Spy for Hire (18 page)

Mark was pretty sure that the people who lived here had all the air-conditioning they needed.

32

Kyrgyzstan

Decker figured he could have tried to run when he saw Holtz—he’d spotted his boss from a couple hundred feet away, across the beach—but what was the point? If Holtz had been able to find him here, he’d be able to find him again no matter where he ran.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Deck?” Holtz was staring right at Muhammad.

“What do you mean, buddy?”

“Don’t ‘buddy’ me.” Holtz walked right up to Decker. They were both big men, roughly the same height and weight, though much of the weight that Holtz—a former linebacker—carried was around his waist. “You know what I’m talking about. I came to see you in Bishkek and you ran out on me. And slashed my tire. What the hell was that all about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I haven’t been back to my house since before I went climbing.”

“Bullshit.” Holtz poked his finger into Decker’s chest.

Decker just looked at his chest, and then at Holtz.

“I’m taking the kid,” said Holtz.

“No can do, Bruce.”

“This is way over your pay grade, Deck. I know Mark must have asked you to do him a favor, and I can appreciate that you guys are friends and that you owe him for what went down in Iran, but you have to back off on this one. And slashing my tire, man. That was bush league.”

Decker deliberated for a moment and concluded there was no point in continuing to lie.

“How’d you find me? I ditched the car and my phone.”

Holtz smiled. “You kept the key to the Explorer, though.”

Decker’s hand went to his front right pants pocket.

“I had a GPS transmitter wired to it,” said Holtz. “Runs off the same battery that unlocks the car.”

Decker smiled. “Bastard.”

“Hey, I was doing it for your own protection. Now move. You’ve abducted a child that isn’t yours and I’m taking him back.”

“He’s an orphan. He came from Daria’s orphanage. Mark asked me to take care of him.”

“I’ve been hired by our government—
our
government, Deck, the United States of America—to do a job. And I intend to do that job.”

Holtz took a step toward Muhammad, who was oblivious to the discussion that had been going on. Decker put up his arm, blocking Holtz.

“No,” said Decker. “I promised Mark.”

“Take your hand off me now, Deck, or you’re out of a job. Plus I’ll blacklist you with DoD and the Agency.”

Decker kept his hand in place. “You didn’t bring any backup, did you?”

He and Holtz had gotten along pretty well over the time they’d known each other. They’d talked a lot of football, had played poker over beers… It occurred to Decker that this superficial familiarity had led Holtz to misjudge the situation.

“You don’t scare me, Deck.”

“It was a mistake not to have brought backup.”

“I said, take your hand off me.”

“Or?”

“Or nothing. But I’m still taking the kid.”

Holtz pushed forward, prompting Decker to throw a fake punch with his left hand to Holtz’s head. When Holtz ducked
and blocked the blow with his right forearm, Decker threw all his weight and strength into a massive uppercut to Holtz’s solar plexus. His fist connected with a thud and Holtz was thrown back a few feet, dazed but still standing.

Decker followed up with a chokehold that lifted Holtz off the ground and a leg sweep that sent him tumbling into the sand. He straddled Holtz on the ground, threw a handful of sand into his face, and then fired off two lightning punches to the gut, knocking the wind out of Holtz for a second time.

Muhammad noticed what was going on and started crying.

“Sorry, guy,” Decker said to the boy as he flipped Holtz onto his belly.

Using the rough, frayed rope attached to the end of the paddleboat, Decker hog-tied Holtz as fast as he could. That done, he stood, pulled out the key to his Explorer, threw it down in the sand next to Holtz, and said, “I parked in Tokmok, at the gas station that’s right off Route 365. You can catch a cab there for fifty bucks. In the meantime, I’ll be taking your Jag.”

So much for ever working for CAIN again, he thought.

Decker stuck his hands into Holtz’s pocket and pulled out a set of keys. There was probably a tracking device on the Jag too, but he’d use the car to put some distance between him and Holtz in the next hour and then figure something else out.

“Hey, Muhammad! My man! We’re going on another adventure, how about that?”

Muhammad looked apprehensive, but he didn’t resist when Decker picked him up and began to jog toward the hotel. When Decker got to their room, he yanked open the door.

“Jess! We gotta blow.”

At that point, Decker got a whiff of something that stank. His first thought was that maybe Jessica had done something she wanted to fess up to, but then he saw that the yellow poly propylene
climbing shirt he was wearing was stained with something that looked—and smelled—like shit.

“Oh no, don’t tell me,” he said. He lifted Muhammad up off his hip at the same time Muhammad started to cry.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Ah… that really sucks,” she said.

“It’s not funny.”

“I know.” Jessica started laughing. Decker couldn’t help but smile too.

“OK, it’s a little funny.”

Everything was so chaotic and awful—the crying, the shit, Holtz, Mark, and all this on top of his father, God he hoped his father was going to be OK—that it had swung around to being funny. The chaos of war he could handle, but when it came to a two-year-old and ailing father, he was out of his depth.

“Listen,” said Decker. “Grab the pull-ups, we’ll change him in the car. We gotta go.”

