by Dan Mayland
“The woman you have in custody. I fear—”
“I have arranged for extra protection, as I said I would. I spoke with the minister of internal affairs.”
“Still, I worry that her guards may not share your commitment.”
“I have personally spoken with the commander of the prison. If she is harmed his head will roll.”
“I also need to question her about Campbell’s assassination.”
“I thought she knew nothing about that.”
“At this point I don’t know what she knows.”
“Did she kill him?”
“No.”
“But you think she’s holding back information.”
“I want her out, Orkhan.”
“Impossible. The Interior Ministry controls Gobustan.”
“When I find out who killed Campbell, you’ll be the first person in Azerbaijan to know.”
Orkhan didn’t respond. It was true that he and Mark had proved useful to each other over the years, in ways that had benefited them both. But Orkhan sensed something was different this time around, that the stakes were much higher.
“She’s going to be a problem for you,” said Mark. “Eventually the US embassy will have to get involved.”
“So she is an American.”
“If the Iranians find out that she was carrying a fake Iranian passport, they’ll investigate. When they discover she has ties to the Agency, they’ll assume that you knew she was spying for us in Azerbaijan, helping us collect intelligence on Iran.”
“We knew nothing of the sort.” Orkhan felt that migraine threatening again in the back of his head as he recalled that Mark could be an absolute bastard when he wanted to be. Iran didn’t worry him the way Russia or the US did. But Azerbaijan was a tiny nation of nine million people—Iran, seventy million. And the Iranians were paranoid; they had to be treated delicately. And Mark knew it.
“The Iranians already know you let us use Azerbaijan as an intelligence base because we help keep the Russians at bay. This will just feed their suspicions.”
Orkhan’s jaw tensed. “It would be unfortunate for both of our countries if there were to be supply disruptions on the BTC.”
“Unfortunate for both of our countries is right,” said Mark.
After a decent silence, Orkhan added, “I don’t want to hear any more threats about Iran.”
“Point taken. But that still leaves the girl.”
Orkhan sighed.
This was the point in the conversation when Mark had envisioned offering Orkhan a bribe—to the tune of $25,000 or so. But now he wasn’t sure how to go about it. In the past, bribing Orkhan had just involved transferring funds earmarked for combating terrorism from the Americans to the Azeris, at which point Orkhan would take whatever he saw fit off the top.
But Mark couldn’t offer official funds now, and he wasn’t sure how Orkhan would react to a big, crass bag of cash. Orkhan had rules concerning what was honorable and what wasn’t, and sometimes those rules were hard for Mark to figure out.
“If there are any incentives I can provide on my end to help facilitate this, let me know.” The strap of the cash-filled shoulder bag crossed Mark’s chest like a bandolier. To drive his point home, he tapped the strap and added, “I am not without means.”
This brought a hard smile to Orkhan’s face. He said, “I like you, Sava. But you are an American through and through. You think a few dollars solves all problems.”
Mark nearly choked on that one. His best guess was that Orkhan had skimmed around a half million dollars off the top of military assistance from the Americans. A few dollars indeed.
“Just something to consider.” Mark stared back at Orkhan.
“Unfortunately, my friend, I’m afraid this time I am powerless to meet your request.”
“If it would—”
“It is not to be negotiated.”
Mark thought for a moment. If Orkhan couldn’t be bribed, he’d bribe the guards at Gobustan.
“Well then, I won’t take up any more of your time.” He started to walk away, then added, “I appreciate your meeting with me.”
“You may,” called Orkhan, “be interested to know that as part of the increased protection I mentioned, I will be moving the girl from Gobustan Prison to a detention center here in Baku. We must keep her safe not only from potential attackers, but also from the other inmates. And sickness. Tuberculosis is an unfortunate problem at Gobustan.”
“I see.”
“I will order her moved later today.”
Mark studied Orkhan. “I suppose she will be guarded.”
“Of course. But how many guards I can get on such short notice, I don’t know. Maybe one, two?”
“I should think one would be plenty.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Orkhan checked his watch. “I will see who is available for a five o’clock departure.”
Mark knew not to thank Orkhan. It was better just to walk away. But he’d only taken a step when Orkhan spoke again.
“I have told you of my son?”
“Sure. Heydar.” Mark had met him once. He remembered a mean-spirited teen who’d talked a big game about following in his father’s footsteps but was probably too stupid to do so. “How is he?”
“When he finishes his studies in Baku, he hopes to go to America. He’ll be applying to the University of Texas next year. Wants to get a degree in geosystems engineering and hydrogeology.” Orkhan enunciated each word clearly, as if he’d taken great care to memorize the exact phrasing. “Petroleum engineer,” he added. “It will help him when he returns to Azerbaijan.”
“That so?”
“Of course, his grades could be better.” Orkhan shook his head. “He’s a bright boy—”
“That was my impression.”
“But he should apply himself more.” Orkhan stuck his hands in his pockets. “I understand to go to an American university, one needs to fill out long applications, get letters of recommendations, take tests—what do you call them, the SAT? A very, very difficult test I hear.”
