Spy for Hire (34 page)

Ten minutes passed. A cell phone rang. The Saudi standing next to Mark took a step back, as though guarding himself against the possibility of a physical assault. Then he slipped his left hand into his jacket and pulled out the ringing phone. His right hand was up inside his jacket. Gripping a pistol, Mark assumed.

The phone had barely reached the Saudi’s ear before he lowered it again and handed it to Mark.

“If you don’t deliver that child to Kalila Safi, if you try to cut some side deal with the CIA or the Shias, I’m coming after you.”

“Nice doing business with you too, Saeed.”

As soon as Mark handed the phone back, the three Saudis started walking toward the plane. After ten steps, one of them called back to the doctor and the two men in hospital scrubs. Although Mark couldn’t understand what was said, the man’s tone was sharp and insistent.

The two men in hospital scrubs started off toward the Saudis.

“Hey, wait a second,” said Mark to the doctor. “What’s his condition?”

The doctor gave a theatrical French
bof
and a shrug. In French-accented English, he said, “His condition is he’s an asshole who attacks those who try to help him. Beyond that, he suffers a bullet wound to his left shoulder. I have cleaned and dressed this wound. Because the bone was not hit, the main danger of course is infection. I gave him an intramuscular shot of antibiotics last night, and I give him a second dose now along with a booster shot of morphine. After that, he takes these.”

The doctor handed Mark two pill bottles. “Percocet for the pain, and Keflex, an antibiotic that will prevent infection.”

“What about his leg?”

“It was broken. I set it and immobilized it. He will need a cast in a week when the swelling goes down.” The doctor pulled two syringe packs out of his satchel, and then two ampules. He quickly prepared the injections then, without warning, jabbed one needle, then the other, into Rad’s thigh.

“Jesus!” said Rad, suddenly opening his eyes.

The doctor finished with the injections and dropped the syringes on the tarmac. “I have to go.” He shouldered his satchel, and limped off. Mark walked over to Rad and put his hand on the bed, next to Rad’s good arm. “Hey.”

Rad’s eyes were glazed over, the result of the morphine, Mark figured.

“My arm,” said Rad. “I can’t feel my arm. It’s completely paralyzed.” His words came out slurred.

Mark reached down to Rad’s bad arm and pinched the forearm skin. Hard. Rad cried out and tried to pull his arm away.

“You still have some feeling in it,” Mark observed.

Rad looked as if he was trying to focus on Mark’s face.

Mark added, “I’m going to transfer you to another plane. I’ve got something I have to do, so you’ll have to wait for an hour or so, but after that I’m taking you home. You’re going to be OK. Everything’s going to be OK.”

60

Kalila Safi was a petite woman, and she wore a frumpy tent-like black chador over a black headscarf. She had thick dark eyebrows, and an ugly hawk’s beak for a nose. Mark knew better than to make her uncomfortable by offering to shake her hand when they met inside the executive flight terminal. She wouldn’t even meet his gaze. Her face was lined with worry, her eyes deep-set and dark.

A short bearded man, who claimed to be Kalila’s brother and was accompanied by four massive bodyguards, introduced himself. Mark shook his hand, and then an awkward moment of silence passed between them.

Mark had nothing to say to them—he’d know soon enough whether they’d been straight with him—and evidently they had nothing to say to him either.

Larry Bowlan stood off to the side with his three cab-driver bodyguards.

“All right then,” said Mark. “Should we wait on the tarmac?”

Ten minutes later, an old Dassault Falcon, with a registration number on the tail that matched the number Decker had told Mark to look out for, touched down.

As it taxied toward the executive flight terminal, Kalila Safi clasped her hands in tight to her chest and began to bounce, with what looked like nervous anticipation, on the balls of her feet.
She mouthed silent words that Mark couldn’t understand but guessed were a prayer.

So far, so good, he thought. She didn’t look like she was faking it.

The plane, which was owned by a charter company frequently used by CAIN, pulled to a stop about a hundred feet away. The fuselage door opened, and the air stairs were lowered.

Decker appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright sun. Mark raised his arm and waved—what a relief it was to see his friend—but Decker was looking in the wrong direction. As the big former SEAL stepped off the plane, he tried to lower his head at just the right moment so that he wouldn’t bang it on the plane, but he banged it anyway.

Mark saw Decker turn, snarl at the doorframe, and give it a little smack with the palm of his hand. But once Decker reached the tarmac, he turned back to the door, smiled, and extended his long meaty arms out wide.

Muhammad appeared. He was smiling too, holding what looked like a dirty stuffed duck in one hand and a plastic shovel in the other. He took a step toward Decker and then half-fell, half-jumped into Decker’s arms.

Decker swirled Muhammad around a few times, placed him on the ground, and then tousled the kid’s black hair with his oversized hand.

