Mark took a quick look at the notices — most were promoting upcoming events at the center: an entry-level English course that was starting tomorrow at nine, a talk on how best to apply for visa applications to the US and Europe was being held on Friday at noon, and evidently the American ambassador would be visiting Ganja State University in a month.
From a hallway in back of the courtyard, Mark heard the steady antiphonal rhythm of a teacher posing questions and her students answering en masse. Upon inspection, he observed a young pasty-white woman with dreadlocks instructing a class of about twenty Azeris who ranged in age from early teens to middle-aged.
Mark stood in the doorway, until the students’ stares caused the teacher to turn.
“May I help you?” The teacher wore an ankle-length tie-dyed skirt and spoke with a cheerful British accent.
“Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for Raymond Cox?”
At the mention of Cox, her expression turned sour.
Mark added, “I’m a friend of his. From the US.”
“Well, you won’t find Ray in a classroom, I can tell you that much.”
A few of the students laughed.
“I was told he worked here.”
“Depends on your definition of work.”
“Would you know where I could find him?”
Her nose turned up. “Try his office.”
“And where—”
“It’s off the upper balcony. The room that smells. Tell him I want my yoga mat back.” More laughs. “Now, if you please.”
A foul, acrid smell was indeed leaching out one of the doors that opened onto the courtyard balcony. Mark knocked on it, and heard movement from inside. And then what sounded like someone trying to quietly rack a slide on a semiautomatic pistol.
Mark stepped to the side of the door, outside the potential line of fire.
“Raymond?”
No answer.
“Raymond Cox?”
Still no answer.
“I believe you were expecting me for lunch?” Mark waited for Cox to acknowledge the code. Silence. Raising his voice, Mark repeated, “Raymond, I believe you were expecting me for lunch. And if you weren’t, I’m going to leave. Now’s your chance.”
“I can’t make lunch. Can we do dinner instead?”
“If we eat by five.”
A lock turned and the door opened a crack, releasing a cloud of cigarette smoke. Mark also smelled piss, booze, and something feral.
“Come on in. But be careful — don’t let the cats out.”
As Mark slipped into Cox’s office, he nudged a smoke-colored long-haired Turkish Angora — a popular breed in the region — out of the way. Ray Cox was standing in the back of the room, gripping a snub-nosed pistol.
“You can put that down now,” said Mark.
Raymond Cox was a short wiry guy, with brown curly hair that fell to his shoulders but was prematurely receding on top. His curly beard was in need of a trim. He wore a bracelet of braided leather, jeans, and a T-shirt with the Global Solutions logo — an image of a student using the earth as his desktop — imprinted upon it. His close-set eyes darted toward his cat.
“Queenie, get back here!”
Still holding his pistol, Cox darted forward, scooped up the cat, and quickly shut the door. Behind him lay another Turkish Angora, this one white.
“Good Lord,” said Mark, taking a look around. “What the hell’s going on?”
The office was no more than ten by ten feet. What little light there was filtered in through a gauzy blind that shaded a small window. A bottle of cheap Russian vodka sat on a metal desk, next to a glass filled with water and cigarette butts. Half of the floor was covered with local newspapers. A few pieces of cat shit lay on the newspapers, next to a chipped ceramic water bowl and a small pile of dried cat food.
Cox looked Mark over for a moment, wedged his pistol between his belt and the small of his back, and said, “I had to move out of my house, it was being watched. I figured at least here, there were other people around. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I see.” Mark observed that two yoga mats, one laid out on top of the other, occupied the better part of the floor that wasn’t covered with newspapers. On top of the yoga mats lay a blue fleece blanket and a soiled pillow.
“Did you bring my alias packet?”
“Yeah. You got that gun on safety?”
Cox pulled a crumpled pack of Winstons out of his back pocket and extracted a single cigarette with his teeth. As he flicked on a lighter, he said, “You don’t have to worry about it.”
“I talked to Roger Davis yesterday. He said no firearms were allowed in station. Was that just a rule that applies to me?”
“His ass isn’t on the line.”
“And yours is?”
Cox took big drag off his cigarette, exhaled, and said, “Take a look at this.”
A photo lay face down on his desk. He picked it up handed it to Mark. It showed a row of liquor bottles lined up on a bar shelf. Martini & Rossi sweet vermouth, Chivas Regal, Grand Marnier, Frangelico, Russian Standard vodka, and Jameson Irish Whiskey.
“That might just look like a bunch of booze to you, but—”
“Who sent this to you?”
“Turn it over. Read what’s on the back.”
Mark flipped it over. In Azeri, it read, PICK YOUR BOTTLE.
Cox said, “It means—”
“I know what it means.” The threat was common in the region — pick the bottle you want stuffed up your ass before we beat you senseless, and possibly kill you. “What I asked was, who sent this to you?”
Cox sighed, then slumped down into the seat behind his desk. “That’s what’s got me worried. I don’t know.”
“When did you get it?”
“Four days ago. The day after — well, you heard about the source I was running?”
“You got this right after she was killed.”
“Yeah. Which is one of several reasons why I think she was killed, that it wasn’t just an accident. Her body was found in a ditch on the side of a road that leads to the mountains. A farmer said he heard a car honk, and then a crash, but that by the time he got there the car was pulling away. The police are treating it as a hit-and-run.”
Mark took another look at the bottle photo, then pocketed it. “Does she live near where she was killed?”
“No, she lives in town, there was no reason for her to have been out there.”
“And now you think whoever killed her is coming after you.”
“Yeah, I do. Give me my documents.”
“First we talk.”
“We just did. Who the hell are you, anyway? Nobody ever mentioned you before. Do you work out of the embassy?”
Mark sat down on the corner of the desk. He looked around the dingy office again. “Two yoga mats?” he said. “You really into fitness?”
“The floor’s hard. I’ve been sleeping here the past few days, I didn’t want to risk leaving the building.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been doing for the Agency here in Ganja, and about this source you were running. Then we can talk about your alias and come up with a plan for getting you out.”
27
Five men — the president of Azerbaijan, the prosecutor general, and the ministers of internal affairs, defense, and national security — sat at an elongated oval table inside the presidential office complex in downtown Baku.
The room had been soundproofed and stripped of all decoration save for two photos that hung on the wall opposite the entrance. The smaller of the two photos depicted the president; the larger, the president’s deceased father.