Death of a Spy (14 page)

Part Four

26

Ganja, Azerbaijan
The next day

While Baku was fast on its way to becoming a mini-Dubai, Ganja was in no such danger.

Plastic bags, old tires, cans, bottles, and dead birds were strewn all over the rocky bed of the river that ran through the center of the city. Scavengers combed through the garbage. Sewage dripped out of cracked cast-iron pipes left exposed because of low water.

Mark had his cabbie drop him off just beyond the river, then began his surveillance-detection run down a series of noisy, chaotic streets where techno music blared, vendors hawked their wares, and cars careened down narrow pedestrian alleys. He walked quickly, frequently doubling back on his tracks. The strap of his leather satchel crossed his chest like a bandolier. He was hungry—he’d eaten dinner on the train, but not breakfast, and it was now nine o’clock in the morning—so he headed for the local outdoor market. There, men in bloodstained T-shirts stood in front of crosscut tree trunks, using broad-bladed axes to hack up sheep parts, while old women misted beet greens with water from perforated soda bottles, or sold dried fruit and spices—cinnamon, fennel, ginger root, cloves, cumin—out of canvas sacks.

Mark bought a bag of dried apricots. He was finishing the last of them when he reached a two-story brick building, to which was affixed a blue-and-green painted sign that read: G
LOBAL
S
OLUTIONS
: H
ELPING
TO
E
DUCATE
THE
W
ORLD
.

He walked through the double-door entrance and into an interior courtyard that was protected from the elements by a slapdash roof made of corrugated translucent plastic. To his right, a staircase led to a long upper balcony; empty flower boxes hung from the balcony railing. To his left lay a worn red couch, above which was a bulletin board cluttered with notices in English and Azeri.

Mark took a quick look at the notices—most were promoting upcoming events at the center: an entry-level English course that was starting tomorrow at nine, a talk on how best to apply for visa applications to the US and Europe was being held on Friday at noon, and evidently the American ambassador would be visiting Ganja State University in a month.

From a hallway in back of the courtyard, Mark heard the steady antiphonal rhythm of a teacher posing questions and her students answering en masse. Upon inspection, he observed a young pasty-white woman with dreadlocks instructing a class of about twenty Azeris who ranged in age from early teens to middle-aged.

Mark stood in the doorway, until the students’ stares caused the teacher to turn.

“May I help you?” The teacher wore an ankle-length tie-dyed skirt and spoke with a cheerful British accent.

“Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for Raymond Cox?”

At the mention of Cox, her expression turned sour.

Mark added, “I’m a friend of his. From the US.”

“Well, you won’t find Ray in a classroom, I can tell you that much.”

A few of the students laughed.

“I was told he worked here.”

“Depends on your definition of work.”

“Would you know where I could find him?”

Her nose turned up. “Try his office.”

“And where—”

“It’s off the upper balcony. The room that smells. Tell him I want my yoga mat back.” More laughs. “Now, if you please.”

A foul, acrid smell was indeed leaching out one of the doors that opened onto the courtyard balcony. Mark knocked on it, and heard movement from inside. And then what sounded like someone trying to quietly rack a slide on a semiautomatic pistol.

Mark stepped to the side of the door, outside the potential line of fire.

“Raymond?”

No answer.

“Raymond Cox?”

Still no answer.

“I believe you were expecting me for lunch?” Mark waited for Cox to acknowledge the code. Silence. Raising his voice, Mark repeated, “Raymond, I
believe
you were expecting me for lunch. And if you weren’t, I’m going to leave. Now’s your chance.”

“I can’t make lunch. Can we do dinner instead?”

“If we eat by five.”

A lock turned and the door opened a crack, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. Mark also smelled piss, booze, and something feral.

“Come on in. But be careful—don’t let the cats out.”

As Mark slipped into Cox’s office, he nudged a smoke-colored long-haired Turkish Angora—a popular breed in the region—out of the way. Ray Cox was standing in the back of the room, gripping a snub-nosed pistol.

“You can put that down now,” said Mark.

Raymond Cox was a short wiry guy, with brown curly hair that fell to his shoulders but was prematurely receding on top. His curly beard was in need of a trim. He wore a bracelet of braided leather, jeans, and a T-shirt with the Global Solutions logo—an image of a student using the earth as his desktop—imprinted upon it. His close-set eyes darted toward his cat.

“Queenie, get back here!”

