by Dan Mayland
“Yeah.”
“You don’t remember the codes?”
“No. They’re numeric.”
“Why the iPod? Why not your phone?”
“Because that’s the way I did it.”
“I’ll go up with you.” Rosten gestured to the armed marine security guard. “He will too.”
“Be my guest.”
The Mercedes pulled to a stop outside Mark’s place. Mark, Rosten, and the marine security guard climbed out.
“Wait here. We’ll just be a minute,” Rosten said to the driver.
Mark led them up the narrow staircase, which had recently been painted pale yellow—a color that Daria had picked out. The walls were bumpy, the result of too many bad repairs to the plaster over the years.
He opened the door to his condo with a key that he’d retrieved from his front pocket, flipped on the lights, and approached the digital keypad to the left of the door, intending to disable the burglar alarm. But he saw that it had already been disabled—which told him Daria had fled in a hurry. And likely not through the front door.
“My iPod’s in the back.”
The living room was still littered with paper printed with outlines of Middle Eastern countries.
“The kid was here,” Rosten observed.
“For a while. Dammit.”
“What?”
Mark approached his narde board. It was on the coffee table in front of the couch, which wasn’t where he’d left it. The pieces had just been dumped on the board in one big pile.
Mark held up a piece that had been chipped. “Look at that,” he said. “I brought this from Baku. Inlaid with teak, silver, and camel bone. Cost me a hundred and fifty bucks. Now it’s a toddler toy.”
Mark tossed the chipped narde piece back onto the pile and walked into the room he and Daria used as an office. Two desks faced each other—his, which he rarely used, was a mess; Daria’s wasn’t. His was closest to the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rosten pick up the chipped narde piece and examine it.
Mark opened his desk drawer. He sensed that the marine security guard was right behind him, watching.
With his right hand, he pulled out his iPod Touch and the small headset that was plugged into it; at the same time, with his left hand he palmed a small leather wallet-like case that contained three forged passports. Because he’d positioned his body in such a way that it blocked his left hand from the gaze of the marine security guard, who was focused on the iPod anyway, Mark was able to pocket the passports without attracting notice.
One of the passports was Azeri, one Turkish, and one British; he’d picked them all up recently, as a result of his work for CAIN. Two credit cards accompanied each passport.
All three identities were just notional covers—good enough for commercial travel, but not backstopped nearly enough to withstand any real scrutiny.
Mark walked back into the living room.
“We ready?” asked Rosten.
Mark walked to his balcony door. A Kyrgyz cop car had pulled up a few feet behind the black embassy Mercedes on the street below. “This shouldn’t be open,” he said. He closed the door and locked it. “OK, let’s blow.”
After Mark reset the burglar alarm, he and Rosten trudged back down the narrow flight of stairs. Out on the street they were greeted with a blast of wind and the smell of wet oak leaves rotting in the street gutter. The marine security guard opened the rear door of the idling Mercedes for Mark.
Suddenly sirens started sounding.
Two cops piled out of the Kyrgyz cop car and started running toward Mark.
A second Kyrgyz cop car, closely followed by a third, barreled down the one-way street, going the wrong way.
The Kyrgyz cops—both fit older guys—charged Mark. One had his gun drawn. The other carried a set of handcuffs.
The cop with the gun called out Mark’s name and ordered him to stop.
“What’s going on, Sava!” said Rosten, his voice wary.
Speaking rapid-fire Kyrgyz, the lead cop explained that the police were there to arrest Mark. Rosten couldn’t understand a word, so Mark translated while allowing himself to be handcuffed.
“No,” said Rosten. “No, Sava. No. I’m not letting you walk off like this.”
“I have some outstanding parking tickets. It’s probably that.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you Sava?”
“Parking tickets in Kyrgyzstan are no joke.”
Rosten put his hand on the elbow of the man who’d handcuffed Mark. “You’re not going anywhere.” He turned to the marine guard. “A little help, here?”
