“No. When do you intend to travel to Ganja?”
“Soon.”
“If you’d like, I can arrange for transport.”
“Oh, I think I’ll manage.”
“If there are problems, Sava…”
“I will call you.”
Orkhan and Mark had worked well together in the past, and Orkhan hoped to do so again in the future. They’d both benefited from the relationship, each often telling the other more than their respective governments would have liked, an arrangement that had allowed both of them to appear particularly well-connected. But Orkhan also realized it was possible Mark had been assigned a job that would put him in conflict with Azeri operatives, in which case his alliance with Mark would be tested.
Orkhan sighed and massaged his temples as he recalled the conversation he’d had with his daughter.
“How have you been, Orkhan?” asked Mark, adding, “It’s good to see you again.”
“As we get older it doesn’t get easier, does it, Sava?”
“No, I guess it doesn’t.”
25
Titov could sense the resentment, could see it in the eyes of the men who stood before him. Fine. Let them resent him.
Yesterday he’d sent their beloved squad leader back to the main Forty-Ninth Army base at Stavropol, Russia. Some people were too smart for their own good, too questioning, too disrespectful of authority. The squad leader had been such a man; he’d thought himself Titov’s better, more capable of leading. The final indignity had come when Titov had overheard him instructing his squad not to bother with their ballistic goggles when packing for the upcoming operation — in direct contravention of orders Titov had given. The insolent fool had forgotten that before a Russian soldier could lead, he first had to learn how to kneel.
There was no insulation or air conditioning inside the windowless steel-walled training warehouse where Titov had ordered the remaining men — all members of the elite FSB paramilitary unit known as Vympel — to assemble. Which meant it was brutally hot. A creaky wall fan offered no relief. Pigeons cooed from the nests they’d built in the steel roof trusses; the floor was stained with their droppings.
The men might not respect him, thought Titov, but now at least they knew to fear for their jobs. And one of the men, the one he’d promoted to be the new squad leader, now owed him, and that was something.
Titov knew he was not the brightest person ever to walk the face of the earth, but he’d served intelligent, powerful men all his life. Time and time again he’d watched them manipulate others to create networks of loyalty. He knew how it was done.
“You will enter Nakhchivan as individuals.” Titov’s booming voice resonated off the metal walls. He handed each man a sealed manila packet. “Here are your individual travel instructions, a cash allowance that should prove ample, and aliases. You are not to share this information with any of your teammates. Although all of you will enter Nakhchivan via different routes, you will rendezvous tomorrow as a group at the Hotel Grand in Nakhchivan City. There you will be met by a colleague you will recognize. He will arm you, and provide instructions regarding the next steps of the operation. I will be joining you in Nakhchivan in seventy-two hours. Every one of you will leave this base within the hour.” Titov considered wishing his men luck, and adding a few words of encouragement, then looked into their eyes and decided against it. “Are there questions?”
There were none. Titov dismissed the men. As they exited, bright sunlight spilled in through the open door. Titov noticed that, waiting near the door, was his liaison to the FSB’s counterintelligence department. Multiple layers of FSB counterintelligence, he now knew, had been fully briefed and were assisting with the operation in Nakhchivan. Which was as it should be.
“Do you have a minute, sir?”
“Walk with me to my office.” Titov began to walk quickly toward his temporary quarters on the other side of the base. The counterintelligence agent struggled to keep up.
“The American we intended to bring in for questioning.”
“In Baku.”
“Yes. I’m told we’ve lost him. Temporarily, of course.”
Titov absorbed the news. He wasn’t one to shoot the messenger; he’d been the messenger too many times for that. Still, the revelation frustrated him.
“And this American’s connection to Bishkek. What news there?”
“He appears to be a careful man. Very careful.”
Titov grimaced and cocked his head without breaking stride.
The counterintelligence agent added, “There is no physical address listed for his business in Bishkek, no one of that name is listed in any public records in Bishkek—”
“Did you expect to find him in the phone book?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Are we even certain he operates out of Bishkek?”
“Yes. Six months ago, we received a report from one of our Bishkek-based officers saying as much — that’s how we knew to focus on Bishkek in the first place. We’ve since been able to confirm that, on occasion, Sava interacts with members of the Kyrgyz government.”
“And have our men in Bishkek spoken directly to these members of government?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Have we asked these members of government who else works for Sava’s organization?” Without waiting for an answer, Titov said, “Incredible. You must find out who Sava works with, who he lives with. If he is communicating with anyone, it will be them.” Titov knew he didn’t technically have the authority to issue such an order himself, but his long association with the director of the FSB was well known. “Where a man lives will tell you where he has gone.”
Part Four
26
While Baku was fast on its way to becoming a mini-Dubai, Ganja was in no such danger.
Plastic bags, old tires, cans, bottles, and dead birds were strewn all over the rocky bed of the river that ran through the center of the city. Scavengers combed through the garbage. Sewage dripped out of cracked cast-iron pipes left exposed because of low water.
Mark had his cabbie drop him off just beyond the river, then began his surveillance-detection run down a series of noisy, chaotic streets where techno music blared, vendors hawked their wares, and cars careened down narrow pedestrian alleys. He walked quickly, frequently doubling back on his tracks. The strap of his leather satchel crossed his chest like a bandolier. He was hungry — he’d eaten dinner on the train, but not breakfast, and it was now nine o’clock in the morning — so he headed for the local outdoor market. There, men in bloodstained T-shirts stood in front of crosscut tree trunks, using broad-bladed axes to hack up sheep parts, while old women misted beet greens with water from perforated soda bottles, or sold dried fruit and spices — cinnamon, fennel, ginger root, cloves, cumin — out of canvas sacks.
Mark bought a bag of dried apricots. He was finishing the last of them when he reached a two-story brick building, to which was affixed a blue-and-green painted sign that read: GLOBAL SOLUTIONS: HELPING TO EDUCATE THE WORLD.
He walked through the double-door entrance and into an interior courtyard that was protected from the elements by a slapdash roof made of corrugated translucent plastic. To his right, a staircase led to a long upper balcony; empty flower boxes hung from the balcony railing. To his left lay a worn red couch, above which was a bulletin board cluttered with notices in English and Azeri.