Death of a Spy (26 page)

54

“Minister Gambar, to what do we owe this pleasure? If I had known—”

“I need a room. With a secure phone.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Your office will do.”

Orkhan had instructed the cop to drop him off at the gates of an unassuming government building in downtown Nakhchivan City. He’d shown his identification to the guard just inside the front entrance. Thirty seconds later, the chief of the local Ministry of National Security outpost—a man whose appointment Orkhan had personally approved—had appeared, breathless.

“Right this way, Minister Gambar. Is there a problem?”

Looking straight in front of him as he walked several feet ahead of the chief, Orkhan, his voice cold and pitiless, simply said, “Yes, there is a very big problem.”

Orkhan sat in a leather office chair, behind an oak desk that, he noted, was larger and nicer than his own back at the ministry building in Baku. He made a mental note to have the desk shipped to him, when this was all over.

On the desk was a phone. Orkhan set it on speaker, then dialed the president’s direct number.

“I’m afraid the president is not available, Minister Gambar. May I ask where you are?”

“The president is available. He is always available to his minister of national security. And no, you may not ask where I am.”

A long pause, then a nervous, “Just a minute, please.”

He was kept waiting. Orkhan imagined that even if the apocalypse were raging, the president would find time to emphasize his power over his supplicants by wasting their time.

Five minutes passed. Then the line clicked. “Orkhan.”

Orkhan leaned back in his chair. The phone was still on speaker. “Mr. President.”

“You have news for me about the traitor?”

“I know you signed the warrant for my arrest, Mr. President. I know you believe I am the traitor. Let us dispense with the ruse, shall we?”

Orkhan could hear the president breathing. He imagined that he was smoothing his mustache. What a petty, frivolous man. He had inherited the ambition and arrogance of his father, but not the great man’s foresight, or—Orkhan feared—ability to manage a crisis.

“I’m not clear on why you called, Orkhan.”

“The Russians are preparing to invade us.”

Orkhan had no love for the Americans; they were as vicious as they were self-righteous. Nor did he harbor any fondness for the Chinese; their superiority complex notwithstanding, they were just a pack of xenophobic grubby small-thinking merchants. And the effete Europeans were simply insufferable.
Why France, Fatima?
But it was the drunken Russians he truly loathed. They were as violent as the Americans, as sure of their own cultural superiority as the Chinese, and just as boorish as both—no small feat! No, Orkhan did not like the Russians one bit. The fact that his father had spent five years in a Siberian gulag didn’t help either.

“What?” The president sounded genuinely surprised.

“They are massing men and matériel at their land and air bases in Armenia, South Ossetia, and Dagestan. They have infiltrated Nakhchivan with spies—”

“Nakhchivan has
always
been infiltrated with spies.”

“Not like this, Mr. President. I fear the same for the mainland. You need to alert the defense minister. We must move troops to the northern border crossings immediately.”

“Who tells you this?”

“An American source.”

“You have always been too taken with the Americans, Orkhan. Either they are playing you, or you are trying to play me.”

“No, Mr. President, it is
you
who is being played. I tell you this information so that you will have an opportunity to defend our country. There is a reason, too, why I am being set up by the interior minister. It is because the interior minister is in league with the Russians and wishes to get rid of me before the Russians attack. Because the Russians know that I will fight them! And that I will tell you to fight them!”

A long pause, then, “Odd that your recommendation to move troops to our northern border should come at the precise moment the Iranians appear to be determined to attack from the south.”

“The Iranians? Why would—”

“Come now, minister. Have you been hiding in a cave today?”

“If you’re referring to the bombing in Tehran, I assure you I have been monitoring—”

“Monitoring! Oh, well if you have been
monitoring
the situation, then this might interest you.” The derision in the president’s tone was evident. “An hour ago, the president of Iran held a news conference. The Iranians are now claiming the attack on their supreme leader originated from a secret drone base in Nakhchivan—yes,
that
base, Minister Gambar, the Iranians know of it! They allege that we collaborated with the Israelis to build this base and supply it with Israeli-made stealth drones, and that we let the Israelis arm some of the drones for the purpose of carrying out assassinations in Iran. They claim to have the remains of an Israeli drone they shot down!”

Orkhan, blindsided, took a long time to respond. “But none of the drones
have
been shot down. And even if one had been, it would not have been armed.”

“They claim to have proof, that they have the drone that fired on the supreme leader’s house—”

“They lie. If the residence of the supreme leader was bombed, then the Iranians did it themselves just so they could blame us.”

“How do you know this? How do you know the Israelis didn’t arm one of their drones behind our backs? How do you know that they really didn’t try to kill the leader of Iran?”

“Because I trust the Israelis.”

“You trust them. Well, good for you, Minister Gambar.”

“And I don’t believe they would ever be so reckless.”

“Me, I cannot afford to be so trusting. Either way, lie or not, the Iranians claim that they shot this drone out of the sky after it fired upon Khorasani’s house in Tehran. And they have a wreck, which they displayed on television, of something that looks like an Israeli drone. And they say that, in retaliation, they intend to take possession of the airfield in Nakhchivan—yes, you heard me. Iranian troops are already massing. They appear to be preparing to
invade
Nakhchivan. Did you hear me? The Iranians are planning to invade! And now—now!—you talk to me of the Russians. Of moving troops north. You are at best a fool, Orkhan, and at worst a traitor.”

“But the Russian base in Armenia, and—”

“Military intelligence has detected nothing of which you speak.” The president’s voice rose a notch. “The Interior Ministry has detected nothing of which you speak! I don’t know why you passed information about the drone base to the Russians, Orkhan—”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“But I know I have a nation to defend, and that you are not helping me do my job.” The president didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, he just said, “Where are you?”