As the marine closed in, three more Kyrgyz cops jumped out of the two cop cars that had just screeched to a stop in front of the Mercedes.
Rosten pointed a finger at Mark. “You tell them that if they don’t release you now, they’re going to have a diplomatic incident on their hands.”
Mark turned to the cops and said in Kyrgyz, “This guy is crazy. Watch for weapons, and don’t let him get close.”
The Kyrgyz with the gun shouted for Rosten to back off.
“I think he’s intimating that you’re interfering with an arrest,” said Mark.
The three Kyrgyz cops who’d just arrived formed a wall between Mark and the marine guard. Rosten stood behind them, glaring furiously at Mark.
The marine pulled out his wallet to show some identification to the Kyrgyz cops, but he was ignored. The cops pushed past Rosten and led Mark to one of the waiting patrol cars.
Rosten pulled out his black diplomatic passport. “I’m a diplomat, get it? If you take him, there’s going to be hell to pay.” He repeated the same words in Arabic, but the Kyrgyz cops didn’t understand him.
“I’ll probably be able to resolve this pretty quickly,” said Mark. “I’ll call you when I know what the deal is.”
“Up yours, Sava. You’re not fooling anyone.” Rosten turned to the marine. “Get in the car. We’re following him.”
The marine did as instructed, but before the Mercedes could pull out, one of the Kyrgyz cops drove up and blocked it from moving. The guy behind the wheel of the Mercedes laid on the horn and held up his middle finger, but the cop was unmoved.
Another Kyrgyz cop helped Mark into the police car that was pointing the right way down the street.
As they drove away, lights flashing and siren blaring, Mark could see Rosten staring him down. He’d made an enemy, of that there was no doubt. But he also sensed he’d been able to preserve—barely—his position with the CIA’s Central Eurasia Division while still remaining loyal to Daria. On balance, he’d done all right, he thought.
“Thanks,” he said to the Kyrgyz cop.
As soon as they’d turned onto the busy Kiev Street, the cop tossed a set of keys back to Mark.
“The one for the cuffs is the small silver key.”
“I got it.”
“Where do you want to go?”
Mark glanced behind him as he unlocked the cuffs. “Here’s fine.”
23
Mark walked to the Shanghai. The place was empty inside—except for Belek, the old Kyrgyz, who was sitting in the back at one of the narde tables. The buffet station in the center of the restaurant had been cleared of everything except some rice noodles and steamed dumplings; Mark knew they would be recycled for lunch tomorrow.
Mark approach Belek, offered a brief nod of acknowledgment, and sat down across from him. The old man’s brown sport coat was fraying at the elbows, and the blue wool sweater he wore beneath it was pilling. He had the narrow and high-bridged nose of a Caucasian, but his dark brown eyes were almond-shaped, with epicanthic folds that made them look Chinese.
A cup of Chinese tea sat before him.
“Thank you,” said Mark.
Belek smiled. The last time Mark had seen that happen was when the Uzbek had set the record for consecutive narde losses.
“Your business is always appreciated,” said Belek. “Even on short notice.”<
br />
Mark had first met Belek five months earlier, on the same day a powerful Kazakh senator had requested an emergency meeting with CAIN. Because Decker and other CAIN operatives had been busy at the time, Mark had asked Serena Bamford for the name of someone local who might be able to help.
Bamford had given him Belek’s name. The former chief of the Bishkek police department and older brother of the current chief, Belek had brokered a deal between CAIN and the Bishkek police department. That deal had been followed by others.
It was only after working together for a month that Mark and Belek had discovered their mutual interest in narde.
Mark pulled his iPod out of his front pocket. “I’ll transfer the funds now.” He knew he could pick up free Wi-Fi reception from the fancy coffee shop next door.
“There is no rush.”
“Actually, there is. That’s why I asked to meet. I need a flight out of the country. I can’t go through the military or civilian airport at Manas.”
