“Six cars, fourteen men.”
“Where are they now?”
“Nine have taken positions around the perimeter of the sanatorium, five are at the front door.”
“Weapons?”
“Makarov pistols and a few Uzis. No heavy armor.”
“What do they want?”
“To search the premises.”
Why was this happening? The advance team from FSB counterintelligence had paid off the local police. The sanatorium had no close neighbors; it was surrounded by badlands and desert. Sava. Somehow he’d led the Azeris here. Titov didn’t know how the American had done it, but the fact that they’d shown up so soon after Sava’s arrival wasn’t a coincidence.
“What have you told them?”
“We asked if they had a warrant to enter. They said no, but that they intended to enter by means of force if we didn’t allow them entry.”
“Do you believe them?”
Titov had reached the front lobby. Though it had been retrofitted with shiny ceramic tile and gaudy chandeliers, there was no furniture, which gave the room an empty, sterile feel. Through the glass doors he saw one of his men arguing with what appeared to be an Azeri police officer.
Titov ducked into a room off the lobby where ten different LCD monitors hung from walls; each displayed a live CCTV feed from different points around the sanatorium. They confirmed what he’d already been told: the sanatorium was surrounded.
Titov had confidence in his men; they were highly trained, and the tunnels were filled with arms that — although earmarked for the upcoming operation — could be used now to mount a robust defense. But once the fighting started, the Azeris could call in reinforcements, the army even. The tunnels would be inspected, the weapons would be found. Their cover would be blown.
Titov grabbed a radio headset, confirmed that the transmitter was set to block intercepts by rapidly changing frequencies, then called out a series of codes. He listened as each of his men responded, then instructed one of them to relay a message to the man who was dealing with the Azeris at the entrance—continue to stall.
Titov pulled off his headset, but held one of the earphones to his left ear so he could monitor any ongoing communication between his men. Then he picked up a satellite phone off the desk and dialed the direct number of his boss, the director of the FSB.
His call was answered on the second ring.
Titov quickly explained the situation. When the director began to berate him, Titov interrupted. “It is not the risk to me that is of concern. It is the risk to the operation. What I need now is for you to authorize the early activation of my second unit.”
Titov had split his operatives into two groups — spies with paramilitary skills, and paramilitaries who had also been trained as spies. The former had come to Nakhchivan weeks earlier and were now with him at the sanatorium. The latter — with the exception of Titov himself, who had originally trained as a soldier — had just entered Nakhchivan the day before.
“You can’t contain this failure even if we dispatched your second unit this very minute. The men who are threatening you now are no doubt in touch with the authorities in Nakhchivan City as we speak. There’s no point trying to protect your cover — it’s already been blown.”
“I can draw the Azeris inside, make them think they are safe, and then quickly neutralize them once the second unit arrives. If you can arrange for the operation to launch tonight, then the level of confusion will be such that the Azeris won’t know what hit them, they won’t have time to react.”
The director cursed.
“Battles don’t always go as planned, sir,” said Titov. “You and I, we have always improvised. That is why we are here today, why we survived for so long. Will you do it?”
“I will put the matter to the president. Whether the Iranians are even capable of moving up the timetable, I don’t know.”
“And my second unit?” When the director didn’t answer, Titov said, “Sir, we can’t wait until after you speak to the president to activate them! By then the battlefield will have changed. Our options will be more limited.”
Another pause, then, “Activate them now.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But first tell me — how did the Azeris discover your location?”
Titov hesitated — he didn’t want to tell the director about Sava. “I don’t know.”
50
Mark observed as his Russian guard appeared to listen to something that was being transmitted over his radio headset.
“Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.” The guard turned to Mark. “Put your hands behind your head. Walk to the elevator.”
Mark stayed seated. The Russian repeated himself. Mark still wouldn’t move, so the Russian — speaking into his radio headset — asked what he should do.
After listening for a moment, the Russian said, “If you don’t walk, I am to shoot both of your feet, then your arms, then drag you to the elevator. This is your choice. Walk.”
So subtle, the Russians, thought Mark. But he knew a real threat when he heard it, so this time, he stood.
“Quickly!” The Russian prodded Mark in the back with the barrel of his AKS-74, an automatic rifle with a folding stock that, like the Grach pistol, was favored by the Russian military. When they reached the elevator, the guard said, “Lower your left hand. Right hand stays on your head. Then press the elevator button.”
Mark did as instructed. The elevator door opened.
“Step inside,” said the Russian. “Press level six.”
Mark pressed levels one, two, and three, but the Russian couldn’t see that because he was still outside the elevator.
“OK, now what?” asked Mark.
“Both hands behind your head. Face the back wall.”
Mark complied, the Russian stepped into the elevator, and the door closed. The barrel of the AKS was now pressed against the left side of Mark’s upper back.
Noticing that Mark had pushed the elevator buttons for the wrong floors, the Russian cursed, then jabbed Mark in the back, hard, with the barrel of his rifle, causing a spike of pain to shoot through Mark’s chest.
“You think this is funny!”
“No.”
Another hard jab, this time to the kidney. More muttered curses. “Piece of shit. Cocksucker.”
The business with the elevator buttons had just been a hunch — if the Russian was in a rush to get to the sixth floor, Mark figured it couldn’t hurt to slow him down.
The Russian cursed yet again as he punched the various elevator buttons, trying to reset them.
When the elevator doors opened on what Mark guessed was the first floor, he heard two things: one was the sound of the Russian frantically hitting the elevator buttons; the second was the sound of men, maybe fifty feet or so away, arguing in Azeri — one wanted the other to step back from a door, while the other was yelling about someone not having permission to enter.
Mark felt the pressure from the gun barrel on his back lessen slightly as the Russian repositioned himself. Sensing that his captor was distracted, Mark took advantage of the unexpected opportunity — maybe the only one he’d have. Twisting violently, he grabbed for the rifle.
A shot rang out. Mark felt a sting by his hip but his left hand already had a purchase on the AKS and he was pushing the barrel away. More shots were fired, but they went wild into the elevator walls. Glass shattered. Mark kicked at the Russian’s crotch with his right foot and tried to bite the Russian’s trigger hand.
A blast of automatic rifle fire, lasting several seconds, sounded from what Mark could now see was a reception area of sorts.