“Nakhchivan. Within the hour, I will board a plane back to Baku. After that I may be found at my desk in the ministry.”

Orkhan heard a click. The president had hung up on him.

Without even pausing to think, Orkhan hung up the phone on his end just long enough to reset the dial tone, then entered the number for Ted Kaufman. If the president was too corrupt or stupid or both to defend Azerbaijan from the Russians, Orkhan would see whether he could get the Americans to do it instead.

Part Six

55

Baku, Azerbaijan

When Orkhan Gambar touched down at the airport in Baku, his plane was met on the tarmac by a convoy of Azeri military vehicles, mostly armored South African–made Hummer knockoffs. As he descended the air stairs, he was greeted by a general from the Ministry of Defense.

The general, a diminutive man whose uniform hung loosely on his frame, was accompanied by thirteen armed soldiers. His right hand gripped a single sheet of paper. He and Orkhan had worked together a decade ago to shore up Azeri defenses on the border between Iran and Azerbaijan.

“Minister Gambar.” The general frowned, then said, “These certainly are strange times we live in.”

Orkhan stepped forward. “Strange indeed.”

“I want you to know I did not ask for this assignment.” The general held out the sheet of paper. Orkhan grabbed it unceremoniously and began to read.

“You understand,” said the general, “I have no choice in the matter.”

It was, as Orkhan had suspected, a warrant for his arrest. He was being accused of treason. In the lower right-hand corner was the presidential seal, underneath which was the large, fussy signature of the president.

“Do not worry yourself, General.” As he spoke, Orkhan continued to scan the warrant. “When this matter is resolved, I assure you I will not hold
you
personally accountable.”

Underlying Orkhan’s words was a hint of venom, and malice, suggesting that he would, in fact, hold the general accountable.

“Thank you, sir.”

A moment passed. The general appeared unwilling or unable to do what he needed to do next.

“Well?” said Orkhan.

“If you’ll come with me, sir. Please, ride with me in my car.”

“And where will we go?”

“Gobustan, I’m afraid, Minister Gambar.”

Orkhan nodded. The news was unwelcome, but not unsurprising. Gobustan was a miserable prison that lay in the desert south of Baku. Many of Azerbaijan’s political prisoners were housed there. The cells were filthy—Orkhan knew this from experience, having conducted several interrogations inside the prison—and many of the prisoners were drug addicts, or infected with AIDS.

The general added, “I’m sorry. The order came directly from the president.”

Orkhan, looking behind him to the bodyguard who was carrying his suit coat in such a way as to prevent it from becoming wrinkled, said, “Follow me to Gobustan. Along the way, inform my wife as to what has transpired.”

56

Nakhchivan, Azerbaijan

Mark felt a sting on his chest and opened his eyes. He was on his back, staring up at a light. To the side of the light stood a jowly man with bloodshot blue eyes and a deeply wrinkled forehead. Gray chest hair tufted out around the top of the man’s button-down shirt, which was open at the collar.

Someone cursed, then said in Russian, “He wakes, give him more.”

Mark tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him.

Dammit that hurts…

He tried to put his hand to his chest—that’s where the pain was coming from, it felt as though he was being poked with something sharp and cold—but someone pulled his hand away and held it down.

“Don’t move!”

Mark coughed. It was still hard to breathe, the air just wouldn’t enter his chest. He felt consciousness slipping away from him again but he willed himself not to pass out. He tried to lift his head up, but someone pushed it down.

“Immobilize him!”

Strong hands pinned down both of his arms, then someone wrapped a rubber tube around his left forearm. Seconds later, the jowly man pulled out a needle. Mark tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t. The struggle made him need to breathe more deeply, but he couldn’t—the air he needed just wouldn’t fit in his lungs. He felt as if he were drowning.

The jowly man hovered over him a moment. Mark smelled acrid underarm sweat, felt the needle enter his forearm, and then seconds later, the rush.

Those bastards. They were doing it to him again.

He struggled, but the hand on his arm held firm. He felt a burning sensation; moments later, it was as if something were pushing its way up his arm, and then his body began to feel light. It was an entirely new sensation, one he’d never experienced before.

Russians were talking. “OK, we try this again. Hold him. One, two—”

Mark felt a prick on his chest and then an awful sensation of metal slipping into his body, as though someone were slowly pushing a knife into him. He screamed, or thought he did. The sounds in the room melded with the air. It was as if he were floating. The surface beneath him no longer felt hard. His head was sinking; he tried to lift it.

He heard something that sounded flatulent, like a balloon that hadn’t been tied properly and was rapidly losing air.

“It’s done. Keep his arms pinned until he passes out.”

The hand on his forehead lifted. Mark raised his head. His vision was blurry, but he could see well enough to make out the grotesque horror that had been inflicted upon his body. Protruding from the left side of his chest was an enormous needle, part of which was encased in plastic. Blood ran from the incision point down the side of his chest. Attached to the top of the needle was what looked like the cut-off fingertip of a rubber latex glove. The fingertip was affixed to the end of the needle with a rubber band. The whole contraption looked sinister, the work of a crazed mind.

The needle looked as though it had been inserted close to his heart.

Get that thing out of my body.

As Mark tried to raise his head a bit higher, the flatulent sound started up again. And that’s when he realized that
he
was making the sound, or rather his body was. The fingertip on the end of the needle gave another belch as air escaped from it.

Mark lowered his head. The drug that had been injected into his arm was overwhelming him. He allowed himself to hope that he’d been hallucinating.

No, he thought, as he slipped into unconsciousness. What he’d just seen and heard had been far too real.