Leaning back in his seat, Belek frowned and cupped his tea with both hands. “This embassy official you wanted to escape from. Will he cause trouble for the police?”
“He’ll try to, but he won’t know the right people to cause real trouble. He doesn’t know Bishkek.”
Mark doubted that Bamford, or any other Agency assets in Bishkek, would try too hard to help Rosten. They’d make a show of trying to, but it would be just that—a show.
“When inquiries are made…”
“Tell whoever is making them that I was processed for multiple parking ticket violations and released.”
Belek’s eyes fixed on Mark. They were calm eyes—probing and observant. Eventually, he said, “This flight. When do you need it?”
“Now.”
“Where will you be going?”
Mark told him. It was a bit of a crazy move on his part, but he had the money, and the time, and Bamford had asked him to take the fight out of her station. Besides, it would be awfully nice to get out of Bishkek for a while.
He’d think of it as a vacation.
“Can you drive to Osh?” asked Belek.
Osh, the second largest city in Kyrgyzstan, was only a hundred and eighty miles south of Bishkek as the crow flies, but twice that far by road, and the roads were lousy.
“I was hoping for a helicopter. A police helicopter. This is a matter of some urgency.”
Belek frowned again.
“The price is negotiable,” added Mark. “I’d also consider it a personal favor.”
The Kyrgyz were a tribal people. Most were descendants of nomads who used to wander the mountains, moving from place to place as they sought out good grazing grounds for their livestock. Some were still nomads. A culture that prioritized protecting and promoting the members of your extended family and friends had developed as a result; helping your brother meant your brother would help you, and together, with luck, you both might survive.
Mark knew he wasn’t—by any stretch of the imagination—a member of Belek’s inner circle; they’d only known each other for five months after all. In that time, though, he’d never betrayed Belek’s trust. More important, Belek had invited Mark and Daria to his home for dinner two months earlier. They’d broken bread with Belek and his family.
By doing so, Mark knew that he had at least been afforded the status of a respected ally. A request for help would not be taken lightly.
“Will this bring harm to my brother?” asked Belek.
“No. They want me. Once I’m gone, no one will care about the means by which I left. Only that I’m gone.”
“You speak of your government.”
“People in it.”
Belek nodded, then picked up his cell phone—an older flip model.
As Belek dialed, Mark felt a little dirty. When he’d first met Belek, he hadn’t known that he’d need to rely on the old Kyrgyz like this. But he hadn’t been playing narde every day just for fun either.
He’d been using friendship as a tool, as a way to recruit a potential asset. The truth was, he viewed almost everyone he met as a potential asset. It was a way of interacting with people that had become ingrained in him after twenty years with the CIA.
Still, despite it all, he genuinely liked Belek. And if he’d used the man, well, Belek had used him in return.
24
Kyrgyzstan
“John, baby. Listen to me. We’ve got to stop soon. He’s going to get a rash if we don’t change this diaper. It’s not fair to him.”
Having finally tired himself out from all the crying, Muhammad had fallen asleep in Jessica’s arms shortly after they’d pulled away from Decker’s house.
“I know.”
Decker’s phone had been ringing like crazy. All the calls had been from Holtz. Threatening. Bribing. Yelling. Decker had never picked up, but he’d listened to the messages.
Had Holtz really seen him when they’d been pulling away?
It had been dark out. He hoped there was still a chance he could persuade Holtz that Jessica had been the only one at the house.
But how to explain Muhammad’s screaming? Holtz had to have heard the child. And then there was the slashed tire…
Decker turned to Jessica. “Do you think you’d be strong enough to slash a tire?”
“John.”
“You’re pretty strong. The knife bounces off the rubber if you don’t stab hard enough, but I bet you could do it.”
“I’m serious. We have to get food and clean clothes for Muhammad. And diapers.”