Still holding his pistol, Cox darted forward, scooped up the cat, and quickly shut the door. Behind him lay another Turkish Angora, this one white.

“Good Lord,” said Mark, taking a look around. “What the hell’s going on?”

The office was no more than ten by ten feet. What little light there was filtered in through a gauzy blind that shaded a small window. A bottle of cheap Russian vodka sat on a metal desk, next to a glass filled with water and cigarette butts. Half of the floor was covered with local newspapers. A few pieces of cat shit lay on the newspapers, next to a chipped ceramic water bowl and a small pile of dried cat food.

Cox looked Mark over for a moment, wedged his pistol between his belt and the small of his back, and said, “I had to move out of my house, it was being watched. I figured at least here, there were other people around. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“I see.” Mark observed that two yoga mats, one laid out on top of the other, occupied the better part of the floor that wasn’t covered with newspapers. On top of the yoga mats lay a blue fleece blanket and a soiled pillow.

“Did you bring my alias packet?”

“Yeah. You got that gun on safety?”

Cox pulled a crumpled pack of Winstons out of his back pocket and extracted a single cigarette with his teeth. As he flicked on a lighter, he said, “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“I talked to Roger Davis yesterday. He said no firearms were allowed in station. Was that just a rule that applies to me?”

“His ass isn’t on the line.”

“And yours is?”

Cox took big drag off his cigarette, exhaled, and said, “Take a look at this.”

A photo lay face down on his desk. He picked it up handed it to Mark. It showed a row of liquor bottles lined up on a bar shelf. Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth, Chivas Regal, Grand Marnier, Frangelico, Russian Standard vodka, and Jameson Irish Whiskey.

“That might just look like a bunch of booze to you, but—”

“Who sent this to you?”

“Turn it over. Read what’s on the back.”

Mark flipped it over. In Azeri, it read, P
ICK YOUR BOTTLE
.

Cox said, “It means—”

“I know what it means.” The threat was common in the region—pick the bottle you want stuffed up your ass before we beat you senseless, and possibly kill you. “What I asked was, who sent this to you?”

Cox sighed, then slumped down into the seat behind his desk. “That’s what’s got me worried. I don’t know.”

“When did you get it?”

“Four days ago. The day after—well, you heard about the source I was running?”

“You got this right after she was killed.”

“Yeah. Which is one of several reasons why I think she
was
killed, that it wasn’t just an accident. Her body was found in a ditch on the side of a road that leads to the mountains. A farmer said he heard a car honk, and then a crash, but that by the time he got there the car was pulling away. The police are treating it as a hit-and-run.”

Mark took another look at the bottle photo, then pocketed it. “Does she live near where she was killed?”

“No, she lives in town, there was no reason for her to have been out there.”

“And now you think whoever killed her is coming after you.”

“Yeah, I do. Give me my documents.”

“First we talk.”

“We just did. Who the hell are you, anyway? Nobody ever mentioned you before. Do you work out of the embassy?”

Mark sat down on the corner of the desk. He looked around the dingy office again. “Two yoga mats?” he said. “You really into fitness?”

“The floor’s hard. I’ve been sleeping here the past few days, I didn’t want to risk leaving the building.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been doing for the Agency here in Ganja, and about this source you were running. Then we can talk about your alias and come up with a plan for getting you out.”

27

Baku, Azerbaijan

Five men—the president of Azerbaijan, the prosecutor general, and the ministers of internal affairs, defense, and national security—sat at an elongated oval table inside the presidential office complex in downtown Baku.

The room had been soundproofed and stripped of all decoration save for two photos that hung on the wall opposite the entrance. The smaller of the two photos depicted the president; the larger, the president’s deceased father.

The president, who was an exceptionally tall man, slowly sat back in his chair and crossed his long legs. He unbuttoned his suit—which had been custom made by his personal tailor in Milan—then frowned in a way that caused the hairs on his mustache to stick out.

“Men, we have a problem.” The room was silent as the president made eye contact with each of his three ministers. “Dark days are upon us.”

Again, silence. Orkhan knew he was supposed to be cowed by the silence, but he wasn’t.

Orkhan got along well enough with the president, but the truth was he’d had far more respect for the president’s father. Now
there
had been a leader. A strongman in the true sense of the word, a KGB tough who’d not only ruled Azerbaijan when it had been part of the Soviet Union, but who had also been savvy enough to steer Azerbaijan safely through the chaotic post-Soviet period. The son, by contrast, was a bit of a playboy—fond of fine wines and vacations to the Caribbean.

