The Mingrelian (16 page)

The night went on for another hour or more, with talk of their families, their past, their dreams. His part of that was brief; he had no family. He was embarrassed at times with the candor they displayed, and he responded in kind with some details of his missions and the symptoms of his post-traumatic stress disorder and how it had affected him.

*****

“The priest has told me that it is a sin to spill the seed in a nonproductive place as that puts our will above God’s in deciding when to create a life,” she said midweek when they were alone at Grandfather’s apartment. “But, he said it can be forgiven occasionally as it is necessary as a demonstration that a potential partner is, uh, fertile.”

“Yes, we need to know that,” he said, supine on the couch.

“It shouldn’t be abused, of course,” she said seriously, kneeling beside.

“Abuse of what, the practice or the organ?”

“Neither.”

“No,” he said, toes beginning to curl.

“Oh, it works!”

“Yes, a revelation at last.”

*****

“I’m eager to learn what the priest and your mother have in store for us this week,” Boyd said, meeting Ekaterina on the following Saturday afternoon at the Tbilisi Botanical Garden. “I feel like I’m dating a committee.”

“The committee has decided it is time for you to meet the priest and learn about the Georgian Orthodox Catholic Church. There is a formal course, and it begins next week.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so glum. It’s not that bad, and I’ll go with you.”

“That’s a plus, considering it’s probably not given in English. Do we get to do some more of that discovery process afterward?”

She clasped her hands in front of her as she walked, and looked off in the distance, as if lost in deep thought.

“Possibly,” she said with a smile.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, looking back over her shoulder. “The Iranians have hit a hitch, and it will be another month before their nuclear triggers are operational with the plutonium weapons.”

“Weapons, are they now. That’s the official military terminology. You’ve called them bombs before.”

“That was the word used in the message this week.”

“Hmm.”

He put his hand in her back pocket, and they walked along looking at the dormant grass and deciduous trees without their leaves, nearly alone on an early winter afternoon. They were silent for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

“OK, more due diligence.”

“I’m a banker. I know about due diligence,” she said.

“I’ve told you about my, uh, adventures.”

“Yes.”

“So you know what I do is dangerous, and that I can’t just drop out. Not until this Iranian thing is done, whenever that is. I came here on a six month TDY, temporary duty. I was flying the embassy run from Incirlik, Turkey. After the
assassination attempt, they pulled me off that and assigned me for a three-year tour at the embassy.”

“I like that.”

“Let’s say the Iranians fess up and quit trying to build a plutonium weapon. I’d probably go back to flying the embassy run, but still reside here.”

“Good.”

“You need to know something else about me. I didn’t mention this last week with your parents. I like action. I like it a lot. I’m not a guy who can just fly a bus around the world and watch people get on and off. I need to be up against something. I like speed, and fights, and noise.”

“I’ve known that,” she said. “It shows.”

Chapter 27: Betrayal

t’s all you,” Rick Shands said as he spotted Boyd Chailland on the bench press, hands following the bar upward toward the rack.

“Unnghh!” Boyd expelled his breath in a loud final heave and extended 295 pounds up to the level of the rack for Rick to guide back into place.

“That is absolutely all I can do,” Boyd said, panting and sitting up. “That right shoulder just won’t extend all the way.”

“Yeah, I could see it hang up just at the top of the extension. You’ve got to keep breaking down that scar tissue in the back,” Rick said, stepping to the side to remove a 35 pound plate. They’d been working out for nearly an hour, each coaching the other, spotting, encouraging, working together to add and take off the plates, move the bar, the bench, the pulleys, all the paraphernalia of the weight room.

“Yeah, we need to get a speed bag in here,” Boyd said, removing the 35 from the other side. “I was making good progress back at Little Rock. When I started, I could just get to here,” he said, demonstrating a right cross punch and stopping it several inches before complete extension.

