“Drop the weapon!”
The command was spoken in Azeri.
The door to the elevator began to close, but before it did so there was a popping sound, like a water balloon bursting as it hit pavement. Mark felt something wet on his face. The Russian’s grip on the rifle relaxed. Mark ripped the gun away and fired a single round into the Russian’s leg. But then he realized his shot had been unnecessary — that the rear of the Russian’s head was mostly gone, and that the water-balloon-popping sound he’d heard had been the man’s skull exploding.
Mark threw out his hand and pushed the open button just before the elevator began ascending to the next level. Two men in rumpled civilian clothes stood ten feet from the elevator, Uzi machine pistols aimed at him. One of the men wore plastic sandals. Mark let his AKS rifle drop and held up his hands.
“Your name!” shouted the older of the two, in Azeri.
“Mark Sava.”
“It’s him,” said the second.
“Come with us,” said the first.
“There are more Russians here,” said Mark.
“How many?”
Mark considered how many he’d encountered, how many he’d heard. “At least six, maybe more. Some might be on the top floor. That’s where this guy”—Mark gestured to the corpse on the floor—“was taking me. Be careful, they’re all armed, mostly AKS-74 rifles, a few short-barreled carbines too.”
51
Outside the sanatorium, a white Ford van with tinted windows screeched to a stop underneath the large portico in front of the main building, just beyond the reception area where Mark stood.
“Go,” said one of the plainclothes Azeris, ushering Mark along. “Quickly.”
Five more men rushed into the sanatorium. Two appeared to be local cops; the rest were dressed in plainclothes, but carried themselves like trained soldiers.
Mark was directed to the front passenger-side door of the van. He yanked it open, then did a quick double take. Behind the steering wheel sat Orkhan Gambar. A Makarov pistol lay on the dashboard and an Uzi rested on the floor of the van, between the passenger seat and driver’s seat.
Concealing his genuine surprise at seeing Orkhan — Mark had hoped Orkhan would send help, but hadn’t imagined he’d deign to show up in person — he said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you drive in what, ten years? What happened to the chauffeur?”
Orkhan was wearing what he always wore — a dark suit with a pressed white button-down shirt — but he’d removed his tie. The way he was seated, his considerable girth had stretched his shirt so that his ribbed undershirt was visible between the buttons. The bags under his eyes sagged more than usual. His Turkish nose appeared especially enormous.
“Get in,” said Orkhan.
Mark did, wincing because of the increased pressure sitting put on his ribs. “What are you doing here?”
“I received your call, of course. We tracked your cell phone signal to this sanatorium but then it disappeared. What happened?”
“They were holding me in the salt mine below the sanatorium. Were you already here in Nakhchivan when I called?”
“No. But I was near the military air base at Sumqayit.”
Mark still didn’t understand why Orkhan, who commanded an army of men, would have seen fit to drop everything he’d been doing and immediately hop on a flight to Nakhchivan. He said as much.
Orkhan said, “There have been some developments. In Baku. It was better that I leave. And I also think we must talk. What are my men walking into?”
“Russians.”
Mark repeated the information he’d already relayed to the Azeris inside the sanatorium, prompting Orkhan to lower the driver’s-side window of the van and call to the Azeri who stood guard in front of it.
“Go! We will take care of ourselves out here. Coordinate with Salimi on the interior assault.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have reinforcements coming?” asked Mark.
“No.”
“You should.”
Orkhan shook his head, “Not a possibility. But if I include the two of us, we have fifteen men to their six. It should be enough.”
“I said they had at least six, and those Russians in there are professionals.”
Orkhan let out a weary sigh. “My wife’s brother-in-law is the only man I trust here in Nakhchivan. He was the one who assembled this team — with men he trusts. They are good men, experienced men, but even if they were not, the army is not an option. The Interior Ministry forces are not an option. Because of complications I don’t wish to discuss, most of my men in the National Security Ministry are not an option. So there will be no reinforcements. There is no one else.”
“You’re in trouble, my friend,” said Mark.
Orkhan leaned across Mark and pulled open the glove compartment. Inside was another Makarov. He grabbed it by the barrel and offered the grip to Mark.
Mark asked, “Do you want me to join the search inside?”
“No. You are helping with exterior security. If I tell you to shoot someone, shoot them. And after my men secure the interior of the building, you will help us interrogate the prisoners. I am hoping you will know the right questions to ask.”
As Mark took the pistol, he assessed their position. The roof of the portico provided cover from the sanatorium’s upper-level guest rooms. And they had a clear view of the front reception area, the glass doors of which had been shot out. An assault from the road, or from the rear of the sanatorium, was possible, but he and Orkhan would have some time to react to either. The van itself afforded them some protection, and mobility. It wasn’t a terrible position. “OK,” he said. “We talk.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Mark glanced down to his right hip. Beneath it, his shirt was sticky, and not from sweat. He inspected the wound. The shot had just grazed one of his modest love handles. It wouldn’t bleed for long.
“I’m fine.”
“You said you had information for me. What is this information?”
Orkhan sat grim-faced as Mark told him that Russian forces had been massing not only in South Ossetia, but also at bases in Armenia and Dagestan.
“Who told you this?”
“The CIA’s Central Eurasia Division has been monitoring the situation.”
“So your boss, this Ted Kaufman in Washington. He told you.”
“Yes.”
“And you believe him.”
“Yes.”
“The Russians are preparing to invade us,” concluded Orkhan flatly. “This much is obvious.”
Mark had certainly considered that possibility — why else would the Russians be secretly massing forces at all their bases closest to Azerbaijan? — but an unprovoked attack on Azerbaijan would trigger an international outcry. Which the Russians might be prepared to weather, as they had when they stole Crimea from Ukraine, or when they seized disputed territories in Georgia. But if the Russians were to interfere with all the oil flowing to the West via the BTC pipeline, or with the natural gas that was slated to flow to Europe from Azerbaijan via the proposed Trans Adriatic Pipeline, that the US and Europe would be hard-pressed to stand for. There was too much money at stake. Mark explained his thinking to Orkhan.
“Yes, but these Russian dogs, you have dealt with them for decades, I know. But you don’t know them like I”—Orkhan tapped his chest three times with his index finger—“know them.”
Mark recalled his time with Titov back in the 1990s. But he also recalled his time with Katerina, and all the other Russians he’d known over the years, many of whom he still counted as friends. “I think I know them well enough, Orkhan.”