Death of a Spy

by Dan Mayland

  Orkhan had no love for the Americans; they were as vicious as they were self-righteous. Nor did he harbor any fondness for the Chinese; their superiority complex notwithstanding, they were just a pack of xenophobic grubby small-thinking merchants. And the effete Europeans were simply insufferable. Why France, Fatima? But it was the drunken Russians he truly loathed. They were as violent as the Americans, as sure of their own cultural superiority as the Chinese, and just as boorish as both—no small feat! No, Orkhan did not like the Russians one bit. The fact that his father had spent five years in a Siberian gulag didn’t help either.

  “What?” The president sounded genuinely surprised.

  “They are massing men and matériel at their land and air bases in Armenia, South Ossetia, and Dagestan. They have infiltrated Nakhchivan with spies—”

  “Nakhchivan has always been infiltrated with spies.”

  “Not like this, Mr. President. I fear the same for the mainland. You need to alert the defense minister. We must move troops to the northern border crossings immediately.”

  “Who tells you this?”

  “An American source.”

  “You have always been too taken with the Americans, Orkhan. Either they are playing you, or you are trying to play me.”

  “No, Mr. President, it is you who is being played. I tell you this information so that you will have an opportunity to defend our country. There is a reason, too, why I am being set up by the interior minister. It is because the interior minister is in league with the Russians and wishes to get rid of me before the Russians attack. Because the Russians know that I will fight them! And that I will tell you to fight them!”

  A long pause, then, “Odd that your recommendation to move troops to our northern border should come at the precise moment the Iranians appear to be determined to attack from the south.”

  “The Iranians? Why would—”

  “Come now, minister. Have you been hiding in a cave today?”

  “If you’re referring to the bombing in Tehran, I assure you I have been monitoring—”

  “Monitoring! Oh, well if you have been monitoring the situation, then this might interest you.” The derision in the president’s tone was evident. “An hour ago, the president of Iran held a news conference. The Iranians are now claiming the attack on their supreme leader originated from a secret drone base in Nakhchivan—yes, that base, Minister Gambar, the Iranians know of it! They allege that we collaborated with the Israelis to build this base and supply it with Israeli-made stealth drones, and that we let the Israelis arm some of the drones for the purpose of carrying out assassinations in Iran. They claim to have the remains of an Israeli drone they shot down!”

  Orkhan, blindsided, took a long time to respond. “But none of the drones have been shot down. And even if one had been, it would not have been armed.”

  “They claim to have proof, that they have the drone that fired on the supreme leader’s house—”

  “They lie. If the residence of the supreme leader was bombed, then the Iranians did it themselves just so they could blame us.”

  “How do you know this? How do you know the Israelis didn’t arm one of their drones behind our backs? How do you know that they really didn’t try to kill the leader of Iran?”

  “Because I trust the Israelis.”

  “You trust them. Well, good for you, Minister Gambar.”

  “And I don’t believe they would ever be so reckless.”

  “Me, I cannot afford to be so trusting. Either way, lie or not, the Iranians claim that they shot this drone out of the sky after it fired upon Khorasani’s house in Tehran. And they have a wreck, which they displayed on television, of something that looks like an Israeli drone. And they say that, in retaliation, they intend to take possession of the airfield in Nakhchivan—yes, you heard me. Iranian troops are already massing. They appear to be preparing to invade Nakhchivan. Did you hear me? The Iranians are planning to invade! And now—now!—you talk to me of the Russians. Of moving troops north. You are at best a fool, Orkhan, and at worst a traitor.”

  “But the Russian base in Armenia, and—”

  “Military intelligence has detected nothing of which you speak.” The president’s voice rose a notch. “The Interior Ministry has detected nothing of which you speak! I don’t know why you passed information about the drone base to the Russians, Orkhan—”

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “But I know I have a nation to defend, and that you are not helping me do my job.” The president didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, he just said, “Where are you?”

  “Nakhchivan. Within the hour, I will board a plane back to Baku. After that I may be found at my desk in the ministry.”