Dabney St. Clair observed silently from across the room, riding steadily on the exercise bike while she pretended to read a book. She was decked out in her best Spandex workout pants, the pink ones. She had complained to the ambassador that the military members of the embassy staff took off during the duty day to run or work out at the gym. She felt this should
be done on their own time, but the ambassador said he could see nothing wrong with that. She was here exercising her right to do the same.

Marine Corps Maj. Rick Shands, military attaché and chief of security, was the smaller man, trim, compact, fit.

Boyd Chailland, his deputy, was the larger man, well over 6 feet tall with long arms and, now that she could see him clearly in his tank top and cutoff sweat pants, very impressively muscled. The deltoid muscle, she mused, contributes to the pleasing sense of broad shoulders in a clothed man. But, seeing that muscle bare and in action in that bench press of what seemed an incredible amount of weight was … quite pleasant.

Both men were sweating freely, coming to the end of more than an hour of intense exercise. The room was warm. There was a scent. Dabney increased her pace for a final sprint to the finish.

“How much does that bar weigh?” Dabney asked, dismounting from her bike and approaching the weight area as Boyd and Rick were replacing the equipment.

“It weighs 45 pounds, ma’am,” Shands said.

She wished they’d be less formal. She was, after all, not that much older than they were. She was significantly higher in seniority, of course, and she understood that subordinates needed to maintain a certain distance. She dried her face with the towel and turned a quarter turn to take in the scene in the mirror, the three of them standing there, sweaty, tired, fit. Comrades. She thought her butt looked pretty good, too.

“Uh, Boyd,” she said, assuming a more authoritative voice, “I received an invitation to a social event from the British Embassy. It’s this weekend, and I need someone to escort me.”

“Which day?” He’d hesitated just a moment. Was he collecting his thoughts, checking a schedule?

“Friday.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’d be happy to escort you.”

“I’m not creating a conflict am I?” she asked.

“Nothing that can’t be changed,” he said.

But she detected just a hint of annoyance. She prided herself on reading people, and she read that he’d had something else planned. She had, after all, spent several years as a covert operator.

“You seem to be gone a lot on weekends,” she said, still annoyed that he hadn’t jumped at the chance to escort her to the German cocktail party weeks before.

“It’s a cultural emersion,” he said seriously.

She didn’t see Shands struggle to contain a laugh.

*****

“Our diplomatic mission here in Tbilisi is one of our most important,” Farhad Shirazi, the Iranian deputy ambassador, said as they strolled through the spacious dining room at the British Embassy. “We consider it a primary contact point for diplomatic initiatives. Such a sophisticated international community. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, completely, Farhad. If I may call you that,” Dabney said.

“By all means. Among friends, we should be relaxed. Formality is for formal occasions.”

Dabney was ecstatic. This was turning out exactly as she’d hoped. She was eager to be the conduit for a diplomatic communication between two great nations. Let those small minds back at CIA headquarters hold what opinions they would. Time would show that she was above all that pettiness.

“I have been preparing an invitation, a formal invitation, for you to visit Iran as our guest,” he said, looking suddenly serious. “But there’s no reason I can’t bring it up now.”

“Yes?” She could hardly contain herself. Her disappointment at Boyd’s lukewarm acceptance of her request to attend this necessary function was now dampened by this proposal by dark, mysterious, charming Farhad Shirazi, an ambassador.

“Soon, perhaps next month, we will be hosting diplomats from several nations to tour some of our facilities and speak with our highest leadership about ...”

He paused, looking into the distance, trying to get just the right word.

“Uh, about our future as one of the leading democracies in the world. We would like you to be one of those diplomats.”

“Oh, of course,” she said gaily. She caught Boyd’s eye across the room and raised her empty wine glass. He nodded and headed back to the bar.

“It would have to be handled discretely,” Shirazi said. “Some embassy personnel might feel slighted if the invitation went to you.”

“I have the complete trust of the ambassador, and I feel certain our diplomatic mission would support such a trip with enthusiasm.”

Boyd approached with her wine.

“Oh, thank you so much, Boyd. This is Farhad Shirazi, the deputy ambassador of Iran.”

