is because you waste too much time with women and children, of course. As his krisha rose, Titov rose with him, played enforcer for half a dozen criminal enterprises the FSB was running in Moscow. They are all criminals, these FSB people. You are saying Titov killed your friend because of what your friend learned in South Ossetia?”

  Mark hesitated. He didn’t want to bring up all the stuff about Katerina. “I think so. By the way, I know that whatever project you have going on here involves the Israelis. I tailed a couple of them from the restricted area back to the Tabriz Hotel
earlier today.”

  At that Orkhan laughed. “Well, at least you make this easy, Sava. I will confide in you. At this point I have no one else I can confide in.”

  “What has happened, Orkhan?”

  “The Russians have gotten to people in my government. I see now that, in preparation for attacking with troops, they first attack from within. As we speak, my own government is hunting me. I have lost the confidence of the president. Also, your information is correct—the restricted area is an air base.”

  “Why doesn’t it show up now on our satellite photos?”

  “Because it was built in such a way as to prevent it from being detected by satellites. Most of the facility is underground. The aircraft must slip into an entrance ten meters high and twenty meters long and there is an exit as well. Both the entrance and exit are shielded by overhangs covered with earth. They are invisible from above.”

  “This was a joint project with Israel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have pilots that can use this airfield without killing themselves?”

  “Pilots? No. There are no pilots.”

  “Drones,” said Mark after a time, understanding.

  “Yes.”

  “Israeli-built drones.”

  “Yes. Herons, but the new stealth models. Of course. You can guess the rest, I’m sure.”

  Mark’s pulse quickened. “The Israelis are using the drone base to spy on Iran from Azerbaijan.” Israeli-made drones couldn’t get to Iran from Israel—the distance was too great. But all of Iran would be in range from a drone base in Nakhchivan. “And in return…” Mark had to think about that, but only for a moment. “And in return, you get to use Israeli drones to spy on Armenia. And Nagorno-Karabagh.”

  Nagorno-Karabagh was the disputed bit of territory over which Azerbaijan and Armenia had been fighting for over twenty years. It was currently occupied by Armenia.

  “Of course.”

  “And the Russians found out about the operation?”

  “Almost certainly, yes.”