  Orkhan heard a click. The president had hung up on him.

  Without even pausing to think, Orkhan hung up the phone on his end just long enough to reset the dial tone, then entered the number for Ted Kaufman. If the president was too corrupt or stupid or both to defend Azerbaijan from the Russians, Orkhan would see whether he could get the Americans to do it instead.

  Part Six

  55

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  When Orkhan Gambar touched down at the airport in Baku, his plane was met on the tarmac by a convoy of Azeri military vehicles, mostly armored South African–made Hummer knockoffs. As he descended the air stairs, he was greeted by a general from the Ministry of Defense.

  The general, a diminutive man whose uniform hung loosely on his frame, was accompanied by thirteen armed soldiers. His right hand gripped a single sheet of paper. He and Orkhan had worked together a decade ago to shore up Azeri defenses on the border between Iran and Azerbaijan.

  “Minister Gambar.” The general frowned, then said, “These certainly are strange times we live in.”

  Orkhan stepped forward. “Strange indeed.”

  “I want you to know I did not ask for this assignment.” The general held out the sheet of paper. Orkhan grabbed it unceremoniously and began to read.

  “You understand,” said the general, “I have no choice in the matter.”

  It was, as Orkhan had suspected, a warrant for his arrest. He was being accused of treason. In the lower right-hand corner was the presidential seal, underneath which was the large, fussy signature of the president.

  “Do not worry yourself, General.” As he spoke, Orkhan continued to scan the warrant. “When this matter is resolved, I assure you I will not hold you personally accountable.”

  Underlying Orkhan’s words was a hint of venom, and malice, suggesting that he would, in fact, hold the general accountable.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  A moment passed. The general appeared unwilling or unable to do what he needed to do next.

  “Well?” said Orkhan.

  “If you’ll come with me, sir. Please, ride with me in my car.”

  “And where will we go?”

  “Gobustan, I’m afraid, Minister Gambar.”

  Orkhan nodded. The news was unwelcome, but not unsurprising. Gobustan was a miserable prison that lay in the desert south of Baku. Many of Azerbaijan’s political prisoners were housed there. The cells were filthy—Orkhan knew this from experience, having conducted several interrogations inside the prison—and many of the prisoners were drug addicts, or infected with AIDS.

  The general added, “I’m sorry. The order came directly from the president.”

  Orkhan, looking behind him to the bodyguard who was carrying his suit coat in such a way as to prevent it from becoming wrinkled, said, “Follow me to Gobustan. Along the way, inform my wife as to what has transpired.”

  56

  Nakhchivan, Azerbaijan

  Mark felt a sting on his chest and opened his eyes. He was on his back, staring up at a light. To the side of the light stood a jowly man with bloodshot blue eyes and a deeply wrinkled forehead. Gray chest hair tufted out around the top of the man’s button-down shirt, which was open at the collar.

  Someone cursed,
then said in Russian, “He wakes, give him more.”

  Mark tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him.

  Dammit that hurts…

  He tried to put his hand to his chest—that’s where the pain was coming from, it felt as though he was being poked with something sharp and cold—but someone pulled his hand away and held it down.

  “Don’t move!”

  Mark coughed. It was still hard to breathe, the air just wouldn’t enter his chest. He felt consciousness slipping away from him again but he willed himself not to pass out. He tried to lift his head up, but someone pushed it down.

  “Immobilize him!”

  Strong hands pinned down both of his arms, then someone wrapped a rubber tube around his left forearm. Seconds later, the jowly man pulled out a needle. Mark tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t. The struggle made him need to breathe more deeply, but he couldn’t—the air he needed just wouldn’t fit in his lungs. He felt as if he were drowning.

  The jowly man hovered over him a moment. Mark smelled acrid underarm sweat, felt the needle enter his forearm, and then seconds later, the rush.

  Those bastards. They were doing it to him again.

  He struggled, but the hand on his arm held firm. He felt a burning sensation; moments later, it was as if something were pushing its way up his arm, and then his body began to feel light. It was an entirely new sensation, one he’d never experienced before.