“I’ll help him.” Jesus, thought Mark.
“He could use it. The teachers here, they mean well, but they don’t know the American system. You could be good for Heydar.”
Or not, thought Mark. But he also thought it would be a smart move for Orkhan to send his son abroad. Many of the best jobs in the oil industry went to Westerners, with their Western educations. The average Azeri was often shut out.
Not that Orkhan’s son qualified as an average Azeri. But to Mark it said something that even the minister of national security felt his son needed to leave the country for a while to get ahead in life.
“Have him call me. When I finish with this, I’ll see what I can do.”
John Decker sat on a bench in Fountains Square, wearing black leather boots, a tight-fitting brown button-down shirt, and black jeans that were way too small.
“They don’t have big-and-tall shops in Baku,” Decker said preemptively as Mark approached.
“Thousand dollars a day. First week in advance.”
“Damn. That works.”
For himself, Mark had figured $2,000 a day. “Starting now.”
“Am I still taking orders from the embassy?”
“No. You’re working for me.”
“Ah, I guess that’s OK,” said Decker. And then, “Who are you?”
“I’ve been hired by our government as an independent contractor to investigate the murder of Jack Campbell and some other things that have been going on in Baku.”
“Like what happened to that guy Peters?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“I’m your guy.”
“I’m not done yet. I have no intention of sharing anything but the most basic information with you. We’re not partners. You’re a hired gun. If you’re not comfortable with that, and you’re not comfortable taking orders, now’s the time to tell me.”
“I can follow orders.”
“G
ood.”
Washington, DC
Colonel Henry Amato didn’t like the CIA.
He didn’t like all the lies and the sneaking around. By his reckoning, nine times out of ten it was better to just have the balls to say what you believed up front, back up those words with a military that could pack a serious punch, and let the chips fall where they may. To be sure, he hadn’t always followed those principles himself, but at least he hadn’t made a career out of being a sneak—the way CIA Division Chief Ted Kaufman had.
“Thank you for coming,” said Amato as he walked out from behind his desk and extended his hand. They were in his office at the Old Executive Office Building, across from the White House. It was seven in the morning, on a Saturday. Amato had been awake all night. “I’ve been asked to extend the president’s appreciation for all you’re doing during this difficult period.”
Kaufman was a short guy, with a thin neck, spindly arms, and a little belly that popped out over his belt. Amato had met him a few times before, at obligatory Washington social functions. Kaufman had always struck him as a tired bureaucrat who’d climbed up about as high as he was ever going to get on the CIA ladder.
After answering a few questions about the attack on the CIA’s Baku station, Kaufman said, “You can assure the president we’ll have a replacement team in place by the end of today. I brought the personnel files you requested.”
“I understand you’re also coordinating with the FBI’s forensic unit?”
“We are. A team will be landing in Baku shortly.” Kaufman took a folder out of his briefcase. “These are the Agency assets en route.”
Amato grabbed the file a little too eagerly and began to page through it. A former Baku-based operations officer was being transferred from his desk job in Istanbul; a young operations officer—an alleged Central Eurasia counterterrorism expert—was on his way from Uzbekistan; and a deputy chief of station from Moscow was being flown in. The investigation would be based out of the US embassy in Baku, said Kaufman.
Amato nodded as he flipped through the pages, decidedly unimpressed.
Then he came upon Daria’s photo. He leaned forward a bit, trying to mask his reaction. “What’s her status?”
“She’s the woman I told you about, the one who was with Campbell when he was shot. The Azeris arrested her and brought her to a prison on the outskirts of Baku—”
“Arrested her?”
“That’s what I’ve been told by our ambassador in Baku.”
“They don’t think she had anything to do with what happened to Campbell, do they?”
“We’re not sure yet what they think.”
“What prison?”
“Gobustan. It’s outside of—”
“I know where it is.”
“We believe she’s still alive—which would make her our only operations officer in Azerbaijan to have survived the purge.”
“What are we doing about her?”
“Well, you have to understand that she was operating under nonofficial cover—”
“She’s also an American citizen. The president—”
“Not according to her Iranian passport. But we do have a former operative who’s looking into who killed Campbell who might be able to help her too. Go to the next file.”
Amato turned the page and found himself looking at a picture of an unremarkable man—a good quality in a spy, he conceded—with graying brown hair and dark brown eyes.
“Mark Sava,” said Kaufman. “He was my chief of station/Azerbaijan until six months ago. I persuaded him to come back on a contract basis.”
Amato skimmed the first page of Mark’s file. Education: Rutgers State College of NJ…Thespian Society…Fulbright scholarship, Soviet Georgia…Place of Birth: Elizabeth, NJ…Mother deceased (suicide), Father…
Sava’s father, Amato read, was a devout Eastern Orthodox Christian who owned a gas station in Elizabeth, NJ. Amato glanced at the photo again and this time noted that Sava wasn’t quite as unremarkable as he’d first thought. It was his eyes—they were wide set, in a way that made him look a little reptilian.
