The Leveling (17 page)

There were a few soldiers lingering nearby, though. Two of them, wearing oversized peaked caps and dressed in green ceremonial uniforms adorned with an excess of gold trim, stood stiffly at attention in little glass-walled guard shelters near the arch. A cheerful bed of marigolds lay between the guard shelters. Another soldier directed light street traffic, and a group of six air
force guys, dressed in comically bright blue-and-white camouflage, strolled by the World Trade Complex.

The World Trade Complex, despite its name, was really just an uninspired mall with a few tired shops inside, one of which was an Internet café known as the Matrix.

As Thompson unbuckled his seat belt, Mark said, “I think you should wait with the car.”

“In sight at all times until you get on the plane. Those are my orders.”

“Listen, William. It’s not safe.”

Thompson stared at Mark for a long moment. They were seated in the front seat, close enough to each other so that Mark could see the deep wrinkles and liver spots on Thompson’s forehead. Gray hairs sprouted out of Thompson’s ears.

Thompson cleared his throat. “I thought you were just picking up your bags.”

“The people who tried to kill me in Baku may be close.”

“You tell me this now?”

“I lied to you earlier. I can’t go back to Washington. Not yet.”

Thompson gripped the steering wheel with both hands and looked out the windshield. “Don’t do this to me, Sava.”

Thompson had a deep voice. For the first time, Mark detected a hard edge to it.

“You ever run into a guy named John Decker? Big guy, former SEAL. Did protection work.”

Thompson turned back to Mark.

“He was working for Holtz, here in Turkmenistan,” Mark added. “A few days ago he disappeared. I think his disappearance may have something to do with why I was targeted in Baku.”

Thompson exhaled and tapped the steering wheel. “We kept a few tabs on Holtz’s team. If this Decker guy’s the same person I’m thinking of, I can tell you two things about him—he used to go drinking at the expat pubs, and he’d jog practically a half
marathon nearly every morning. That’s about all I remember from the reports. He wasn’t a focus.”

Mark smiled, reminded of why he’d liked Decker. No native Turkmen ever went jogging. If you wanted to stand out in Ashgabat, jogging was a good way to do it. But it sounded like just the kind of thing Deck might do. The guy was a fitness nut, in better shape—despite his nighttime activities—than anyone Mark had ever known.

Thompson said, “I can ask around about him. That much I’m willing to do. But you’re still going to the airport.”

Mark opened the car door and stepped out. “Just tell the Agency I screwed you over. Believe me, they’ll buy it. I’ll deal with the consequences when this is over. Not your fault.”

“I’m warning you, Sava. Don’t do this.”

Mark took one last look around, inspecting the surrounding buildings. It was a hazy day, the sun was bright, and the air felt thick in his lungs. Benches lined the perimeter of the square surrounding the arch, but only a few of them were occupied. All told, even though it was the middle of the day, he could see no more than ten people, half of whom were soldiers.

He hoped Daria was out there somewhere, though. The original plan had been to wait until noon, e-mail Alty8 instructions to come to the base of the Arch of Neutrality instead of the mosque, and then go just close enough to the arch to flush out whoever showed up. Mark had figured that whoever did would be thrown off by the sudden change of venue and that the soldiers guarding the arch would provide some protection. He also knew that the square was always empty, so it would be easy for Daria to watch the situation unfold from a distance. Finally, since the arch was in the center of the city, there would be plenty of places to run to after giving it a quick brush-by.

Mark still hoped to execute a version of that plan, so he turned to Thompson and said, “I’m sorry.”

D
ECKER LAY ON
his back in a low crawl space, naked, blinking, nearly blinded by the light that filtered through the interstices of the deck planks above him, and hyperventilating from the pain engulfing his body. After a moment he forced himself to crawl out to the edge of the deck. As far as he could tell, he was on the side of a modest split-level house that had been built into the side of a hill. He’d gotten lucky, because he’d popped out in a spot where the basement floor was nearly at ground level.

The sun hit his face, and for a moment he just lay there, hypnotized by the warmth, not caring that someone might see him.

Eventually he looked around.

The house was situated near the bottom edge of a bowl-shaped ravine, beyond which rose jagged snowcapped peaks. Juniper and tall narrow aspen trees ringed the lower parts of the ravine and lined the banks of a small stream that cut through its center. Looking up, he could see that the top of the ravine consisted of an uneven line of jagged broken rocks, so unforgiving, exposed, and lonely that Decker’s spirits sank. Climbing up unnoticed would be out of the question.

From underneath the house, he heard the distinctive creak of the trapdoor being opened.

What he needed was water. Water and a car.

Two cars sat parked on a long dirt driveway—a green Peugeot and a black Khodro—but they were a hundred feet away and completely exposed.

From inside the pit, Decker heard voices and then cries of alarm. He had to move quickly, but deliberately. No mistakes.

A detached garage stood in back of the house. Decker limped up to it and yanked open the side door. No car, just a large oil stain on the floor where one had been. A pair of baggy, grease-stained work pants, a collection of gardening tools, and a brown jacket hung on one wall.

