The Colonel's Mistake (8 page)

“There were opportunities here.”

Mark studied Decker, observing his discomfort.

Decker added, “I was stationed here for a while. I made some contacts.”

“Like who?”

“One of the secretaries at the embassy.” Decker gave a name Mark didn’t recognize. “She works in the ambassador’s office.”

“You know her professionally?”

“Ah, I would say more personally.”

“And that’s how you got this job? Because you were screwing a secretary in the ambassador’s office?”

Decker shrugged. “I think they tried to get somebody from Xe first. I was the only person available on short notice.”

“How long were you a SEAL?”

“Three years.”

“What team?”

“Five.”

“What’d you do in Azerbaijan?”

“Training.”

“Who, Azeris?”

“Actually, I’m not allowed—”

“To guard the BTC?” said Mark. The BTC was the thousand-mile-long oil and gas pipeline that ran all the way from Baku to Tbilisi to the Turkish port of Ceyhan on the Mediterranean Sea. Mark remembered that, a couple years ago, a SEAL crew in Azerbaijan had been sent over to train a special Azeri naval unit to guard it. “Don’t answer if that’s what you were doing.”

Decker looked as though he’d just taken a bite of something rancid, but he didn’t answer.

“Look around, John. Are any of these people dressed like you?”

Decker didn’t respond.

“You can’t do anything about the fact that you’re twice the size of everyone here, but you can do something about your clothes. Go shopping. Buy black pants, black shoes, and a brown shirt. Dye your hair brown. Fit in.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if you want, meet me back here in three hours. By then I’ll know if I have work for you.”

“I’ll be here.”

“No guarantees,” said Mark.

“I understand.”

Mark walked to the McDonald’s on the perimeter of the square. A grubby yellow payphone stood not far from the entrance and he used it to call Nika.

“Dinner won’t be ready until five thirty,” she said. “But come at four anyway.”

“Listen, I’m not going to be able to make it.”

The line went silent, then Nika said, “I already bought everything.”

“Where are you?”

“Inside my apartment, in the kitchen.”

“Don’t go near the windows. Where’s Sabir?”

“At the kitchen table, doing his homework. I’m looking at him right now. You’re scaring me.”

Mark rested his head on the interior wall of the phone booth. The cool metal on his forehead felt good. “I just think it would be better if we played it safe.”

“Played it safe? I’m making dinner, Mark. What’s not safe?”

“A little while ago someone took a shot at me. I’m afraid they might try again.”

“Took a shot at you? You mean with a gun?” Nika’s voice was incredulous.

“Ah, yeah.”

“You’re telling me someone tried to kill you?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Because of something to do with your drunk foreign service friend?”

“It’s actually more complicated than that. I can’t get into it now, you’re just going to have to trust me on this.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“This isn’t a matter for the police.”

“Of course it is.”

“I can deal with it. I know people, from when I used to work at the embassy.”

“This is crazy, Mark.”

“The reason I’m calling is that I’m worried that whoever’s after me will try to use you to get to me. You’re going to need to leave for a while, until I sort this out. You have a sister in the north, in the mountains.”

“What am I supposed to do about work? I’m teaching summer classes. Sabir is in summer school. We can’t just pick up and leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” said Nika, raising her voice.

“You need to pack your bags. Now. Then veil yourself and go down to the parking garage. Put Sabir in the trunk of your car—”

“No, Mark.”

“Don’t fight me on this, Nika! Put him in the trunk of your damn car so that if anyone’s watching your apartment, waiting for a woman and her son to leave, they only see a single woman. And make sure your face is completely veiled. If they try to get to me through you, both you and Sabir could be in danger.”

“Who’s ‘they’? Who would want to kill you? And what does Sabir have to do with this? He’s just a boy.”

Nika was whispering frantically, reminding Mark that her son was probably within a few feet of her, listening. What a mess. And what a delusional mistake it had been to have let his mess of a life get intertwined with the lives of these two decent, normal people.

“He doesn’t have anything to do with this. Nor do you. But this is a seriously ugly situation and I don’t want to take any chances. Drive directly to your sister’s place—”

“Who are you?”

“Don’t tell anyone you’re leaving. Don’t tell your sister you’re coming. You can let Sabir out of the trunk when you’re twenty kilometers clear of Baku.”

