Spy for Hire (16 page)

“You’ll never guess where I am,” he said, after being transferred to Rosten’s cell.

“It damn well better be on the way to the embassy. I spoke with Kaufman, and he spoke with the director, and—”

“Bahrain!”

“What?”

“I’m in Bahrain, just touched down. It’s nice here, Val.”

Mark was standing outside the main airport terminal. It was sunny out. Fellow travelers were milling all around him. He was tired, but he’d been able to sleep for a few hours on the plane. Maybe he’d try to find someplace where he could eat breakfast outside, he thought; take advantage of the good weather.

He wished he’d brought his sunglasses with him.

“You’re in Bahrain? Now?” Rosten sounded incredulous, as though he hadn’t heard Mark right.

“I figured, that’s where the kid was from, so if I wanted to know more about him, why not just come here, show the local cops a picture of Muhammad, and ask them to figure it out?”

“You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t do that.”

“Not yet, but I intend to. And if they can’t or won’t help, I’ll post photos of Muhammad all over Manama myself if I have to.”

Bahrain’s capital—Manama—lay just a few miles south of the airport, on the largest island of the Bahraini archipelago, which itself was situated on the western edge of the Persian Gulf. The airport was located on the second largest island in the archipelago, and the two islands were connected by a bridge.

“You’re determined to flush your life down the toilet on this, aren’t you?”

“Calm down.”

“Because that’s what you’re doing.”

“I’m calling your bluff, Val.”

“I’m not bluffing.”

“Well, regardless, I’ve listened to too much BS to feel comfortable just handing the boy over and trusting you to do the right thing. I need to know what’s going on, and then together we can make a call.”

“We’ll find you down there, Sava.”

Mark scratched the three-day stubble on his chin. It was beginning to itch. “I don’t doubt you could. But, you know, after the reception I received at the embassy last night, I put a few contingency plans in place. So finding me won’t mean you find the kid. Or end this.” He listened to Rosten breathe heavily into the phone for a while, then said, “I’m not going to wait around all day, Val. You’ve got two more seconds to decide.”

Rosten told Mark that he’d call him back after conferring with the director of the CIA.

“Actually, how about I call you back,” said Mark. “Say in a half hour.”

Mark tossed the phone he’d been using into a nearby garbage can. Then he hopped in a cab.

What a relief to be out of Bishkek, he thought, as he was being driven into Manama. The last time he’d been here, some
ten years earlier, he’d been working with Near East on an arms trafficking op; it had been the height of the summer, when temperatures of a hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit were common. But it currently felt like a balmy eighty degrees or so. How pleasant.

He had the cabbie drop him off in the diplomatic section of Manama. A gentle breeze from the Persian Gulf wafted through the canyons that cut between the gleaming skyscrapers. Mark stuck his hands in his front pockets and began to walk, feeling remarkably relaxed about the whole situation. He’d dealt with CIA crap like this before. All the posturing and bluffing usually didn’t amount to much. It would all work out.

In the meantime, he was going to enjoy Bahrain.

The main island was just thirty-five miles long and some ten miles wide. The country’s culture had been defined by tact and restraint—at least until the uprising had started. While vulgar upstarts in Dubai built indoor ski areas and goofy islands shaped like palm trees, Bahrainis had built a thriving financial sector. While the Saudis to the west choked their citizens with a repressive religious regime, the king of Bahrain talked of allowing religious freedom, and even followed through on some of the talk. And while the Iranians to the north thrived on confrontation with the United States, the Bahrainis had developed deep ties to the Americans—especially to the US Navy.

Mark recalled that on the cab ride from the airport, the cabbie had actually switched on a real meter! True, the same cabbie had then tried to impose a dubious surcharge over the metered fare, but this was a small insult compared to what Mark had come to expect in Bishkek.

To be sure, he knew the island was no paradise, especially now; in the airport, he’d read that two anti-government protestors had been killed in a skirmish with the police just the day before. But Bahrain, even on the brink of revolution, was still a far cry from the third world.

