Spy for Hire

by Dan Mayland

  “Hey, Muhammad! My man! We’re going on another adventure, how about that?”

  Muhammad looked apprehensive, but he didn’t resist when Decker picked him up and began to jog toward the hotel. When Decker got to their room, he yanked open the door.

  “Jess! We gotta blow.”

  At that point, Decker got a whiff of something that stank. His first thought was that maybe Jessica had done something she wanted to fess up to, but then he saw that the yellow poly propylene climbing shirt he was wearing was stained with something that looked—and smelled—like shit.

  “Oh no, don’t tell me,” he said. He lifted Muhammad up off his hip at the same time Muhammad started to cry.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Ah… that really sucks,” she said.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I know.” Jessica started laughing. Decker couldn’t help but smile too.

  “OK, it’s a little funny.”

  Everything was so chaotic and awful—the crying, the shit, Holtz, Mark, and all this on top of his father, God he hoped his father was going to be OK—that it had swung around to being funny. The chaos of war he could handle, but when it came to a two-year-old and ailing father, he was out of his depth.

  “Listen,” said Decker. “Grab the pull-ups, we’ll change him in the car. We gotta go.”

  33

  Bahrain

  A frail man with thin gray hair and a thick gray mustache sat at a table in the shade of a date palm tree, in a garden courtyard that abutted the side of the house with the wind tower. He wore dress slacks and a starched white shirt that was open at the neck. His brow was creased, his cheeks and the skin under his eyes drooped, and his ears and nose were old-man large. In front of him sat a glass of ice water that was wet on the outside from condensation. Behind him, louvered shutters had been closed over tall windows, leaving only the stained-glass fanlights above the windows exposed. A carved wooden door framed by intricate plaster molding opened from the house onto the garden.

  “You may leave us,” said the old man, without looking up.

  The driver who’d picked Mark up gave a slight bow of his head and walked away.

  The old man glanced briefly at Mark. “Please, have a seat.” He spoke English with a British accent. “You may call me Abdullah. I am a cousin to the king and an uncle to the boy of whom we will speak. And you are?”

  “Stephen McDougall,” said Mark, giving the name that was on his British passport.

  Abdullah’s expression didn’t change. He took a sip of his water.

  Mark added, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “From what I have been told, I am the one who should be thanking you.”

  He looked more weary than thankful, thought Mark. And although his words suggested gratitude, his tone didn’t. “And what is it you have been told?”

  “That you have in your custody a relation of mine. A boy named Muhammad. And that you wish to right a grievous wrong that has been done to the boy and to my family. I am Muhammad’s uncle. You may release him to me.”

  “What happened to Muhammad’s parents?”

  “They died in a car accident two months ago—an accident precipitated by a mob of Shia beasts throwing firebombs. Muhammad was in the car at the time.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He has been raised here, by my family, ever since.”

  Mark looked around. The grounds were impeccable. Armed guards stood at different points along the perimeter fence. There was no sign of children’s toys, or jungle gyms, or anything that might suggest a child lived here.

  “And you wish to care for Muhammad now?”

  Abdullah’s gaze intensified but he didn’t answer immediately. Mark got the impression that he was angry, and trying to hold himself back.

  “What I wish to do, or not wish to do, is irrelevant.” Abdullah raised his voice ever so slightly. “What is relevant is that you are in possession of a child who doesn’t belong to you.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Bah.” Abdullah dismissed Mark’s claim with a wave of his hand.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, Mr. McDougall, that for as long as I have been alive my family has been friends with the Americans. And in our hour of need, this is how we are repaid?” Abdullah spoke with derision. “Yes, I know your American CIA friends tried to make an agreement with the Shias and it didn’t work. And that now they lie. After Mubarak in Egypt I should not be surprised, but still, the depth of the betrayal is hard to fathom.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Mark said, “My government does not always send as clear a signal as perhaps it should. I understand your frustration.”

  “Do you? Do you know that the vast majority of Bahrainis, even the Shias, still support the king? Because he brings stability to the island?”

  Abdullah’s hands were trembling. Mark had the strange sense that the old man was now on the verge of tears.

  “I’m sure he does,” said Mark diplomatically.

  “The people who protest like hooligans in the street, they are a small minority. Yet you Americans would hand Bahrain over to these ruffians?”

  The passion with which Abdullah spoke unsettled Mark.

  “I don’t know anything about that. The only reason I’m here is to help reunite a boy with his family.”

  “Then I encourage you to do so. Now.”

  “I was told you would provide some documentation?”

  Abdullah looked as though Mark had just insulted him, but then he glanced over his shoulder and nodded—at whom, Mark couldn’t see. Moments later, a younger man with short-cropped black hair and eyes so dark they looked black appeared. He was dressed in a thawb robe and carried a leather-bound folder.

  Abdullah spoke quickly in Arabic, prompting the younger man to produce a number of documents marked with official-looking stamps and flowing signatures.