At that point, Kalila took off at a run. “Muhammad!”

“Deck!” Mark cried out. He made eye contact with his friend. “Like we talked about!”

Kalila didn’t bother to hold her chador clasped underneath her chin, so the long swath of fabric slipped to the pavement. Muhammad didn’t notice her at first, but when she called his name again, his face brightened and he began to toddle eagerly toward her.

At that moment, Mark knew for certain that he’d made the right choice. Decker, who’d witnessed the same thing, gave Mark
a thumbs-up. Kalila had passed the final test, the test the Saudis who’d tried to take Muhammad from the orphanage had failed. If Muhammad hadn’t responded to Kalila, Decker would have picked the boy up, reboarded the plane, and taken off.

“
Anna
,
Anna
,” called Muhammad, which Mark now knew to be the little boy’s way of saying
Nana
—a common way of referring to one’s grandmother in both Arabic and English.

For Mark was now sure that Kalila’s brother had not lied to Larry Bowlan last night—she was indeed Muhammad’s maternal grandmother. As such, according to Sharia law, she was entitled to custody of Muhammad now that Muhammad’s mother had died. More important from Mark’s perspective, she’d been helping to care for Muhammad since he was born. She loved him, and apparently he loved her back.

Kalila picked Muhammad up and began kissing his pudgy cheeks and speaking rapidly to him in Arabic, her face streaked with tears.

Well, good for them, thought Mark. That’s one thing that worked out at least. God knows, not much else had gone right for Kalila Safi lately.

According to Kalila’s brother, her husband had died three years ago. Then, just before Muhammad had been kidnapped, and as her daughter—the youngest wife of a prince of Bahrain—lay dying, Kalila had been kicked out of Bahrain. The prime minister had worried that she might take custody of Muhammad upon the death of her daughter and bring him to live with her Shia relations in Dubai.

Mark had no idea whether the prime minister’s original fear had been justified. But in retrospect, it looked like kicking Kalila
out
of Bahrain as a way to try to keep Muhammad
in
Bahrain had been a stupendously bad call.

Mark made eye contact with Decker, who gave a little lackadaisical salute. Mark nodded and returned the gesture. He wished Daria could have been here to witness the reunion. She’d have
been out on the tarmac crying with Kalila and Muhammad, he imagined, arms wrapped around them both. He’d call her soon. At least now he’d be able to tell her he’d done right by the boy.

Kalila was running back toward her brother as fast as she could with Muhammad in her arms. As she passed by, Mark called out an enthusiastic, “Good luck!” prompting Kalila to dip her head and turn from him as if he’d uttered a vulgarity.

At that point, Muhammad noticed him too. Mark forced his mouth to form something approximating a smile. “Hi!” he said brightly, waving to the boy.

Muhammad’s eyes widened with recognition. Then he scowled and clung tighter to Kalila as she walked away. After all that had happened, Mark didn’t blame the boy.

Mark spoke briefly with Bowlan—they agreed to reunite in Bishkek in one week—then joined Decker in front of the Dassault Falcon and shook his hand.

“How’s your dad?” He’d talked with Decker on the phone a few hours earlier.

“Out of the ICU. Looks like this isn’t the one. I’m gonna go home for a bit anyway, though.”

“I appreciate your being there for me, buddy. If I had known—”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you, so don’t worry about it. Anyway, the kid was pretty cool, and I had some help.”

Decker told Mark about Jessica, how she’d helped him and how they’d been climbing in the mountains south of Bishkek when Mark’s call had come in.

“By the way, we should go climbing sometime,” said Decker.

“I’m forty-five years old.”

“I’d take you up the easy routes. It’s better than just wasting away in the city.”

“I like wasting away in the city.”

“Whatever.” Decker pulled out a small bottle of Dr. Pepper from a combat chest rig he was wearing under his jacket, chugged it down in three big gulps, then fished a tin of Skoal Straight chewing tobacco out from his front pocket. He held the dip tin between middle finger and thumb and snapped it down rapidly several times, thwacking his index on the top of the tin with each flick of his wrist.

After lifting the top of the tin off, he inspected his work. “A damn nice pack,” he determined. Deck reached into the tin with his thumb and index finger and transferred a huge wad of tobacco to his mouth. “You want some?” he asked, speaking through the dip.

“That stuff stinks,” said Mark.

“Didn’t want to dip around Jessica or the kid. Been jonesing for one, so you gotta suck it up. By the way, Holtz and I had a bit of a falling out. He wasn’t too keen on me taking the kid.”

“I’m done with Holtz,” said Mark. “I’m going out on my own. You can work for me if you like.”

“Sure.” Decker turned away from Mark and spit a glob of dip juice onto the pavement. “So where’s our plane?”

61

New Jersey, USA