“Then you should not be shocked by what you see happening now! The Russians have never accepted the loss of Azerbaijan, or Georgia, or Kazakhstan, or Kyrgyzstan, or Ukraine, or—”
“I get it,” said Mark. What Orkhan was really saying was that some Russians, including the Russian president, considered all the former Soviet states to be within Russia’s rightful sphere of influence. “But an unprovoked invasion of Azerbaijan…I don’t see it happening.”
“Oh, it will not be unprovoked. We must speak of Nakhchivan. What do you know?”
“I was told an airstrip was built, in secret, in the south. Our satellite data picked up the construction phase, but nothing shows up now. What’s going on there?”
Orkhan exhaled loudly through his nose. Then he dipped his hand into his inner suit-coat pocket and produced a lemon-flavored cough drop. As he unwrapped it, he said, “Would you like one? I have plenty.”
“No.”
Orkhan sucked on his cough drop for a while. “And it is the CIA who has hired you to investigate this restricted area?”
“No, the Russians hired me.”
Orkhan flashed him a look.
“It’s a joke.”
“Not funny.”
“The CIA noticed Russian troop movements in South Ossetia, so they hired my firm to investigate. When the man I sent got murdered — he was also a friend — I was pulled in to figure out who killed him and why. My investigation led me here.”
“And who did kill him, this friend of yours?”
“A Russian general named Titov.”
“He is the commander of the special forces unit of the FSB known as Vympel,” said Orkhan matter-of-factly. “Promoted last year. His qualifications are questionable, but the director of the FSB is his krisha.”
Krisha was the Russian word for roof. In the Russian mafia, it meant the person to whom one paid — often unwillingly — protection money. In the Russian FSB, which often competed with the mafia in the protection racket game, it meant much the same thing.
Continuing, Orkhan said, “Titov first started paying his krisha when they served together in Afghanistan and Titov was dealing heroin on the side. His krisha was his commanding officer. This is common knowledge, everyone knows it.”
“I didn’t.”
“This is because you waste too much time with women and children, of course. As his krisha rose, Titov rose with him, played enforcer for half a dozen criminal enterprises the FSB was running in Moscow. They are all criminals, these FSB people. You are saying Titov killed your friend because of what your friend learned in South Ossetia?”
Mark hesitated. He didn’t want to bring up all the stuff about Katerina. “I think so. By the way, I know that whatever project you have going on here involves the Israelis. I tailed a couple of them from the restricted area back to the Tabriz Hotel earlier today.”
At that Orkhan laughed. “Well, at least you make this easy, Sava. I will confide in you. At this point I have no one else I can confide in.”
“What has happened, Orkhan?”
“The Russians have gotten to people in my government. I see now that, in preparation for attacking with troops, they first attack from within. As we speak, my own government is hunting me. I have lost the confidence of the president. Also, your information is correct — the restricted area is an air base.”
“Why doesn’t it show up now on our satellite photos?”
“Because it was built in such a way as to prevent it from being detected by satellites. Most of the facility is underground. The aircraft must slip into an entrance ten meters high and twenty meters long and there is an exit as well. Both the entrance and exit are shielded by overhangs covered with earth. They are invisible from above.”
“This was a joint project with Israel?”
“Yes.”
“You have pilots that can use this airfield without killing themselves?”
“Pilots? No. There are no pilots.”
“Drones,” said Mark after a time, understanding.
“Yes.”
“Israeli-built drones.”
“Yes. Herons, but the new stealth models. Of course. You can guess the rest, I’m sure.”
Mark’s pulse quickened. “The Israelis are using the drone base to spy on Iran from Azerbaijan.” Israeli-made drones couldn’t get to Iran from Israel — the distance was too great. But all of Iran would be in range from a drone base in Nakhchivan. “And in return…” Mark had to think about that, but only for a moment. “And in return, you get to use Israeli drones to spy on Armenia. And Nagorno-Karabagh.”
Nagorno-Karabagh was the disputed bit of territory over which Azerbaijan and Armenia had been fighting for over twenty years. It was currently occupied by Armenia.
“Of course.”
“And the Russians found out about the operation?”
“Almost certainly, yes.”
“And because they favor Armenia over Azerbaijan—”
“Sava, listen! It is true the Russians don’t like that our oil flows to Israel and the West, and they worry about deals we are making to send even more oil and gas to Europe, bypassing Russia. And the Russians do not want to see us gain an advantage over their Armenian pets. But that is not why they will invade. They will invade simply because the Russians are like the Armenians — when they live someplace for a little while, they begin to think that place is theirs. They forget who the land really belongs to. The issue with the drone base is secondary. It is merely an excuse.”
Mark didn’t agree with Orkhan’s blanket characterization of the Russians and Armenians, but knew it was pointless to argue. He said, “But if the Russians really are gearing up to invade—”
“It appears they are.”
“—then they need to come up with a better excuse than just the presence of a drone base. Do you think—” Mark had been staring outside the van as he spoke. He squinted, then said, “Hand me the binoculars.”
A pair of binoculars protruded from a pocket on the driver’s side door. Orkhan handed them over. “What is it?”
Mark adjusted the focus. A white minibus, visible in the flat desert that lay beyond the badlands, was approaching.
Orkhan cursed.
Mark focused on the Turkish lettering on the side of the van. “NATURE TOURS AND AVIARY EXPEDITIONS. KARS, TURKEY,” he read, adding “Nakhchivan does get birders…but I don’t think—”
“Bah! These fools are not here for birds.”
“No, I don’t think so either.”
Orkhan picked up the walkie-talkie on the dashboard and informed his men that they were about to have company. “Have someone close the first gate, now! Tell them the sanatorium is closed. And get two more men outside. Fire on the bus if it tries to pass through the gate.”
Moments later, a Nakhchivani cop burst out of the sanatorium, sprinted to his police car, and took off in the direction of the metal gate a hundred yards down the road.
The cop reached the gate and swung it closed just as the minibus pulled up to it. The driver of the bus engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with the cop. Through the dirty windows of the minibus, Mark counted twelve passengers. All men.
He studied them all as best he could. Some gray hair, but collectively they were much younger than Mark would have expected a group of birders to be. And they weren’t chatting with each other the way they should have been had their plans to visit the sanatorium been suddenly dashed; they all sat stone-faced, staring straight ahead.
One of the men inside the minibus lifted the underside of his wrist to his mouth and spoke a few words.
“Yeah, we definitely have a problem,” said Mark.
Moments later, gunfire erupted from the upper floors of the sanatorium. The Nakhchivani cop fell to the ground as the minibus lurched forward and crashed into the gate.