Death of a Spy

by Dan Mayland

  “I see,” said the president.

  “You doubt me.”

  “I doubt everyone.”

  “Have you spoken with the interior minister since the Russians offered aid?”

  Ignoring the question, the president asked, “And what do you think the Russians will do if I refuse them entry?”

  “They will enter regardless.” Orkhan remembered when the Soviet tanks had rolled into Baku in 1990. He’d been there, he’d helped tend to the wounded and bury the dead. He knew it could happen again. “And they will claim to have been invited. It won’t matter that we and others will know they are lying—the propaganda, the cyberwarfare they will wage, the spetsnaz forces who will throw off their uniforms and pretend to be Azeris in support of the Russian presence, it will be enough to confuse the situation, to silence voices of opposition. Will our border troops even resist them? I don’t know, but if they do, the Russians will likely threaten—through secret back channels, so they won’t look like bullies—to invade the mainland with troops from their bases in South Ossetia and Dagestan. Of course, since Russian tanks in South Ossetia would have to pass through Georgia to get to us, the Russians would be sending a message to the Georgians as well.”

  “If the Russians were to learn that we intend to fight them, that might be enough to get them to reconsider.”

  “I suspect instead they would simply add more troops to the incursion, believing that we will back down in the end. Whereas if they think they can take us by surprise, and that they won’t be resisted, then they will likely use as small a force as possible so as not to alarm the international community. What we must do is fight their deception with deceptions of our own, Mr. President. What we do is we lure the Russians into thinking they can enter Azerbaijan unmolested, and the second they cross the border, we do everything we can to see that they are slaughtered. That is the only message the Russians will understand. Then in public, we claim it was nothing more than a minor skirmish with the Armenians, so the Russians can back down without losing face.”

  “And if the Russians don’t back down? If they send more troops?”

  “If they are truly committed to taking Nakhchivan, they will.”

  The president stared at his hands. “There are few ethnic Russians in Nakhchivan. And any sizeable Russian troop reinforcements would have to go through Georgia and Armenia. It will not be easy for them to mount a real invasion.”

  “If we give the Russians Nakhchivan, they will take it. But if it becomes clear that they will have to pay a steep price, they may decide it is not worth the cost. That is our only hope.” He paused. “It would help if we were not alone in mounting a defense.”

  “If the Turks were to intervene—”

  “Forget the Turks. A year ago, maybe. Not now.”

  Turkey and Azerbaijan, both Turkic-speaking countries, had historically been close. But Azerbaijan’s deepening military relationship with Israel had come at a time when Turkish-Israeli relations were at a nadir. The Turks had wanted the Azeris to back away from Israel, as a show of solidarity. The Azeris had refused.

  The president pursed his lips into a worried frown, then said, “Yes, I fear you are right.”

  “And even if we should ask, help from the Turks might not be enough.”

  “I can’t pull all our troops from the south. Some must remain. As must some troops in the north, by the border with Georgia and Dagestan, in case you are wrong and the Russians do intend to invade the mainland.”

  “The Russian goal is to spread us thin. That is why I have made some preliminary inquiries with the Americans, Mr. President.”

  “Inquiries with whom?”

  Orkhan explained about his conversation with Ted Kaufman.

  “And?”

  “The Americans have much to lose, should the Russians invade. Even though our oil does not flow through Nakhchivan, they will know the Russians could use an occupation of Nakhchivan to bend us to their will. They do not want to risk letting Russia control the flow of oil and gas out of the Caspian. And the Americans are a bloodthirsty lot. They enjoy fighting. But they have grown cautious of late. So I cannot say for sure. Of course, for assistance to be rendered, the request must come directly from you.”

  “This is a dangerous game we’re playing, Orkhan. What if the Americans do render assistance, but the Russians respond with more force, and then the Americans even more still? The Turks may yet get involved, and then the Armenians. And the Turks and Americans are part of NATO and the Armenians and Russians and Kazakhs and—”

  “Yes, yes, but—”

  “—have their own mutual defense agreement. These agreements, they lock countries into war. And then maybe instead of a little skirmish at the border, you have NATO against Russia and their most devoted lackeys, and before we know it we are fighting World War III.”

  “There is risk involved with any course of action we take, Mr. President. But right now the most immediate risk is that part of our nation is about to be overrun by Russia. Call the Americans. If you won’t, I will, but it would be better if the call came from you.”

  58

  Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

  Daria was in her Volkswagen Jetta, approaching the bridge that led from Kyrgyzstan to Kazakhstan, when her phone rang. Darkness had fallen. After driving around the outskirts of Bishkek, and then stopping to have dinner at a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant she’d never been to before—a place no one would think to look for her—she’d resigned herself to driving to Almaty, where she planned to spend the night in a hotel.

  Behind her, Lila was sleeping in a rear-facing car seat that Daria had special ordered from a department store in Europe because she hadn’t been satisfied with the options in Kyrgyzstan. She answered quickly, before the ring tone could wake Lila.

  It was John Decker.

  “What have you got?” Daria kept her voice low.

  “Kaufman just called.”