He walked a few more blocks, then stopped at a Cinnabon, where he ordered a coffee and a cinnamon roll with extra frosting. He took a seat at one of the yellow metal tables that had been set up outside and ate his roll while basking in the warm breeze. After a full half hour had passed, he called Rosten back.

“OK, Sava. We’ll deal.” Rosten sounded more resigned than angry.

“Good news.”

“You’re not making any friends at Langley, though.”

“What’s going on, Val?”

“How familiar are you with the political situation in Bahrain?”

“Familiar enough.”

Mark knew that Bahrain was a monarchy, one that had been ruled by the same Sunni Muslim royal family for hundreds of years. The problem was that most Bahrainis were Shia Muslims. The Shias—or Shiites, as they were sometimes also called—weren’t happy about that arrangement.

Not happy at all.

“Good. Then I’ll make this simple. Muhammad is a Sunni.”

“Muhammad is a two-year-old.”

“A two-year-old who was born to a Sunni family. For political reasons, he was kidnapped by a group of Shias. We got involved, in a way that—in retrospect—might not have been the best call on our part. But now we want to help reunite the kid with his extended family in Bahrain.”

“His parents really are dead?”

“Yes.”

“How’d they die?”

“Let’s just say it wasn’t from natural causes. And no, the Agency had nothing to do with it.”

“Huh.”

“This is what you wanted, right? To know you were doing the right thing for the boy? Well, here’s your opportunity. You get to
reunite the kid with his family. So pat yourself on the back, Sava. I’ve arranged—”

“Back up a bit—kidnapped for political reasons?”

“The specifics involve issues you don’t need—and probably don’t want—to know about.”

“How and when was he kidnapped?”

“I’m going to try to arrange for you to meet with someone who was taking care of Muhammad before the Shias kidnapped him. He should be able to provide whatever proof you need to convince you that the child really belongs with him.” Rosten paused, as if expecting Mark to weigh in. When Mark didn’t, he added, “The only thing I require in return is that you
not
mention the CIA’s role in this other than to confirm that, once we learned you had the child, we immediately worked to facilitate the process of getting Muhammad back to his family.”

“You’ve done nothing of the sort. You were complicit in kidnapping the boy and trying to shuffle him off to an orphanage over a thousand miles away from his homeland.”

“It’s a complicated situation, Sava.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“In a complicated part of the world. Bahrain is a tinderbox. We’re doing our best.”

“I’m sure you are.”

Mark wasn’t being sarcastic.

He knew that the CIA was capable of doing some pretty awful things—but never just for the hell of it. If they’d helped the Shias in Bahrain steal Muhammad, it was almost certainly because someone at Langley had thought—wrongly or rightly—that a greater good was being served by doing so.

Rosten said, “Listen, I can’t go into specifics, but I can say this—we’ve backed the royal family in Bahrain for years. They’ve been good to us, and we’ve been good to them. But the Shias outnumber the Sunnis on this island two-to-one and have shit for
power. That can’t last forever. They’re going to fight it out at some point.”

Rosten was probably right about that, Mark thought. The Sunni-Shia split, akin to Christianity’s Catholic-Protestant division, was at the heart of why Iraq, and then Syria, had devolved into civil war. Why not Bahrain?

The thing that got Mark was that the original cause of the schism—a disagreement over who would succeed the prophet Muhammad—was a dead issue. Dead, in the sense that everyone involved—all the Sunni caliphs and Shia Imams who claimed they had a right to rule—had died long ago. Granted, the Shias didn’t see it that way, but no one had seen their last claimant for over a thousand years, so Mark was counting him as dead.

Now the two groups were mainly just fighting for power in the region.

“Listen,” said Rosten. “This is the story I need you to sell: The Shias kidnapped Muhammad. We found out about it and were going to retrieve him ourselves, but then the Saudis beat us to it. At which point you interfered, not knowing that the Saudis were trying to help the kid.”