  “Muhammad’s birth certificate.” Abdullah slapped the piece of paper in front of Mark, followed by two more. “His mother’s death certificate, and his father’s death certificate. You will note that the names of the parents on the birth certificate are clear, as are the names on the death certificates. And that his surname clearly marks him as a member of the royal family.”

  Mark examined the documents. Though they were written in both Arabic and English and the information on the certificates corresponded to what Abdullah was telling him, Mark had no idea whether the documents were legit or not.

  “What about photos of Muhammad with your family?”

  Abdullah said something in Arabic to his helper, who promptly walked away. A minute later, a woman with long dark uncovered hair emerged from the house. She wore a stylish white ankle-length skirt, a matching long-sleeved blouse, and tasteful makeup. But she looked haggard, as though she’d been up all night on a bender and was now trying to pretend she wasn’t painfully hungover. In her hand she held a small point-and-shoot digital camera.

  Mark pegged her to be at least thirty years younger than Abdullah.

  “This is my wife. She has been helping to care for Muhammad.”

  Abdullah’s wife turned on her camera, clicked through a few photos, and then handed the camera to Abdullah. Abdullah, in turn, handed the camera to Mark.

  “Here is my wife with Muhammad. This photo was taken just five days ago.”

  Mark examined the image. The boy in the photo did appear to be Muhammad. And the woman standing next to Muhammad in the photo was the same woman standing before Mark now. It was just the two of them in the photo, sitting next to each other on a couch. Mark took the liberty of clicking through a few more of the photos. Though he didn’t recognize any of the people in them, they all appeared to have been taken at a recent party. Time stamps indicated the photos had indeed been taken just five days earlier.

  It wasn’t definitive evidence, Mark thought—images could be doctor
ed. And it bothered him a bit that the photo of Muhammad and Abdullah’s wife had been taken at a group event, when people who didn’t know each other all that well might encounter each other, rather than just around the house. But big events tended to be when people took pictures.

  Mark, thinking it was time to end this, handed back the camera and said, “OK, thank you for sharing that. Last thing—Muhammad keeps talking about a woman I believe is named Anna. Do you know who she is? Does Muhammad have a nanny?”

  Abdullah’s smile tightened and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Speaking slowly, he said, “I think you misunderstand your role. You are not here to question. You are here to tell me how and when the boy will be delivered to his family. I have given you clear evidence that he belongs here.” Abdullah stared Mark down. But after a long silence, he sighed, then said, “Yes, Muhammad has a nanny. But her name is not Anna.”

  Mark studied Abdullah. He noted how tightly the old man was clasping the glass of water, and observed the hint of tension in his jaw. The strain in Abdullah’s voice had also been unmistakable. Mark sensed that he was a man under enormous pressure.

  “What is her name?”

  “Hasini Ahmed. She is his cousin. Recently she had a case of appendicitis, so for the past week she has been in a hospital in Manama recovering from her operation.”

  Over the years, Mark had grown increasingly confident of his ability to detect when someone was lying to him. Sometimes the signs were obvious—forced smiles, inability to make eye contact, a statement followed by a cough or some other covering gesture—but sometimes they weren’t, and then he just had to rely on his gut. Other than exhibiting tension, Abdullah wasn’t showing any obvious signs that he was lying.

  But the old man was lying now. Of that Mark was certain.

  Dammit, he thought. Why would Abdullah lie about something as basic as who the kid’s nanny was?

  The answer was obvious, of course—because divulging the identity of the real nanny would jeopardize the transfer of the child to Abdullah. Otherwise, there would be no reason to lie.

  Dammit.

  When it came to royal families, Mark figured Muhammad could do a lot worse than the one that ruled Bahrain. They were known, for the most part, for being reasonably enlightened, at least when compared to the other rulers in the region. Not so enlightened that they wouldn’t torture political prisoners—they did—or censor the press and the Internet—they did that too—but they did allow people to vote for members of parliament, they didn’t kill or imprison gays, women were permitted to drive, and people were generally free to practice whatever religion they choose—especially if you weren’t a Shia.

  So he wasn’t opposed to handing Muhammad over to the royals. But he was opposed to being lied to.

  Mark said, “This nanny. May I speak with her?”

  “Unfortunately, no. There were complications with her operation.”

  “And you don’t know anyone named Anna?”

  “No. If you don’t speak Arabic, perhaps you misunderstood what the boy was trying to say.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then he may have been trying to say something to you in English. He is being taught English at our local school. He goes every Sunday.”

  Mark got the idea that Abdullah was offering that bit of information as further evidence of his relationship to the child.

  “Isn’t he a little young for school?”

  “Not too young to learn a language. At his age, the mind is like a sponge. This is the kind of opportunity we provide for the boy. Now speak to me of Muhammad and how you intend to return him to his family.”

  Mark considered his options. And what Daria would do in this situation. After a moment, he asked, “Can you make arrangements to fly Muhammad from Bishkek back to Bahrain?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll have the boy transferred to your representative first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Why not now?”