He put on the work pants as best he could with his cuffed hands. They only came down to the middle of his shins, but the waist was OK. He grabbed the jacket and a pair of sharp pruning shears, wishing he’d also been able to steal shoes.

As he limped out the back of the garage, a door smacked against the side of the main house. He heard boots pounding on the deck, then more cries of alarm. He plunged into a dense cluster of juniper trees at the base of the ravine and watched the panic unfold. One of his captors raced down the dirt driveway. Another appeared on the deck and started shouting orders. Yet another ran off toward the floor of the ravine, head low like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent.

Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

M
ARK HEADED AWAY
from the arch, toward the two-story World Trade Complex—though his real destination was the old section of town, where he knew he could get lost in the crowded Russian tenements.

Several tall fountains, each layered like a wedding cake, stood anchored in the vast square that surrounded the arch. Soon after Mark left Thompson’s car, a man wearing blue jeans and a black jacket emerged from behind one of them. A camera hung from his neck, as though he were a tourist. He was a good hundred feet away, but walking slowly toward Mark as he read what appeared to be a map. Mark took a closer look and thought he detected Chinese features in the man’s face.

Mark bore off a bit toward the northern edge of the square, in the direction of a traffic cop. He had everything under control, he thought. The older Soviet tenements weren’t far away. He’d be fine as long as he moved fast and kept anyone who might be on his tail guessing. Daria should be photographing the whole dance routine from wherever she was hidden; he hoped she’d gotten a good shot of the Chinese tourist.

Then he saw Thompson jogging behind him.

Come on, buddy. Give it a rest.

Mark sped up, but Thompson sped up as well. So Mark let him catch up but kept walking at a fast clip. “Eleven o’clock, the guy with the map and camera. Watch him.”

“You’re going to the airport.”

Mark saw another man approaching. “Shit. More incoming at three o’clock.”

Mark was forced to veer off toward the center of the square.

“He’s one of mine,” said Thompson, struggling to keep up. “I told you all embassies in the region are on alert. I can’t leave the building without a guard tailing behind me. He’s armed and he’s coming for you. You’re going with me to the airport.”

A Caucasian guy with huge forearms and a neck like a tree trunk closed in. An embassy rent-a-soldier, Mark figured.

“Get us back to the car,” Thompson said to his guard.

Mark observed yet another man approaching from the side. He wore a coat that was heavier than the mild weather called for, and looked Chinese. Until a moment ago, he’d been seated on one of the benches on the perimeter of the square.

Mark began to think he’d miscalculated by pushing forward with the plan in spite of the Thompson complication.

“Move!” Thompson’s guard flashed a pistol he was holding underneath his jacket and grabbed Mark’s arm. “The Mercedes on the edge of the square.”

“William, we have to bail. Now!” Mark pointed to an alley that he knew led to the Russian quarter. “Don’t be stupid!”

A gray BMW screeched to an abrupt stop on a street a hundred yards directly in front of them. A man climbed out of the back of the car.

“They yours too?” Mark said to Thompson. “Because if they’re not, we could be screwed.”

“Just get us to your car,” Thompson said to his rent-a-soldier.

In the distance, Mark saw the two Turkmen army soldiers still standing at attention in their glass-walled shelters by the arch.

Thompson’s interference had allowed the Chinese—they were Chinese, Mark was certain of it now—to close in on all sides. The closest was only ten feet away.

“
Ogry!
” Mark called out in Turkmen.
Thief!

“Shut the hell up!” said Thompson’s guard.

“
Ogry!
” Mark called out again. This time one of the soldiers by the arch turned. After taking a second to assess the situation, he started running awkwardly toward them, struggling to gain speed in his dress shoes and stiff slacks. Mark waved his arms.

The Chinese were upon them in seconds, each one positioning himself at a different point on an invisible triangle. They weren’t big men, but they all looked like professionals. Each of them wore a radio earpiece.

“Get the fuck away from us,” said Thompson’s guard. He stuck out his elbows and pushed forward like a bull.

“If any of you lay a hand on me, there’ll be hell to pay!” said Thompson.

Mark felt a sharp stab in his side. When he looked down, he saw the butt of a pistol being held by one of the Chinese. Thompson’s guard turned, saw the gun in Mark’s side, then drew his own. He pointed it at the Chinese and said, “I’m paid to guard this man.” He pushed Thompson forward a foot. “You let the two of us through, you’ll have no problems.”

“
Búyào pèng wǒ!
” said Thompson.
Don’t touch me!

The two Chinese in front appeared ready to back down and let Thompson go, but then one put a hand to his earpiece and nodded. A second later, a single sharp shot rang out. Mark ducked just as Thompson’s guard slumped forward and fell to his knees.

One of the Chinese grabbed Thompson and started shouting commands as he pulled the CIA station chief over to the gray BMW.

Mark pivoted and tried to punch the Chinese behind him but his fist slipped off the man’s chin. Another shot was fired and one of the Turkmen soldiers fell. Mark felt a blow to the head. He didn’t pass out, but was dazed enough that he could do nothing to prevent being dragged over to the BMW.