The president nodded to his prosecutor general, prompting the prosecutor general—a bald, gnome-like man who wore rimless reading glasses—to remove a folder from his black leather briefcase, open it, and say, “These are the minutes from the last meeting of the Security Council. All five of us were in this room.” He handed out copies of the minutes to each of the three ministers. “No one but the president, his secretary, myself, the three of you, and anyone the three of you may have personally entrusted, has had access to the contents.

“Note,” added the prosecutor general, “that portions of the minutes have been highlighted in yellow. They are the sections in which we discussed the status of the ongoing operation in Nakhchivan. Now compare”—he began to pass out copies of another document—“those highlighted sections with
this
.”

Orkhan did so. The second document was in Russian. But it too contained sensitive information about the operation in Nakhchivan. And the phrasing was almost identical to the highlighted sections of the minutes. The implication was obvious—someone who had been at the meeting, or had access to the minutes from the meeting, had leaked information to the Russians.

Orkhan was the first to finish. He exhaled loudly, shifted in his seat to relieve a bit of tension in his back, and let the Russian-language document fall to the table. “Where did this come from?”

The minister of internal affairs, the forty-year-old brother-in-law of the president, said, “From the briefcase of a man claiming to be a Russian diplomat. He was staying at the Four Seasons here in Baku. My men took a photo of the original document.”

“What diplomat?” asked Orkhan.

The minister of internal affairs gave a name, adding, “He’s an attaché with the Russian embassy’s economic development department.”

“Why wasn’t my ministry notified that you were planning this operation?”

“You have been notified,” said the president sharply. “Right now.”

“Yes, of course,” said Orkhan.

“Had I known what we would find, I
would
have notified you,” said the minister of internal affairs. “As it happened, I initially believed this to be a domestic matter. He came to our attention when one of my men witnessed him meeting with an opposition leader in the Majlis.”

The Majlis was the parliament of Azerbaijan.

“The question,” interrupted the president, as though addressing a class of first graders, “of how or why the information was obtained is not nearly as relevant as the fact that it
was
obtained.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, then added, “I’ve already issued the order to suspend the operation in Nakhchivan.”

The minister of defense said, “I transmitted your order to the ground commanders one hour ago.”

“I support that decision, Mr. President,” said Orkhan. “Until we can assess the extent of the damage, it is the only prudent course of action.”

“Yes, assessing the extent of the damage, that is the key, isn’t it?” said the president, his voice rising.

Orkhan, gesturing to the Russian-language document, said, “But I also think we can all agree that there is nothing in this that suggests that the Russians are aware of the true nature of our operation in Nakhchivan, only that some type of sensitive operation is ongoing. Of course—”

The president smacked his palm down on the table. “Of course, of course, Minister Gambar. Of course, you speak too much. Of course, what we must do is find the traitor in our midst and learn the full extent of what this traitor has shared with the Russians. Only then will we be able to fully assess the damage that this traitor has done.”

“My investigation will begin immediately,” said Orkhan.

The defense and internal affairs ministers concurred.

As Orkhan slipped into his limousine, he assessed his position. The president had demanded the head of a traitor, so a head would have to be produced. The only question was, whose?

Certainly not that of the prosecutor general’s, or anyone on the president’s staff.

The internal affairs minister was both related to the president through marriage and the one who had—allegedly—discovered the leak. So it was unlikely he was setting himself up.

The defense minister was a possibility, but he’d attended military school with the president, and he and the president liked to drink, and vacation with their families, together.

Orkhan, by contrast, had originally been appointed deputy minister of national security by the president’s father, and had only assumed the post of minister when the former minister had died. Though the president had accepted Orkhan, their relationship had always been more professional than personal.

“Where to, Minister Gambar?” asked his driver.

Orkhan considered his options. He hadn’t leaked anything to the Russians, so in theory he should have nothing to worry about. In reality, he was pretty sure someone was setting him up.

He searched his pocket for the blood pressure pills his doctor had prescribed—Lisinopril, 40 milligrams once a day. But he sometimes took an extra or two when he thought he needed it. He’d used the last of his extras yesterday, though, so instead he retrieved a lemon cough drop, unwrapped it, and popped it in his mouth.

“Back to the ministry,” he said.