  “He’s not in Bishkek now.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With people I trust somewhere in the countryside, a good distance from the city, in hiding. I don’t even know myself exactly where. The reason for this is the boy’s own security, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “It won’t take much time for me to reach my people and for them to bring the boy to the city, but it will take some. The roads are awful, and the country is large. I’ll have him brought to the lobby of the Hyatt Regency hotel in Bishkek at six tomorrow morning.” Mark checked his iPod. It was nine forty-five in the morning. “Will that give you enough time?”

  “More than enough.”

  “Bishkek is three hours ahead of Bahrain.”

  “It will not be a problem.”

  “The boy has no passport or documentation. I’d recommend a private plane.”

  “I understand. And your arrangements. Would you care to make them from here?”

  “I would not.”

  34

  Delhi, India

  Rad Saveljic groaned as he clutched his stomach. Maybe it was cancer, he thought. Because he couldn’t imagine how spicy food and a bad salad could make him feel this awful.

  After breakfast at the Connaught, he’d caught a rickshaw to the vacant Delhi lot where the new BP office building would be located. Within minutes, he’d thrown up right in front of his boss. Then he’d thrown up again in the rickshaw he’d hired to take him back to his apartment. Then he’d dry heaved over the toilet for twenty minutes before stripping off his clothes and collapsing on the bed in his boxer shorts and undershirt.

  Now, after trying to fall asleep for the better part of an hour as his stomach writhed, he threw the single cotton sheet off his body, stood up, and put his hand up to the wall-mounted air conditioner gurgling above his bed. He knew it. The air coming out of it wasn’t cold, not cold at all!

  The building superintendent had come over the day before and supposedly fixed the thing. For a while Rad had thought he’d detected slightly cooler air coming out of it, but now the air conditioner was functioning more like a heater—and a loud one at that.

  It was early afternoon and it seemed hotter than it had been in days past. Ninety degrees at least, and this in November for crying out loud. The pollution seemed thicker, too. And even though it was the middle of the day, it was hotter inside than out. He felt as though he were in a steam room.

  Rad was half-tempted to take a rickshaw right back to the Connaught Hotel and check himself in for the night. But that would cost him a hundred and seventy bucks. He’d already been spending too much on food at the Connaught.

  Better to just crack a window, see if he could get a bit of a breeze going.

  But then he’d have to worry about the monkeys.

  They were all over the city, begging and stealing food, terrorizing little kids. The day he’d moved in, a gang of them had clustered in his backyard. At first, he’d thought they were cute. He’d even taken a picture of one of them and texted it to his fiancée. How cool is this! Monkeys! Then he’d tried to feed one of them half of an apple he’d been eating. The little bastard had snapped at his finger and seconds later a half a dozen other monkeys had gathered around him, screeching.

  He’d been driven back inside his apartment. Shaking. They’d scratched at the rear door and windows. Ever since, he’d kept out of the back garden and made sure to keep all his windows and doors shut tight.

  But it was so hot in here. Surely everyone in Delhi didn’t keep their windows shut twenty-four hours a day. He’d overreacted. Reassuring himself that the monkeys weren’t going to climb through his window, Rad slid off the bed, walked to a nearby double-hung window, unlocked it, and slipped the top part down. A puff of air—not a cool one, but cooler than the stale air in his bedroom at least—wafted across his face. He stood there for a minute, enjoying the light breeze and listening for monkeys.

  He heard nothing.

  Another open window would
make the air flow even better, he thought—get a cross draft going. He walked into his living room, but none of the windows there would open. They’d either been painted shut or become swollen shut from the humidity. So he cracked the door that led out to the back garden—just a few inches—and made sure the screen door was locked.

  Then he went back to bed. This time, he was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.

  35

  Bahrain

  As a young operative, Mark had never felt much sympathy for those in the CIA old guard who’d sat behind their desks at Langley, mourning the end of the Cold War. At least with the communists, there had been a defined enemy—the Soviet Union—and an ideology—communism—to fight. Now there wasn’t, which made things more complicated, so…

  So adapt, Mark had thought. Yes, the world’s morphed into a big chaotic cesspool of sectarian violence and intolerance. Deal with it or retire.

  As he’d gotten older, though, he found himself sympathizing with the old guard more and more. Because the cesspool was starting to drive him crazy.

  He rubbed his temples, his head spinning as he thought of the Sunnis and Shias and the royal family of Bahrain. The boy, though, what to do with the boy?

  One option was to stop trying to figure it all out, declare victory, and hand Muhammad over the next morning as he’d already promised to do. The only problem with that plan was Daria. And what remained of his own conscience.

  That old man had been lying.

  Dammit.

  “Where shall I drop you?” asked the Bahraini taxi driver who was bringing Mark back to Manama.

  Mark considered his next move. It was only eleven in the morning; he had the whole day ahead of him. “What’s the nearest big hotel?”

  Mark checked into the Sheraton in downtown Manama, taking a room with a king bed on the fifteenth floor. It was a business-class hotel near the diplomatic section of the city. The Bahrain World Trade Center—two gleaming wedge-shaped skyscrapers joined by slender sky bridges—was just a short walk away, as was the Central Bank of Bahrain.