“Sir,” Boyd said with a slight bow as they shook hands.

“Boyd is our deputy military attaché.”

“I see you’ve served your nation in Iraq and Afghanistan,” Shirazi said, nodding at Boyd’s campaign ribbons.

“Yes, sir, that’s the life of a military man.”

“You can tell that from just looking at his uniform,” she asked, squinting at Boyd’s chest. She’d never paid any attention to service ribbons. He did have quite a few for such a young man.

“They have a ribbon for everything,” Boyd said, dismissing any attention to his decorations. There was a period of silence.

“Well, I was just talking to the attaché from the U.K. He’s an aviator as well.”

Boyd excused himself.

“Dashing young man,” Shirazi said, watching Boyd retreat.

“Yes, quite. He’s been very attentive since his arrival. I think, with some training, he could become a useful member of the diplomatic mission.”

“What aircraft does he fly?”

“He was flying the embassy run. After that unfortunate business with the Russian president, they decided to send him here to reinforce our mission.”

“Embassy run? Oh, you mean your diplomatic courier that comes in each week.”

“Yes, of course.” She felt having Boyd drop by added some spice to her relationship with Shirazi. Men are so competitive.

“He seems to be enjoying the social aspect of the diplomatic life,” Shirazi said. “Some warriors chafe at the conventions.”

“Not so much, I think. He’s been spending a lot of time in town. I think he may have found a girlfriend.”

Just saying that gave her a slight, ever so slight, pang of jealousy.

“Oh?”

“One of the local girls, I think. He got a special ticket to the ballet a few weeks ago.”

“Oh? Well, young men’s heads are easily turned.”

*****

Ratface gazed at the picture from Betsy Rhoades’ Facebook page of Boyd jumping into Narvel Rhoades’ swimming pool with Eight Ball. He enlarged the image.

“He has a Purple Heart decoration,” Farhad Shirazi said, standing behind. “Pilots don’t get wounded very often. He has an Air Force Cross with a device; that’s a presidential citation. Not a routine award, and he has two.”

Ratface pointed to the right side of Boyd’s chest.

“Is that a gunshot scar?” he asked.

“It could be,” Shirazi said, leaning in. “Look at those arms, this man is formidable. He was flying the embassy run, so he’s been coming to Tbilisi for months, years maybe.”

Shirazi paused. “So, Boyd Chailland is the top covert agent for the United States, and he’s here. Why?”

“This is the leak we’ve been trying to find,” Ratface said authoritatively, and looked up at Shirazi with a smile. “Traitor to Chailland to the U.S. Nuclear secrets, strategy, turmoil within the regime. It’s all coming through Tbilisi.”

The two men nodded in agreement.

*****

Ratface picked up Boyd at the Avlabari Metro Station from the tail who’d followed him from the embassy, just as before, and followed him into Old Town as before. When Boyd stopped at a coffee shop to see if he was followed, Ratface went around the block to pick him up when he moved again. The cat-and-mouse game moved toward the financial center, and Ratface was pretty sure Boyd was meeting someone at the restaurant he’d followed Lado Chikovani to a month before.
Ratface was elated when Boyd turned the corner, passed the restaurant and waited a minute to see whether he was followed before stepping inside.

Ratace waited five minutes before slipping furtively in the front door.

Boyd was gone! Ratface searched the restaurant, the men’s room, the kitchen. Nothing. He rushed into the alley behind and looked both ways. Nothing. Turning to walk down the alley, he heard a noise behind him and started to turn.

“Looking for me?” Boyd asked, stepping out from behind a dumpster. He grabbed Ratface's jacket from behind and pulling it up over the man's head. He pushed Ratface toward the opposite wall, the man putting his arms out to keep his head from hitting the wall.

A lightning bolt of pain shot through Ratface as Boyd unleashed a punch into his right flank. It lifted him off his feet, and he felt a crunch as a rib broke. Rat ace vomited immediately, bent over, retching on his recently shined shoes.