Behind him, were the badlands; in front, the low desert valley that led to the Aras River. His plan had been to run through the badlands, lose the Russians, then make his way back to Nakhchivan City, maybe call a cab when he got to the main highway, but God, he felt awful, and—
Mark felt for his prepaid, the one he’d stuffed down his pants. Gone. There would be no cab.
Damn.
Maybe Orkhan had stopped after all, or wasn’t that far away, he thought. He felt an almost irresistible urge to lie down right where he was, but instead forced himself to slowly jog down the road, in the direction Orkhan had gone. He’d only made it a few yards, though, when he glanced behind him.
A man was sprinting down the hill in front of the sanatorium. He was maybe a half mile away, but headed straight for the crash site. Mark rounded a bend in the road. No sign of Orkhan. He looked southeast, searching for a pass, or a gully, between the badland hills. He saw one, took a few shallow breaths as he steeled himself to the task, blinked as he wiped some sweat out of his eye, and began to run.
52
Orkhan reached the main highway and turned left toward Nakhchivan City.
He glanced in his rearview mirror. Several cars were approaching — he was traveling far slower than the speed limit — but none from the road that led to the sanatorium. As the cars buzzed by him, the occupants inside stared with alarm at the disabled van. Shortly thereafter, a cop car passed, going in the opposite direction. Orkhan sounded his horn repeatedly and brought the van to a stop. The cop executed a quick U-turn and raced up behind the van.
Orkhan collected his cell phone and handheld radio, but left his Uzi on the floor. As he stepped onto the pavement, the cop called to him.
“Get back in the vehicle.”
Instead of obeying, Orkhan strode forward. The cop put his hand on the grip of his belt-holstered gun. Orkhan, his face twisted into a snarl, ignored it.
“Stop!” ordered the cop. Then, gun drawn, “Step back to your vehicle.”
Speaking slowly and deliberately, as if issuing a threat, Orkhan said, “You will take me to Nakhchivan City.” Showing zero concern that the cop might shoot, Orkhan reached into his back pocket and produced his government identification. He held it up in front of the cop’s face.
“Sir, I—” The cop suddenly focused on the identification.
“And you will take me there now,” said Orkhan.
The cop swallowed hard. He glanced at the gun he was pointing at Orkhan and then lowered it. “Are you—”
“Yes. I am that Orkhan Gambar. Your minister of national security. And you will either do as I say — immediately — or I will have you arrested and shot.”
53
Mark glanced behind him. The Russian he’d seen running down from the sanatorium was no longer visible, but couldn’t be more than a few minutes away. He also noticed the rubber treads from his shoes were making faint impressions in the dry ground, so he jogged to a dry rocky streambed where his footprints wouldn’t show up; he was too light-headed to keep his balance on the uneven terrain, though, and he twisted his ankle and fell, which in turn caused the muscles around his rib cage to spasm.
As he lay on the rocks, curled into a fetal position, he considered the last time he’d broken his ribs, back in 1997 when he’d been hit by a car in Tajikistan. He didn’t remember it hurting this much. A little pain, which he’d alleviated by self-medicating with vodka over the course of several days. He’d only been twenty-nine years old, though. His body had been much more flexible, much more—
Get your head out of your ass and move!
He pulled himself to his knees. Using the AKS as a cane, he rose to a standing position and continued along the dry streambed, pushing himself as fast as he could.
Which wasn’t fast at all. The harder he tried, the more his injured ribs burned and the more difficult it was to breathe.
The Russian would be here soon, and he wouldn’t be able to outrun the guy. Something had gone seriously wrong with his body. Had Titov drugged him? Or had that hit he’d taken when he jumped out of the van done more damage than he’d thought?
Mark stopped, because he didn’t have the energy to go any further. He had to find cover, and now, but there was no cover to speak of. The assault rifle felt so heavy. He wanted to let it slip from his hands. Instead, he let his whole body slip to the ground. The sharp rocks hurt his knees.
He raised the rifle and aimed where he expected the Russian to appear. But after a minute, he grew too weak and he let the gun fall to the rocks. He’d have to use a pistol, he thought, just as another coughing fit wracked his body.
His chest muscles spasmed again. When the spasm subsided, he pulled the Grach out from behind his back and spit. What sprayed onto the bleached river rocks was bloodred.
At that moment, the Russian appeared at the entrance to the canyon. His eyes and rifle were fixed on Mark. Mark tried to raise his pistol, intending to shoot, but found that he couldn’t do it. As the world began to spin, the Russian became a blur. Mark slumped back and hit his head on the rocks. The sun was bright in his eyes, too bright. He tried to suck in a breath, but it was so hard. If he could just sleep for a moment, he thought, he might be able to regain his energy.
54
“Minister Gambar, to what do we owe this pleasure? If I had known—”
“I need a room. With a secure phone.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Your office will do.”
Orkhan had instructed the cop to drop him off at the gates of an unassuming government building in downtown Nakhchivan City. He’d shown his identification to the guard just inside the front entrance. Thirty seconds later, the chief of the local Ministry of National Security outpost — a man whose appointment Orkhan had personally approved — had appeared, breathless.
“Right this way, Minister Gambar. Is there a problem?”
Looking straight in front of him as he walked several feet ahead of the chief, Orkhan, his voice cold and pitiless, simply said, “Yes, there is a very big problem.”
Orkhan sat in a leather office chair, behind an oak desk that, he noted, was larger and nicer than his own back at the ministry building in Baku. He made a mental note to have the desk shipped to him, when this was all over.
On the desk was a phone. Orkhan set it on speaker, then dialed the president’s direct number.
“I’m afraid the president is not available, Minister Gambar. May I ask where you are?”
“The president is available. He is always available to his minister of national security. And no, you may not ask where I am.”
A long pause, then a nervous, “Just a minute, please.”
He was kept waiting. Orkhan imagined that even if the apocalypse were raging, the president would find time to emphasize his power over his supplicants by wasting their time.
Five minutes passed. Then the line clicked. “Orkhan.”
Orkhan leaned back in his chair. The phone was still on speaker. “Mr. President.”
“You have news for me about the traitor?”
“I know you signed the warrant for my arrest, Mr. President. I know you believe I am the traitor. Let us dispense with the ruse, shall we?”
Orkhan could hear the president breathing. He imagined that he was smoothing his mustache. What a petty, frivolous man. He had inherited the ambition and arrogance of his father, but not the great man’s foresight, or — Orkhan feared — ability to manage a crisis.
“I’m not clear on why you called, Orkhan.”
“The Russians are preparing to invade us.”