The second page of the file included a list of countries in which Sava had operated. “He’s certainly been around the block a few times,” said Amato.
“In addition to investigating this Campbell business, I authorized Sava to do what he could to help Daria Buckingham. As a result, he’s put some feelers out to his contacts in the Azeri government.”
“What contacts?”
“If the president wants us to share that information with the National Security Council he’ll have to put in an official request.”
“Is Sava going to be doing anything to actually secure her release?”
“That wasn’t my impression and I don’t see what good it would do even if he could. We haven’t claimed her as our own, but realistically her cover’s as good as blown. So even if we were to get her out tomorrow, she wouldn’t be able to operate in-country. In the meantime, Gobustan might not be the worst place in the world for her to hole up in. At least she’ll be safe there.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
“You know something I don’t, Colonel?”
“Let’s say I just don’t share your optimism about her safety given your recent track record.”
“No one’s denying that we got hit pretty bad—”
“Pretty bad—”
“But now we’re gearing up to play offense and—”
“Find a way to get her out.”
“Talk to me in a couple days.”
“All I can say is that if anything happens to Buckingham, there’ll be hell to pay. I hope you understand that. I hope the DCI understands that. We—and by we I mean the president,” lied Amato, “don’t abandon our own.”
Since Amato’s boss was James Ellis, the president’s personally appointed national security advisor, and since the president did indeed direct national security largely through Ellis, and Ellis in turn directed much of the president’s policy through Amato, it could genuinely be said that on matters related to Iran, Amato usually did speak for the president.
But Kaufman wasn’t easily bullied.
“No one’s abandoning her, Colonel. She’s alive and safe and we’ve let the Azeris know we’d like her to stay that way. If the president feels we should be doing otherwise, have him contact the DCI. Meanwhile, I’ve got other priorities.”
In a vast desert south of Baku, Mark lay hidden amid an elevated cluster of mud volcanoes—bizarre little cratered hills that popped out of the desert like acne and burped up gray mud and methane gas. He held a pair of Zeiss binoculars to his eyes, focusing on an isolated collection of low-slung buildings visible in the far distance. Decker lay a few feet to his right.
The summer sun remained a brilliant, blinding white. No shade existed for miles around and the heat rising up from the baked earth was brutal. Beyond the mud flow in front of him, Mark could see patches of white salt crystals, the desert equivalent of a dusting of snow. The rest of the expansive landscape was dotted with dry scrub brush, wild lavender, and black puddles where oil had oozed naturally out of the ground. Gobustan Prison looked like a lifeless island surrounded by a sea of desert.
The road leading up to it was lined with steel pylons, remnants of the jail’s former incarnation as a stone factory. Just beyond the prison lurked the bottom half of a mountain—its top half had been blasted apart and carted off to Baku in the form of limestone blocks. Mark wiped the sweat off his forehead and thought about all the poor schmucks who must have slaved away at that factory for their Soviet overlords. A couple decades of hell and then dead by forty. His life hadn’t always gone as planned but at least he hadn’t been born into that.
He refocused on a point just past the pylons where there was a gated break in the high chain-link fence surrounding the prison compound.
At ten past five, an olive-green van with military markings on it passed through the gate. It was similar to the one Mark had been stuf
fed into the night before.
“That’s us,” he said.
They hopped in Mark’s Niva and took off across the desert, bouncing over rocks and smacking down scrub brush until they intersected the road ahead of the van at a secluded railroad crossing. Mark pulled over in a cloud of dust and parked the Niva in the middle of the road where it narrowed just before the train tracks. He popped open the hood as though he were having engine trouble. When the van came into view, he told Decker to get out.
“Flag him down. He should know what to do.”
It was all supposed to be a big charade, so that Orkhan could cover his ass. A fake ambush.
Decker got out and raised his arms, but the van just sped up.
“Uh, he ain’t stopping, boss.”
“Fire a warning shot above him.”
Decker did, but the van just blew by them at top speed.
“Well, shit,” said Mark.
“Game on.”
Mark wondered whether they had the right van. He held up his binoculars and looked down the road toward the prison. It was empty.
“Get in. We’ll take him out on the road.”
But the van reached the highway to Baku before they could catch up and as they drove through Gobustan, Mark kept his distance. Other cars were on the highway, weaving in and out of their lanes. On the edge of town they passed a collection of modest houses and then the landscape opened up again—just desert and power lines to the left and the Caspian Sea and a couple offshore oil platforms to the right.
“I’ll get you close enough to take out the tires,” Mark said. “Be ready.”
But then the van made a sharp turn off the highway and started bouncing along a dirt road, headed east toward the sea. Mark turned off as well and floored it. The Niva’s engine screamed and the rear shocks sounded like gunfire. Decker’s gear bag fell from the backseat to the floor.
At the water’s edge, the dirt road turned into a decrepit wood platform held up by rotting stilts. The platform skimmed the surface of the water, snaking as far as the eye could see out into the Caspian. Mark had seen roads like it before—they were decaying relics of the Soviet empire and inevitably led to aging offshore oil derricks.