  Russians were talking. “OK, we try this again. Hold him. One, two—”

  Mark felt a prick on his chest and then an awful sensation of metal slipping into his body, as though someone were slowly pushing a knife into him. He screamed, or thought he did. The sounds in the room melded with the air. It was as if he were floating. The surface beneath him no longer felt hard. His head was sinking; he tried to lift it.

  He heard something that sounded flatulent, like a balloon that hadn’t been tied properly and was rapidly losing air.

  “It’s done. Keep his arms pinned until he passes out.”

  The hand on his forehead lifted. Mark raised his head. His vision was blurry, but he could see well enough to make out the grotesque horror that had been inflicted upon his body. Protruding from the left side of his chest was an enormous needle, part of which was encased in plastic. Blood ran from the incision point down the side of his chest. Attached to the top of the needle was what looked like the cut-off fingertip of a rubber latex glove. The fingertip was affixed to the end of the needle with a rubber band. The whole contraption looked sinister, the work of a crazed mind.

  The needle looked as though it had been inserted close to his heart.

  Get that thing out of my body.

  As Mark tried to raise his head a bit higher, the flatulent sound started up again. And that’s when he realized that he was making the sound, or rather his body was. The fingertip on the end of the needle gave another belch as air escaped from it.

  Mark lowered his head. The drug that had been injected into his arm was overwhelming him. He allowed himself to hope that he’d been hallucinating.

  No, he thought, as he slipped into unconsciousness. What he’d just seen and heard had been far too real.

  57

  Baku, Azerbaijan

  As they were passing through downtown Baku en route to Gobustan Prison, the general who had arrested Orkhan received a call on his cell phone. He answered it, listened a moment, said, “Yes, yes, of course I’ll hold.” And then, a minute later, said, “Of course, Mr. President. It’s just that I—”

  Orkhan reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out the last of his cough drops and popped it into his mouth. He breathed deeply through his nose, enjoying the sensation of lemon scent rising through his nasal cavities.

  “—yes, yes, Mr. President. No, no problem. I will bring him there at once.” The general clicked off his phone and turned to Orkhan. “We will not be going to Gobustan.”

  “No?”

  “No. The president wishes to see you.”

  Orkhan took a moment to digest this new bit of information. “I see. Did the president say what he wanted?”

  The general looked worried. “He did not.” A moment later, he said, “I truly am sorry about all this, Minister Gambar.”

  Orkhan sucked on his cough drop as he wadded up the wrapper and let it fall to the floor. “I’m sure you are.”

  Several upscale waterfront restaurants had recently sprung up on the shores of the Caspian south of Baku. At one, the president of Azerbaijan sat outside at a circular table, beneath a bright cerulean-blue umbrella. The air smelled of seaweed, and salt, and fish. Just offshore, oil rigs sparkled in the waning sun, as did the tower cranes that stood atop all the man-made islands under construction. Gentle waves surged up and down through the rock-pile breakwater.

  Before Orkhan could get within a hundred feet of the president, he was stopped and frisked by the president’s bodyguards, a process that resulted in the confiscation of his phone. That minor indignity was compounded by the fact that, when Orkhan was brought to the president’s table, a large meal of what appeared to be beef tenderloin, served with a red wine reduction sauce of mushrooms and shallots, sat in front of the president. The rest of the table was bare.

  It was dinnertime. Orkhan was hungry.

  “Minister Gambar. Good of you to come.” The president skewered a piece of beef and stuck it in his mouth.

  “Mr. President.”

  “You were right. About the Russians.” The president spoke with his mouth full. His fork clattered to his plate, and he nervously wiped his mouth with a napkin that lay on the table. “Dubov just held a press conference.”

  Dubov was the Russian foreign minister.

  The president, his voice laced with equal parts anxiety and derision, continued, “He warns the Iranians not to attack, that Russia would see this as an unacceptable encroachment on the Russian sphere of influence. He spoke of troops at their base in Armenia. In South Ossetia. In Dagestan. You were right. The Russians, they have prepared for this.”