  Decker explained that the CIA believed Mark had been abducted somewhere in Nakhchivan. But that no one knew for sure where he was now.

  “This can’t be happening. We just had a kid, John. We were happy.” Daria stopped herself from saying anything more because she knew she’d start crying if she did.

  “Mark’s a tough guy, Daria. I wouldn’t—I mean, I wouldn’t go panicking about this or anything.”

  “I’m not panicking,” she snapped. “I’m worried, there’s a difference.”

  “I didn’t mean panic, I just meant…anyway, there’s another angle to all this. Have you been listening to the news?”

  “No.” Daria had kept the radio off so that it wouldn’t bother Lila.

  Her spirits sank as Decker told her about the bombing in Tehran, and the Iranian response, and the Russian reaction.

  She said, “And Mark is in the middle of this shitstorm. That’s wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.”

  “It gets worse. Reading between the lines of what Kaufman told me, the CIA’s not going to just roll over and let the Russians, or the Iranians, invade Nakhchivan.”

  “Of course they won’t. Crimea was one thing, but they’ll be afraid that if the Russians start having their way with the Azeris in Nakhchivan, next up will be the oil.”

  “Whatever the reason—”

  “Oh, that’s the reason.”

  “Kaufman tells me he’s been ordered to assemble a team that can serve as a liaison between the Azeri ground forces and any, uh, any military assets we might just happen to have in the area.” Decker let that statement hang for a while, then added, “Should it come to that. I guess the situation is kinda fluid.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “If the Russians or the Iranians attack Nakhchivan, the Azeris would have a hard time holding them off, assuming they even dared to try.”

  “One of the many reasons Mark needs to get the hell out of there.”

  “Yeah, well, Kaufman—and I guess people way above him—are thinking if we could just give the Azeris a
little boost, maybe it would turn out differently, you know?” Without waiting for Daria to answer, Decker said, “The thing is, they need at least one person on this team who’s fluent in Azeri, and there just aren’t many people on the CIA payroll who fit that bill, and I guess the CIA isn’t thrilled about tasking one of their own to something that, well…”

  “Has the potential to be a serious cluster. So they want someone they can disown if things go south.”

  “Something like that.”

  “If communication is the issue, there are certainly plenty of Azeris who speak English.”

  “Kaufman wants a translator he can trust. And he’s not going to trust someone that the Azeris serve up. Daria, listen, Kaufman asked me to ask you whether you’d do it.”

  For a moment, Daria was dumbstruck, even though in retrospect she realized that, from the way Decker was talking, she shouldn’t have been. She’d sworn off that underworld of secret operations, sworn off contributing to deaths of others. She’d done too much of it already. “But…Kaufman hates me.”

  “He doesn’t like you much, that’s for sure. But there aren’t that many people like you out there, Daria. You speak fluent Azeri. You worked for the CIA, but don’t now. All qualities they’re looking for.”

  “The CIA fired me, Deck. They don’t trust me worth shit, and I don’t trust them.”

  “Yeah, but Kaufman trusts you more than he would a random Azeri guy pushing some crazy Azeri agenda. And he thought that maybe—because by helping to hold off the Russians and the Iranians you’d be helping Mark—you might go for it. This could be your opportunity to get back on the Agency’s good side, Daria.”

  “I don’t want to get back on their good side. I don’t give a crap about them. They’re a pack of amoral liars. If it was up to me, I’d shut them down.”

  “I’m just the messenger, Daria.”

  “Not to mention, I’ve got Lila.”

  “I completely understand. So I’ll tell Kaufman no?”

  Daria glanced back at Lila. She seemed content now, occasionally kicking her legs or raising her arms a bit. Leaving her at this stage in her life, even for a little while—Lila had never even fed from a bottle—was unthinkable. Helping out Ted Kaufman and the CIA, that too was unthinkable. As was helping Azerbaijan or the United States kill twenty-year-old conscripted Russian soldiers.

  But so was not even lifting a finger to help Mark.

  Ever since she’d received the text from him, Daria couldn’t help but think that she was letting him down in what could be his moment of greatest need. And by letting Mark down, was she also letting Lila down? If Mark were to—she tried not to even think the word die, but there it was—if that should happen, and she had done nothing to try to prevent it, how would her daughter judge her in the years to come? How would she judge herself? What wife would do such a thing?

  Yes, the deal with Mark had been that, in the event he ever sent such a text, Daria was to focus on keeping herself and Lila safe. Protect what remained of the family. But Mark was part of the family. By helping him, she would be helping Lila.

  “Daria, you still there?” asked Decker.

  59

  Nakhchivan, Azerbaijan

  When General Dmitry Titov had arrived at the restaurant atop the Tabriz Hotel an hour and a half earlier, the dining room had been nearly full with dinner guests. But now it was empty save for himself, three of his men, two overly solicitous young waiters, and an officious pear-shaped supervisor in an ill-fitting suit who was bossing the waiters around.

  Which meant it was almost time. Titov’s men had killed all the Azeris who’d stormed the sanatorium—except for one who may have escaped with Sava—and then had hastily cleared out all the weapons and communications equipment, anticipating that the operation would be approved for tonight. As soon as it had been, Titov had come to the Tabriz.