“Were they?”

Ignoring the question, Rosten said, “You’re working for us now, just trying to reunite Muhammad with his family.”

“I assume, given that the Shias thought it worth their time to kidnap him, that Muhammad is one of the royals?”

“Well, aren’t you clever.”

“So you and I form an alliance, Muhammad gets to go back to his family, the Bahraini royals are happy, the Saudis are happy. But the Bahraini Shias—and probably the Iranians—are pissed because the plug gets pulled on whatever damn cockeyed deal you tried to cut with them.”

Mark knew that any dispute between Sunnis and Shias was never just a local issue. It was inevitable that Iran, a Shia country,
would be backing the local Shias, and that Saudi Arabia, a Sunni one, would stand behind the local Sunnis.

“Close enough. Minus the part about anyone being happy. We’re all just reacting to a bad situation.”

“Must be a really bad situation.”

“The Shias are going to rule this island eventually, Sava. The Saudis will try to stop it, they’ll send troops, but they’ll be fighting a rearguard action. We were just trying to manage a crisis and stay ahead of the curve. Support the local Shias, but fend off Iran—just like we’re doing in Iraq. I would think that would make a lot of sense to a guy who’s been in the business as long as you have.”

“Helping the Shias kidnap a two-year-old doesn’t make any sense to me, but I don’t have a problem selling your bullshit story to the Bahrainis if it means the kid gets to go back to his family. So who do I meet, and when?”

“I have to line it up—I had to know you were on board before I pulled the trigger. Wait for my call, it won’t be long.”

28

Delhi, India

Thank God for places like the Connaught Hotel, thought Rad Saveljic as a waiter brought him a late breakfast of French fries and coffee with cream.

After having dinner here last week with his boss and a few BP execs, Rad had taken to coming to the Connaught every day for breakfast. And he always got the French fries. He was especially appreciative of them this morning. Ever since last night’s debacle with the spicy vindaloo and the fresh salad, his stomach had been cramping. The fries were just the sort of normal food his digestive system needed to get back on track.

Rad took a sip of his coffee and winced as his stomach tightened. He wished he could just stay here for the day. Conduct business from the lobby. Instead, in an hour, he was supposed to meet both his boss and the owner of a local construction firm at the future site of a new BP office building.

It was peaceful here, behind the high walls that surrounded the Connaught. Hidden away in this elegant refuge, he could watch BBC at the bar, enjoy a quiet dinner while reading the
International Herald Tribune
, or surf the web without being jostled by the sweaty crowds on the street.

He used his phone to check his Facebook account. Back in the States, he’d never been much of a fan of Facebook, but now he loved even the stupid inspirational photos people posted, because they reminded him of home. He pushed the Like button on a friend who’d posted a picture from a New York Giants’ game
where the Giants were up 21-10 against the Eagles, then clicked on a newspaper article in his feed; the mayor of Elizabeth, New Jersey, had been indicted for corruption. No shocker there, thought Rad, laughing to himself as he forced himself to eat a French fry.

Thinking about New Jersey put Rad in a good mood, and made him temporarily forget about the rumbling in his stomach. Maybe India wasn’t
that
bad, he thought.

The day before, they’d driven around the India Gate—which he gathered was Delhi’s version of the Arc de Triomphe. They’d eaten lunch at a place where the lattice windows had been sculpted out of marble. Pretty good stuff.

Rad was beginning to think that maybe Delhi was like New Jersey, in that, sure, it was crowded and corrupt, but not without its charms if you knew where to look.

The pollution was unbearable, though. Which, he thought, given that he was comparing it to New Jersey, really said something.

Rad looked up from his phone and out toward the front of the hotel, expecting to see some evidence of that gross pollution just beyond the hotel’s tall, wrought-iron entrance gates. Instead what he saw was a man looking right at him; a man of modest stature, whose skin was a shade lighter than that of the average Indian; a man Rad was almost certain he’d seen earlier that morning, as he was leaving his apartment.