Jessica spoke quietly because Muhammad was on her lap, asleep, his head resting on her chest. Her cheek was touching Muhammad’s hair. At first she’d seemed awkward around him, but once his tantrum had subsided, it was as though she’d always known him.
“I think he wears pull-ups.” Decker said after pausing to consider the matter.
“What?”
“They’re like diapers, but for older kids. I remember them from when I had to babysit my nephew a few years ago.”
“John.”
Damn, thought Decker. He didn’t want to lose his job. He had a pretty good gig going with CAIN. “We’ll stop soon.”
They were speeding east out of the city, toward Lake Issyk Kul. The farther he could get from Bishkek, the better, he figured. He planned to shack up in one of the lake resort towns for the night—Cholpon-Ata would do fine. Given the season, he knew there would be plenty of vacant hotel rooms.
His thoughts turned back to Holtz.
Bailing on the military flight home right when the business with Muhammad was going down—that must have been what tipped Holtz off. But how had Holtz known to come looking for him at the house?
Decker considered the fact that he was using a cell phone that had been supplied by CAIN. And a Ford Explorer that had been supplied by CAIN. And that Holtz was kind of anal about keeping track of his employees. It was entirely possible, maybe even likely, that Holtz had put a tracker on the car or the phone or both.
He glanced behind him in the rearview mirror. No one was behind them. “We’ll stop in Tokmok,” he said. He put a hand on her knee, trying to be reassuring. “It’s a big town. There’ll be places to buy supplies.”
“How long?”
“A half hour or so.”
“OK.”
And while they were there, they’d ditch the Explorer, thought Decker. He’d find someplace to park it and leave his phone in the dash compartment. From Tokmok they’d be able to hire a car to take them farther east.
25
Delhi, India
“I’m telling you, this place is driving me crazy.”
Thirty-three-year-old Rad Saveljic spoke loudly into his cell phone.
“Did you hear back from Sunoco?” asked his fiancée.
“Have I told you about the monkeys?” asked Rad, ignoring her question.
“Ah, yeah. You told me about the monkeys.”
“Did I tell you they bite? One started following me last night.”
> “Weird.”
“Really weird.”
The driver of the motorized three-wheeled rickshaw Rad was in cut off a guy riding a scooter. What the hell, he thought. Even in Elizabeth, New Jersey—his hometown—that would have been a risky move.
“What about Sunoco?” asked his fiancée.
“I talked with the New York office—they won’t do a phone interview.” Rad was a project manager for the oil company BP. But ever since BP had assigned him to India, he’d been looking for a new job. So he’d applied to Sunoco, hoping he’d be offered a position somewhere closer to home. He missed his fiancée, Mets games, decent cable TV, and his local hot dog stand. He supposed India was fine if you were an Indian, but he wasn’t.
“What, do they expect you to fly back to New York just for a first interview?”
“I don’t know what they expect. All they said was to contact them when I’m back in the States, so maybe something will come of it eventually. How was your day?”
“It’s just started. It’s morning here, remember? I figured I’d call before it got too late there.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, I thought it was later. How was yesterday?”
As his fiancée chattered away, Rad watched in horror as his rickshaw driver passed within a foot of a cluster of women standing over hot vats of road tar. The smoky wood fires under the vats looked eerie in the shadows of the night. Nearby, two other women were digging out a pothole with a single shovel—one of the women gripped the shaft of the shovel, while the other held on to a rope tied to the shovel handle. By the side of the road, women were using hammers to break big rocks into little rocks. Two men who looked like supervisors were standing around doing nothing.
I gotta get out of here, Rad thought.
An orange Tata truck a few feet in front of him spewed a toxic black plume of exhaust into his face. The back of the truck had been painted with bloodred flowers and decorated with strings of shiny beads that were dancing maniacally all around. Everyone was honking their horns.
A few minutes later the rickshaw stopped in front of a three-story, turn-of-the-century British mansion that sat behind a tall wrought-iron fence. The driver announced that they had reached their destination.