“I could lose my job,” said Nika, plaintively.

“I’m sorry.” Mark scanned the crowds in Fountains Square, wondering if anyone out there had a fix on him. He was sorry, genuinely so, but he had to go. “I’ll contact you through your parents when it’s OK to return. In the meantime, get out. I mean it, Nika. Get out now.”

Mark watched from a distance as Nika’s car exited from the parking garage underneath her apartment building. She was wearing a black veil and there was no sign of Sabir. He looked to see if anyone took off after her as she pulled onto Vagif Avenue in the direction of the Baku Zoo. She appeared to be clear.

From a bench in front of the Nizami Cinema he called Ted Kaufman and told him about what had happened at Peters’s apartment.

Then he gave Kaufman two options.

First, Kaufman could hire him back temporarily as an independent contractor. In return, the CIA would receive a report on any progress he made in figuring out what was driving the violence in Baku. Second, he would investigate anyway and keep his findings to himself.

“I’ve got no problem hiring you as an independent,” said Kaufman. “We’ll have a new Agency team in Baku by tomorrow. You can work with them.”

“I’m not working with any new team,” Mark said. “And I’ll need money.” He mentioned a figure he knew Kaufman wouldn’t like.

“We’re not funding your retirement,” said Kaufman coldly. “Show a little patriotism for Christ’s sake.”

“That’s the going rate for independents.”

“Going rate, my ass.”

“And then I have to figure expenses on top of that, expenses that I anticipate will include lots of bribes—”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“—and subcontractor payments. That figure’s a weekly rate by the way, payable in advance.”

“What subcontractors?”

“That’s my business.”

“Not if you’re on my payroll.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“What is it with you?” said Kaufman. “I mean really, you think now’s a good time to go asshole on me?”

“This new team of yours that’s flying in, anybody on it speak Azeri?”

Kaufman didn’t answer.

“Anybody who’s ever set foot in Azerbaijan?” After that last question was met with more silence, Mark said, “I’m not good with Daria and me playing the sitting-duck routine while you send over a couple jackasses who have no intention of doing anything other than holing up in the embassy and writing reports based on what the Azeri government feeds them or what they read in the English-language newspapers. We can either agree to use each other, or you can ignore me and take your chances. Your choice.”

The line was silent for a while. Eventually Kaufman said, “Hold on.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mark had his answer: the Agency had agreed to his terms. So after stopping off at the British-owned LPM International Bank and withdrawing $50,000 from a numbered CIA account—the five hundred-dollar-bill bank bundles fit easily into a small canvas shoulder bag—he called Orkhan again.

Martyr’s Alley, a long open-air memorial to all the Azeri protestors killed by the Soviets in 1990, was perched on a ridge high above the old walled city of Baku. A limestone tower, under which burned an eternal flame, anchored one end of the memorial.

Orkhan walked purposefully toward the flame and placed a red carnation inside an eight-pointed Azeri star at its base. After a moment of feigned reverence—he thought the protestors who’d died had been stupid not to just wait for the Soviet Union to collapse—he strolled to a point a few feet away from Mark.

“This is not an ideal place to meet,” he said tightly.

Martyr’s Alley was just a short walk away from the Ministry of National Security. The whole area was infested with Russian and Iranian spies. Orkhan wondered whether any were watching now.

He glanced down at the yellow cranes that lined the enormous shipping docks far below them.

“Thank you for seeing me again,” said Mark.

Mark, Orkhan observed, was still wearing the same filthy shirt he’d had on earlier that day. And he hadn’t bothered to shave.

“What do you want?”

“Since we spoke this morning, I’ve encountered complications.”

The Americans were a bloodthirsty people, Orkhan thought, as Mark described what had happened at Leonard Peters’s
apartment. More so even than the Russians. Ask any one of them and they’d deny it. They’d claim to regret the necessity of whatever violence they were in the process of inflicting and point to some righteous cause that had forced their hand.

But always there was blood.

“Baku is a safe city,” he said. “You brought this with you.”

“I brought nothing with me.”

“Then your government did.”

“We’re the ones getting killed, not doing the killing.”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Orkhan.

“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.”