  Because the Tabriz was the tallest building in all of Nakhchivan City, boasting unparalleled views of most of the downtown from the top floors, it was of both strategic and tactical military value. As a result, the Russian army intended to occupy it; Titov himself had made the recommendation.

  The risk, however, was that as soon as the Russian army crossed the border, the Azeris would think to fortify the Tabriz, particularly the upper floors. So Titov had further recommended that he and his men secure the top floors early, just before the invasion started, so that the Russian army wouldn’t encounter any unnecessary resistance when they finally did arrive.

  Titov continued to peck away at his dinner—chicken served with a pomegranate walnut sauce, boiled potatoes, and wild herbs that had been picked in the mountains the day before—until he observed a cook leaving via the single elevator that serviced the restaurant.

  It was nine-thirty. The kitchen had closed a half hour earlier. Titov guessed there was another cook still in the back, cleaning up. Perhaps a dishwasher too. He didn’t want to take more life than necessary, but considered it likely that everyone else in the restaurant would stay until the last diners—in this case, he and his men—had left.

  He downed the last of his beer, then nodded to a short man with a lazy eye who sat across from him.

  One of the waiters, who’d been watching from nearby, approached the table.

  “Another beer, sir?” he asked Titov.

  “Please.”

  “Where is the bathroom?” asked the lazy-eyed man.

  “This way, sir,” said the waiter. “Come, I will show you.”

  Titov’s man followed behind the waiter—until they passed under the security camera that was affixed to the ceiling above the door to the men’s room, at which point he reached underneath his baggy tracksuit jacket, withdrew a silenced snub-nosed pistol, calmly shot the waiter twice in the back of the head, then fired three more quick shots into the rear of the security camera.

  The sound of the camera being blasted apart attracted the attention of the second waiter and the pear-shaped supervisor. As they turned toward the sound, Titov shot the second waiter twice in the back, then once in the head, before aiming his pistol at the supervisor, who by now had noticed the dead waiter by the security camera.

  As the manager dropped to his knees and began to pray—Allahu Akbar—Titov shot him.

  Addressing his two remaining operatives, who had remained seated, Titov said, “The kitchen.” He drew his finger across his throat and made a clucking sound. “Go.”

  Soon, two quick spitting sounds came from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of metal pots falling to the floor.

  To the man with the lazy eye, Titov said, “Go get the gear.”

  Many of Titov’s men had dispersed, first to cut the telephone cables that led from Nakhchivan City to surrounding Azeri military installations, and then to rendezvous at the northern border to assist with the invasion. Those who had accompanied him to the Tabriz had checked in using their fake Russian passports—they were traveling as businessmen negotiating a deal for the import of crop fertilizers—and had taken three rooms on the twelfth floor, directly below the restaurant. Their luggage had been loaded with weapons and communication equipment.

  “Yes, sir. And the prisoner?”

  “Him too. We’ll set up a communications station there.” Titov pointed in the direction of a baby grand piano. Most of the restaurant was carpeted, but the red marble floor around the piano might offer some protection from small arms fire coming from below, should it come to that.

  The operative who had disposed of the cook in the kitchen was standing in front of the elevator door.

  “You,” Titov pointed. “Station yourself in the stairwell on the twelfth floor. Alert us when guests enter and leave their rooms. Don’t interfere with them unless you have reason to believe that they intend to interfere with us.” To his remaining operative, Titov said, “You, make sure the roof is clear.”

  He assumed the Azeris on the lower levels would eventually realize that something was amiss on the restaurant level. There was the broken secu
rity camera. And the employees who had never left. But the Azeris were lazy, and lacked personal initiative; it was likely that by the time anyone was sent to investigate the anomalies, it would be too late—the invasion would already be well under way.

  60

  Mark first became aware of sounds—a faucet running, a door closing, clipped words spoken in Russian. He was comfortable, and warm, and enjoying the sense of weightlessness; he sensed that the sounds posed no threat to him, that they were there purely for entertainment.

  But then, some errant synapse fired in his brain, and he thought, Lila is hungry, she needs to be fed…

  Lila, where was she? He wanted to check the bassinet at the foot of the bed, but he couldn’t see; it was too dark in his bedroom. Lila had to be there, but…now he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t even hear her breathing. He couldn’t hear Daria breathing either. Only this strange intermittent tapping sound, as though a mouse were scurrying around between the walls.

  The lamp, where is it? To your left on the end table. Mark opened his eyes, froze for a moment, then shut them again. He forced himself to remain perfectly still.

  Your breathing, control your breathing, if you breathe too fast he’ll know you’re awake.

  He focused on what he had just seen, tried to reconstruct the picture in his head.

  Seated five feet away was one of Titov’s operatives—the tall gaunt one with narrow-set eyes who had followed Mark out of the Tabriz Hotel earlier in the day. He was tapping on some sort of tablet computer device.

  Mark recalled the attack at the sanatorium, and trying to escape with Orkhan, and collapsing in the desert. But after that, nothing.