  Orkhan considered the president’s words. “Sphere of influence. He dared to say that, did he? The dog.”

  “They have no shame.”

  Orkhan drummed his fingers on the table. “And the Russian ambassador. What does he say?”

  “That Russia is willing to offer military assistance if Azerbaijan should need it. Generous of him.”

  “Should we need it,” repeated Orkhan. Now it was clear. Now he knew the Russian plan. But it was happening even faster than he thought it would.

  He looked out to the nearest of the man-made islands under construction in the Caspian. The islands were to be Azerbaijan’s answer to Dubai. There would be luxury hotels, a Formula One racetrack—there were even plans to build the tallest skyscraper in the world. Orkhan had never liked the thought of turning Baku into a mini-Dubai, but he liked even less the idea of the Russians putting a stop to it. No one would want to invest in an Azerbaijan dominated by Russia.

  “The Russian ambassador tells us not to worry, that Russia will not tolerate an Iranian incursion into Azerbaijan. That Russia is bound—by the treaty of Kars—to protect the territorial integrity of Nakhchivan.”

  “That old communist treaty has nothing to do with this.”

  “He adds that he is deeply concerned that we would not be able to adequately defend ourselves against an Iranian invasion.” The president swallowed hard and took another bite of his steak, as if to communicate that, while the matter they were discussing was indeed troubling, things were not yet so dire that they merited interrupting dinner. His darting, nervous eyes suggested otherwise. The president was scared, and it showed.

  “And, of course, he speaks the truth,” said Orkhan. “We would not be able to adequately defend ourselves.”

  “I tried to send word through the Iranian embassy that we are prepared to shut down the drone base, shut down everything, and accept Iranian monitors. But the Iranians have closed all diplomatic channels. They
don’t want to hear the truth, they don’t want to negotiate. Instead they say nothing and are moving troops to the border.”

  “We could hold off the Iranians for a few days, perhaps. But if the fighting spilled past Nakhchivan into the heart of Azerbaijan…the border is too long, and of course, if we were drawn into a fight with Iran, the Armenians would take full advantage of our weakness.”

  “You think I don’t know all this!”

  “It was not meant as a criticism, Mr. President. Simply an observation.”

  As the president took a sip of water, his hand trembled. “You have been free with your observations of late, Minister Gambar.”

  “I speak as I do only because I hope to prevent the catastrophe I fear may be unfolding.” Orkhan leaned forward in his seat. “This is what happened, Mr. President. The Russians found out about our drone base in Nakhchivan, and that the Israelis were using it to spy on Iran. How they found out I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that the Russians decided to tell the Iranians about it. Why? Because the Russians knew the Iranians wouldn’t stand for it. But instead of encouraging the Iranians to attack the base, the Russians came to the Iranians with a proposal—agree to pretend that the Israelis have attacked their supreme leader from this base, and that they are prepared to invade Nakhchivan as a result, and then Russia will do their dirty work for them.”

  “The Russians will invade us to save us,” said the president.

  “Yes.”

  “From the Iranians.”

  “Yes. Of course, they will not call it an invasion. They will call it offering assistance. Coming to the rescue. Just as they rescued Crimea. But the Russians don’t expect to shoot their way into Azerbaijan. They expect to be let in. By you, Mr. President.”

  “By me? Why would I do such a thing?”

  “Because your interior minister—your brother-in-law—will advise you to let the Russians into Azerbaijan. He will offer forked-tongue counsel, will say the wise choice is to work with the Russians rather than oppose them, will try to convince you that the Iranian threat is real when it is not, and will claim to have assurances from the Russians that they will leave within days, as soon as the drone base is dismantled, that this really is about protecting Nakhchivan from the Iranians. And all that will be a lie, Mr. President. The interior minister is betraying you, and our nation. The Russians are waging maskirovka, disguised warfare, just like they always do.”