33

Bahrain

A frail man with thin gray hair and a thick gray mustache sat at a table in the shade of a date palm tree, in a garden courtyard that abutted the side of the house with the wind tower. He wore dress slacks and a starched white shirt that was open at the neck. His brow was creased, his cheeks and the skin under his eyes drooped, and his ears and nose were old-man large. In front of him sat a glass of ice water that was wet on the outside from condensation. Behind him, louvered shutters had been closed over tall windows, leaving only the stained-glass fanlights above the windows exposed. A carved wooden door framed by intricate plaster molding opened from the house onto the garden.

“You may leave us,” said the old man, without looking up.

The driver who’d picked Mark up gave a slight bow of his head and walked away.

The old man glanced briefly at Mark. “Please, have a seat.” He spoke English with a British accent. “You may call me Abdullah. I am a cousin to the king and an uncle to the boy of whom we will speak. And you are?”

“Stephen McDougall,” said Mark, giving the name that was on his British passport.

Abdullah’s expression didn’t change. He took a sip of his water.

Mark added, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“From what I have been told, I am the one who should be thanking you.”

He looked more weary than thankful, thought Mark. And although his words suggested gratitude, his tone didn’t. “And what is it you have been told?”

“That you have in your custody a relation of mine. A boy named Muhammad. And that you wish to right a grievous wrong that has been done to the boy and to my family. I am Muhammad’s uncle. You may release him to me.”

“What happened to Muhammad’s parents?”

“They died in a car accident two months ago—an accident precipitated by a mob of Shia beasts throwing firebombs. Muhammad was in the car at the time.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He has been raised here, by my family, ever since.”

Mark looked around. The grounds were impeccable. Armed guards stood at different points along the perimeter fence. There was no sign of children’s toys, or jungle gyms, or anything that might suggest a child lived here.

“And you wish to care for Muhammad now?”

Abdullah’s gaze intensified but he didn’t answer immediately. Mark got the impression that he was angry, and trying to hold himself back.

“What I wish to do, or not wish to do, is irrelevant.” Abdullah raised his voice ever so slightly. “What is relevant is that you are in possession of a child who doesn’t belong to you.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Bah.” Abdullah dismissed Mark’s claim with a wave of his hand.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, Mr. McDougall, that for as long as I have been alive my family has been friends with the Americans. And in our hour of need, this is how we are repaid?” Abdullah spoke with derision. “Yes, I know your American CIA friends tried to make an agreement with the Shias and it didn’t work. And that now
they lie. After Mubarak in Egypt I should not be surprised, but still, the depth of the betrayal is hard to fathom.”

Choosing his words carefully, Mark said, “My government does not always send as clear a signal as perhaps it should. I understand your frustration.”

“Do you? Do you know that the vast majority of Bahrainis, even the Shias, still support the king? Because he brings stability to the island?”

Abdullah’s hands were trembling. Mark had the strange sense that the old man was now on the verge of tears.

“I’m sure he does,” said Mark diplomatically.

“The people who protest like hooligans in the street, they are a small minority. Yet you Americans would hand Bahrain over to these ruffians?”

The passion with which Abdullah spoke unsettled Mark.

“I don’t know anything about that. The only reason I’m here is to help reunite a boy with his family.”

“Then I encourage you to do so. Now.”

“I was told you would provide some documentation?”

Abdullah looked as though Mark had just insulted him, but then he glanced over his shoulder and nodded—at whom, Mark couldn’t see. Moments later, a younger man with short-cropped black hair and eyes so dark they looked black appeared. He was dressed in a
thawb
robe and carried a leather-bound folder.

Abdullah spoke quickly in Arabic, prompting the younger man to produce a number of documents marked with official-looking stamps and flowing signatures.

“Muhammad’s birth certificate.” Abdullah slapped the piece of paper in front of Mark, followed by two more. “His mother’s death certificate, and his father’s death certificate. You will note that the names of the parents on the birth certificate are clear, as are the names on the death certificates. And that his surname clearly marks him as a member of the royal family.”

Mark examined the documents. Though they were written in both Arabic and English and the information on the certificates corresponded to what Abdullah was telling him, Mark had no idea whether the documents were legit or not.

“What about photos of Muhammad with your family?”

Abdullah said something in Arabic to his helper, who promptly walked away. A minute later, a woman with long dark uncovered hair emerged from the house. She wore a stylish white ankle-length skirt, a matching long-sleeved blouse, and tasteful makeup. But she looked haggard, as though she’d been up all night on a bender and was now trying to pretend she wasn’t painfully hungover. In her hand she held a small point-and-shoot digital camera.

Mark pegged her to be at least thirty years younger than Abdullah.

“This is my wife. She has been helping to care for Muhammad.”

Abdullah’s wife turned on her camera, clicked through a few photos, and then handed the camera to Abdullah. Abdullah, in turn, handed the camera to Mark.

“Here is my wife with Muhammad. This photo was taken just five days ago.”

Mark examined the image. The boy in the photo did appear to be Muhammad. And the woman standing next to Muhammad in the photo was the same woman standing before Mark now. It was just the two of them in the photo, sitting next to each other on a couch. Mark took the liberty of clicking through a few more of the photos. Though he didn’t recognize any of the people in them, they all appeared to have been taken at a recent party. Time stamps indicated the photos had indeed been taken just five days earlier.