One of Roger Davis’s men had delivered the alias packet to him at the Hyatt.
Cox unsealed the envelope and opened the passport to the photo page. He stared at it for a second.
“Make yourself look like that guy,” said Mark.
“Ah…OK.”
It was a photo of Cox, but it had been altered so that he appeared clean-shaven and bald.
“Get ready.” Mark took off his dark gray sport coat, tossed it to Cox, and then pulled a red tie and dark-blue collared shirt out of his satchel. “There’s sunglasses in the inner pocket of my jacket. You’ll put them on as we’re leaving. And find some clean newspaper. Wad some up and put it in each of your cheeks. Not so much that you look like a hamster, just enough to change the shape of your face a little bit. Think subtle.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“And I have good reason to be worried.”
“I know you do.”
“The people who are after me might have seen you come in. They might have made you.”
“How many people come into this place over the course of a day?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a hundred.”
“Then they would’ve had to make me prior to when I showed up, and they didn’t — I wasn’t followed here. We’ll leave when a group of students is leaving, I’ll be your tail and make sure you’re not being followed. We’ll catch a cab by the bazaar. I wouldn’t worry too much about getting out of here. If the people who killed your source had also wanted to kill you, then you’d already be dead. The bottle threat was designed to drive you out. Since the threat is working, there’s no reason for them to interfere anymore.”
“I didn’t bring a razor.”
Mark reached into his satchel again, pulled out a razor, and tossed it to Cox. “I did.”
29
Orkhan had never been at odds with the defense minister; indeed, they’d worked well together on many projects over the years. So when he phoned, Orkhan didn’t hesitate to have the call patched through to him.
“This matter, Orkhan, what do you know of it?”
The defense minister was a small man — but his deep voice was authoritative and gravelly.
Because he had nothing to hide, Orkhan answered with candor — he wasn’t responsible for leaking the information about the Nakhchivan operation to the Russians and, although he’d launched an internal investigation, he doubted very much that anyone who worked for him was.
“And you?” asked Orkhan. “What have you learned?”
The defense minister spoke at length about the internal investigation he’d launched; nothing he said contradicted what Orkhan had already learned from his spies in the defense ministry.
“There is one thing I did want to ask you about,” said the defense minister. “And — well, I’m afraid it is a matter of some sensitivity, which is why the president asked that I be the one to call you.”
“Oh?”
“I’m afraid it involves your daughter.” After an uncomfortable pause, the defense minister added, “A minor issue to be sure, but… you know as well as I that your daughter has consorted with political opponents of the president, taken part in demonstrations—”
“She now lives in France. That is no longer an issue.”
“Recently it has come to the president’s attention that she may be thinking of renouncing her citizenship. Is this true?”
“The president ordered you to spy on my daughter.”
“The president holds you and your family in high esteem. It is a mark of honor that he would order such protection for your daughter.”
“No doubt.” Orkhan was not shocked by the revelation. Indeed, after the defense minister’s son had threatened a bartender at the Baku Hilton with a loaded pistol, the president had ordered Orkhan to watch the young miscreant to make sure he was actually attending the drug treatment program in Dubai that he’d been admitted to. So Orkhan had little cause for grievance now.
“In any case—”
“She is an impulsive girl who changes her mind and her ideology frequently. No permanent decision has been made and, in fact, none can be made for several years — as you may know, French law prohibits it. And I would also add that if I am to be judged on the actions of my progeny, it is only fair that others be so judged as well.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said the defense minister. “I only mention the issue of citizenship because it coincides with another issue regarding your daughter.”
“And what issue might that be?”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, her current employer is a Russian.”
“She is a student at the Sorbonne. Because of late she has refused to take money from her parents, twice a week she earns pocket change by helping to care for a two-year-old child. And yes, I am aware that the parents of this child are Russian.”
“And I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that this Russian is a man of some means.”
“Usmanov is a man of means,” said Orkhan, referring to the richest man in Russia. “This man is an ant.”
“Still, he has ties to the Kremlin.”
The hypocrisy of the insinuation was breathtaking, thought Orkhan. Of all the major government ministers, he counted himself as the least likely to be influenced by the Russians. Indeed, he was one of the few ministers who hadn’t grown up speaking Russian as his first language. Even now, in private, many of the ministers still spoke Russian to each other — it was like a secret code, a holdover from when the Soviets ruled, a way of affirming to themselves that they were still part of the educated elite, the intelligentsia. Russian, it was rumored, had even been the president’s first language.
“Ties,” said Orkhan, “which were severed in the 1990s! He’s lived in exile ever since. He’s a small player who now makes his money facilitating the export of nickel from Russia to Germany.”
The defense minister sighed. “You have fully vetted this man?”
“Of course.”
“And you are certain that your daughter is not being used by the Russians, and will never be used, as leverage against you? To influence your actions?”
I will remember this, thought Orkhan. “Absolutely certain.”
“I will convey your certainty regarding this matter to the president.”
30
Rust-laden water, spilling out of dilapidated gutters and ruined downspouts, had stained the gray stucco tenements that lined the muddy street on which Aida Tagiyev had lived.
Mark could tell that, fifty years ago, all the ramshackle balconies that extended out from the tenements had been identical, but now each was unique in the way each scrap-wood-walled shack in the favelas of Rio, or shantytown hut in Mumbai, was unique. Some were enclosed with old plywood and topped with rusted metal roofs, transforming them into an extra bedroom; others had been covered with paneling, or bricked in. From most, laundry lines hung like bright bunting, suspended between rusting pulleys.