“There has been no body, so no funeral, no proper burial, no…” Rasul’s voice trailed off. With his right hand he began to use his thumb to touch each joint on each of his fingers, pausing briefly at each joints; it was a habit used by some Muslims, akin to using rosary beads to keep track of prayers. A minute later, he said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“No body?”
“I saw her at the police station. I identified her, we spoke of funeral arrangements. Then later that day they said she had tested positive for tuberculosis, but she never had tuberculosis, she was healthy.”
“Did they show you the results of the test?”
“No, they just said that it was positive and that they were worried about contamination because it was a bad kind so they had to cremate her…I was told it was already done, and that they would bring me the ashes, but then…then nothing.”
Mark knew tuberculosis was a problem in Azerbaijan, and that people who weren’t visibly sick with the disease could still be carriers. But even if Aida had tested positive, immediate cremation would have been unusual because it was forbidden by the Quran. There was an exception, if burial could potentially cause the mass spread of disease, but drug-resistant TB in a corpse shouldn’t have triggered such an exception.
She’d been cremated, Mark concluded, because her body had been evidence. He was reminded of how quickly Larry had been embalmed.
“The police haven’t come here?”
“No. There was no reason for her to have been walking on the road to the mountains. I know the police think she was having an affair. But she wasn’t.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Yes, yes, of course, but they said there’s nothing they can do, that it was a traffic accident, and she had a disease, and that is that. Is there anything you can do? I would at least like her ashes.”
Mark sighed. The CIA owed Rasul Tagiyev for what his wife had done for the Agency. But it seemed clear that the police were either in on the killing, or were being pressured to cover it up. “I wish that I could help.”
“Please.”
“I don’t have any influence with the police.”
“Bazarduzu, it is a powerful company. They might have influence.”
“If I could help you, I would. But I can’t. You could try to call Bazarduzu directly. Or maybe write a letter to the president. He might be able to help, but I can tell you with certainty that I cannot. I’m sorry. I wish it were otherwise.”
Rasul frowned as he nodded.
Mark said, “Now, about that life insurance.”
“Honestly, I wasn’t aware she’d taken out a policy.”
“It was for five thousand dollars. I was authorized by the company to bring your payment to you in cash. The company knows that this must be a trying time for you and your child, both emotionally and financially.”
Mark reached into his satchel and retrieved the money Cox had given him. He considered also giving Rasul one of the two tubes of Desitin, but decided that would be weird, and anyway, he wanted to save both for Daria.
Rasul’s hand came up to his mouth. “This money. You intend to give it to me?”
“It’s yours. Your wife designated you and your daughter as the only beneficiaries. The one thing I would suggest is that you accompany me to a bank and that I officially sign the money over to you there. Because once I sign it over to you, then it becomes your responsibility. If it were to be stolen, if any of your neighbors…” Mark let his voice trail off. Rasul knew better than anyone that he didn’t live in the safest of neighborhoods. “To avoid all chance of that, I recommend that the transfer be made at a bank. Do you have one you prefer?”
“We keep an account at Ganjabank.”
“That would be fine.”
“Now? You wish to go now?”
“I wish to do as you wish, Mr. Tagiyev. I am available now, or if now is not convenient for you, I am more than happy to arrange to meet you at the time of your choosing.”
“I’d have to take the baby with me.”
“Of course. This is no problem.”
“Then I can go now.”
Mark accompanied a bewildered Rasul Tagiyev and his daughter to the downtown branch of Ganjabank, waited until a bank officer emerged to usher them into a back room, then thrust the money at the young man.
“Here,” said Mark. “You don’t need me to set up your account. Good luck. I am so sorry for your loss.”
“But…” Rasul was flustered. With one hand he held his daughter, with the other he took the envelope. “…don’t I need to sign—”
“The relevant papers will be mailed to you shortly. In the meantime, your bank deposit receipt will serve as proof that the transfer from Bazarduzu to you was made.”
With that, Mark left the bank, bought a pack of cigarettes — Winstons, like Cox had been smoking — and hailed a cab. Minutes later, he was staring once again at the tenement house where Rasul lived. The old Azeri was still out front.
“Rasul has forgotten the baby’s bottle. Can you blame him?” Before the old man could answer, Mark produced the pack of cigarettes and matches. “A gift. For giving me directions earlier.”
Mark bounded up the stairs so that by the time he got to the second floor he was breathing heavily. Work smart, he told himself, glancing both ways down the hall. Get in and get out quickly, minimize the risk, and be prepared to run like hell if you have to.
He noted with satisfaction that it took him less than a minute to pick the lock with the improvised set of tools he’d made just before buying the Turkish delight — a thin triple rake and a hook pick, both made from bobby pins and electric tape; thicker versions of the same made from the steel wire used in binder clips; and a tension bar made from a bent pair of tweezers. As a desk-bound station chief, his tradecraft skills had started to atrophy, but they’d grown considerably sharper of late.
In the enclosed balcony, which extended out from the kitchen and was being used as a pantry, he opened the one double-hung window that looked out onto the street; he didn’t relish the thought of dropping from the second floor to the ground, but he’d done such a thing before, and wanted to be sure he had an emergency avenue of escape, should it come to that.
He checked his watch — five past two. He’d give himself ten minutes, any more than that and he’d be pushing his luck.
When people had something to hide, experience had taught Mark that, more often than not, the bedroom was where they chose to hide it. There was a perception of safety, that at least at night, in the darkness, an intruder couldn’t steal in and take the item without being detected. So it was in Rasul and Aida Tagiyev’s bedroom that he began his search.
He could still detect what he perceived to be the scent of Aida, or at least the perfume she’d worn. The smell of rose petals was in the closet, where her dresses hung, and inside the dresser, where her T-shirts and jeans and undergarments were neatly folded. It was a smell distinct from the earthy smell of Rasul’s clothes, or the diaper smell of the child.
He searched the closet, under the squeaky mattress, under and inside dresser drawers, behind the mirror that hung on the wall, between the stacks of unused diapers, underneath the plastic bag that lined the garbage bin… He worked methodically, mentally dividing the bedroom into quadrants and searching everything in one quadrant before moving on to the next. When he came upon a small Canon pocket camera that was stashed inside Aida’s rhinestone-encrusted jewelry box, he thought maybe he’d found what he was looking for. The SD memory card inside it would be where a spy might think to hide files. But when he slotted the card into the external adapter that was connected to his iPad, it was blank.