Spy for Hire (36 page)

Petar Saveljic’s living room in the new house was nothing like the gloomy living room of Mark’s childhood, whose dark walls had been decorated with religious icons—medieval-style paintings of men long dead. This was a sunny space with cream-colored walls and glossy oak floors. Books with gilded spines, which looked as though they’d been bought for purely decorative purposes, lined built-in shelves that framed a gas fireplace with a marble mantel.

But then Mark saw the icon.

It was small, no more than six inches wide by maybe a foot tall, encased in a pine frame that had been painted black. Tucked into one of the corners in the bookshelf, it was the only thing in the entire living room that he recognized. The sight of it caused his heart rate to quicken.

There he was, Saint Sava, looking as dour and two-dimensional as ever.

Mark tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help himself.

It was an ugly painting, of a dead man who meant nothing to Mark. Saint Sava had been the founder of the Serbian branch of the Eastern Orthodox church. Although Mark didn’t care about the man himself, the painting meant something to him because his mother had viewed it as her own personal good-luck charm; she’d even taken to rubbing the old saint’s nose when she was in need of extra good luck—before Mark had a big exam, for instance, or when his father had been applying for a second mortgage on the house. Saint Sava’s nose had gotten a little smudged from his mother’s right index finger.

Even from a distance, Mark could see that the nose was still smudged, and it touched him.

He turned away.

His father didn’t know he’d taken the name Sava. No one outside the CIA knew. And no one inside the CIA knew why he’d taken the name—that he’d done so simply hoping that it would bring him some luck. That’s the way he’d thought back when he young. He’d been more superstitious then, more willing to believe in things like luck.

“All right then,” said the ambulance driver, turning to leave after Rad had been safely deposited in the middle of the living room.

“OK, brother,” said Mark. He’d seen enough. “I’ve got to leave now too, but I’ll give you a call soon, see how you’re doing.”

“You’re going? Just like that?” asked Rad’s fiancée.

Mark’s father hadn’t said a word since they’d all entered the house.

Mark turned to her. “Get him seen by a doctor sooner rather than later.”

“What should I tell BP?” asked Rad. “About what happened?”

“Tell them the truth,” said Mark. “Or lie, if you’d prefer. Your choice. If BP insurance won’t cover the hospital costs, the government will. Someone will be calling you.”

Mark let himself out the front door, following on the heels of the ambulance driver, and didn’t look back until he heard it open behind him. It was his father.

“Marko, wait.”

Mark stopped. His father shut the front door behind him and walked down a few steps.

“Does Rad…”

His father’s hushed voice trailed off as Mark locked eyes with him. Petar descended the rest of the steps, but kept a hand on the railing.

“Does Rad what?”

“Did you tell him?”

“No.”

Petar Saveljic looked visibly relieved. “I just don’t know how he’d handle it.”

Mark turned to walk away again, when his father asked “And you? You’re good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Well, thanks for… for bringing Rad home, I guess. He said you helped him? I don’t understand…”

Mark turned and began to walk down the driveway, but the thought of his mom’s painting in there was gnawing at him. He turned back to the house. His father was still standing there, watching him.

“The Sava icon,” said Mark. “I see you brought it over from the old house.”

His father looked as though he didn’t know what Mark was talking about. Then, “Oh, yeah. That.”

“Give it to Rad.”

A pause, then, “Sure, maybe I will. Why?”

“Not maybe. I’m
telling
you to give it to Rad.”

Petar Saveljic’s eyes narrowed as an angry, cunning frown formed on his face. It was an expression that was still intimately familiar to Mark—even after twenty-eight years of being away. Twenty-eight years ago, that expression would have meant something bad was coming. Not now, though. Mark had been in the spy business long enough to know when he had the upper hand. He didn’t even have to speak the threat aloud. His father just needed a moment to figure it out for himself.

A long moment passed. Mark heard the ambulance backing out of the driveway. He’d been hoping to ask the driver for a ride.

“Yeah. Yeah, OK. I’ll give it to him.”

“Give it to him today. Tell him that his mother used to think it was good luck. Tell him you’re giving it to him for good luck. As an engagement gift.”

“All right.” A pause, then, “Who the hell are you, Marko?”

“I’ll be seeing you, Dad.”

Mark walked out the driveway and kept going when he hit the road. The setting sun was shining in his eyes. He felt happy, but the lack of sleep combined with the beer he’d downed with Decker was catching up to him. He turned his head away from the sun, and for a moment felt lightheaded—so much so that he needed to stop briefly to keep the world from spinning.

62

Kyrgyzstan

Daria Buckingham drove from Balykchy to Bishkek in an old Lada she’d borrowed from the orphanage. The windows were rolled down, even though it was chilly outside, because she enjoyed the feel of the cold air on her cheeks, and the warm air from the car’s heater blowing on her legs. She was looking forward to the coziness of winter, to the snow she was certain would make Bishkek feel like the lonely outpost on the steppe that it once was. The snow, she imagined, would bring people together, would make it feel as if the city was under siege. People would bond together to make it safely to the spring.

A text message came in on her phone from an unknown sender, interrupting her thoughts. She was about to check it, but then remembered how a family of Kazaks had recently been killed by a teenage driver who’d been texting while driving. She was going to stop for gas soon anyway, she’d check it then. She had to learn to be comfortable with less risk in her life. She had new responsibilities to consider.

Her period still hadn’t come, her breasts were tender, she was tired, and the smell of onions turned her stomach in a way it never had before. It was happening.

She hoped the text that had just come in would be from Mark, telling her what his flight number was for his return trip to Bishkek. He’d finally called her yesterday morning to let her know he was in Dubai of all places, and that Muhammad was safe and with his grandmother. So good news on that front, but
when she’d pressed him for details, he’d just said that it was a long story, that he needed another day or so to fully wrap things up, and that he didn’t want to talk about any of it over the phone. He’d sounded distracted, and tired. But at least he was safe. After not hearing from him for over a day, she’d been worried.

She imagined that Mark would be home in time for a late dinner, that they’d be able to sleep in the same bed together that night. When she’d been hiding with friends in Balykchy, she’d thought of him often, wishing she’d been able to tell him her secret before the call from the orphanage had upended her plans.

She wondered how he was going to react when she finally did tell him. He’d be a good father, of that she was almost certain. For a moment, she even allowed herself to hope that the news would lead him to get out of the spy business for good.

Acknowledgments

Once again, I am deeply indebted to the team at Amazon Publishing—especially Jacque Ben-Zekry, Andy Bartlett, and Alan Turkus—and to my agent, Richard Curtis. Their counsel, kindness, and support buoys me.

Christina Henry de Tessan did another wonderful job editing this novel. I’m also grateful to Corinne Mayland, David Mayland, Tim Gifford, and Scott Stone for helping with the copy edits. XNR Productions of Madison, Wisconsin, did a great job with the maps.

Many reporters, scholars, and ex-CIA officers lent insight to this novel through their books. An annotated bibliography can be found at
DanMayland.com
.

About the Author

Photograph by Corinne Mayland, 2012

Dan Mayland lives in Pennsylvania with his family and frequently travels to the remote corners of the world that he writes about. His first book,
The Colonel’s Mistake
, was the inaugural novel of the Mark Sava series.