Because the Tabriz was the tallest building in all of Nakhchivan City, boasting unparalleled views of most of the downtown from the top floors, it was of both strategic and tactical military value. As a result, the Russian army intended to occupy it; Titov himself had made the recommendation.
The risk, however, was that as soon as the Russian army crossed the border, the Azeris would think to fortify the Tabriz, particularly the upper floors. So Titov had further recommended that he and his men secure the top floors early, just before the invasion started, so that the Russian army wouldn’t encounter any unnecessary resistance when they finally did arrive.
Titov continued to peck away at his dinner — chicken served with a pomegranate walnut sauce, boiled potatoes, and wild herbs that had been picked in the mountains the day before — until he observed a cook leaving via the single elevator that serviced the restaurant.
It was nine-thirty. The kitchen had closed a half hour earlier. Titov guessed there was another cook still in the back, cleaning up. Perhaps a dishwasher too. He didn’t want to take more life than necessary, but considered it likely that everyone else in the restaurant would stay until the last diners — in this case, he and his men — had left.
He downed the last of his beer, then nodded to a short man with a lazy eye who sat across from him.
One of the waiters, who’d been watching from nearby, approached the table.
“Another beer, sir?” he asked Titov.
“Please.”
“Where is the bathroom?” asked the lazy-eyed man.
“This way, sir,” said the waiter. “Come, I will show you.”
Titov’s man followed behind the waiter — until they passed under the security camera that was affixed to the ceiling above the door to the men’s room, at which point he reached underneath his baggy tracksuit jacket, withdrew a silenced snub-nosed pistol, calmly shot the waiter twice in the back of the head, then fired three more quick shots into the rear of the security camera.
The sound of the camera being blasted apart attracted the attention of the second waiter and the pear-shaped supervisor. As they turned toward the sound, Titov shot the second waiter twice in the back, then once in the head, before aiming his pistol at the supervisor, who by now had noticed the dead waiter by the security camera.
As the manager dropped to his knees and began to pray—Allahu Akbar—Titov shot him.
Addressing his two remaining operatives, who had remained seated, Titov said, “The kitchen.” He drew his finger across his throat and made a clucking sound. “Go.”
Soon, two quick spitting sounds came from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of metal pots falling to the floor.
To the man with the lazy eye, Titov said, “Go get the gear.”
Many of Titov’s men had dispersed, first to cut the telephone cables that led from Nakhchivan City to surrounding Azeri military installations, and then to rendezvous at the northern border to assist with the invasion. Those who had accompanied him to the Tabriz had checked in using their fake Russian passports — they were traveling as businessmen negotiating a deal for the import of crop fertilizers — and had taken three rooms on the twelfth floor, directly below the restaurant. Their luggage had been loaded with weapons and communication equipment.
“Yes, sir. And the prisoner?”
“Him too. We’ll set up a communications station there.” Titov pointed in the direction of a baby grand piano. Most of the restaurant was carpeted, but the red marble floor around the piano might offer some protection from small arms fire coming from below, should it come to that.
The operative who had disposed of the cook in the kitchen was standing in front of the elevator door.
“You,” Titov pointed. “Station yourself in the stairwell on the twelfth floor. Alert us when guests enter and leave their rooms. Don’t interfere with them unless you have reason to believe that they intend to interfere with us.” To his remaining operative, Titov said, “You, make sure the roof is clear.”
He assumed the Azeris on the lower levels would eventually realize that something was amiss on the restaurant level. There was the broken security camera. And the employees who had never left. But the Azeris were lazy, and lacked personal initiative; it was likely that by the time anyone was sent to investigate the anomalies, it would be too late — the invasion would already be well under way.
60
Mark first became aware of sounds — a faucet running, a door closing, clipped words spoken in Russian. He was comfortable, and warm, and enjoying the sense of weightlessness; he sensed that the sounds posed no threat to him, that they were there purely for entertainment.
But then, some errant synapse fired in his brain, and he thought, Lila is hungry, she needs to be fed…
Lila, where was she? He wanted to check the bassinet at the foot of the bed, but he couldn’t see; it was too dark in his bedroom. Lila had to be there, but…now he couldn’t hear her, couldn’t even hear her breathing. He couldn’t hear Daria breathing either. Only this strange intermittent tapping sound, as though a mouse were scurrying around between the walls.
The lamp, where is it? To your left on the end table. Mark opened his eyes, froze for a moment, then shut them again. He forced himself to remain perfectly still.
Your breathing, control your breathing, if you breathe too fast he’ll know you’re awake.
He focused on what he had just seen, tried to reconstruct the picture in his head.
Seated five feet away was one of Titov’s operatives — the tall gaunt one with narrow-set eyes who had followed Mark out of the Tabriz Hotel earlier in the day. He was tapping on some sort of tablet computer device.
Mark recalled the attack at the sanatorium, and trying to escape with Orkhan, and collapsing in the desert. But after that, nothing.
No, not nothing. An image of a needle flashed across his mind — they’d slid it into his arm — and then an enormous stainless-steel needle, this one plunged into his chest. What in God’s name had that been?
Control your breathing. Don’t show anger.
Breathing, thought Mark a moment later. He was breathing easily.
And he didn’t feel drugged up any more. He focused his thoughts on his chest. There was pain there, pressure, but it was bearable. In the left side, he felt something foreign, pressing against his shirt. He sensed tape on his arms. Holding an IV line in place?
Think.
Broken ribs, jumping out of the van driven by Orkhan, slamming into that rock on the side of the road. He’d been having trouble breathing, he’d spit up blood.
But he could breathe now, which suggested the needle in his chest — now that he thought about it, he realized it was right about where his left lung should be — might have been there to help him. To drain away blood so that he could breathe again?
Which would mean the Russians had saved him. But why? It certainly hadn’t been an act of mercy.
So that Titov could continue to interrogate him, of course.
In his mind, Mark tried to study the scene he’d glimpsed when opening his eyes. He’d focused on the Russian, but what else had he seen? He recognized the décor of the room they were in. It was…institutional, like…
The Tabriz Hotel. That’s where he was. He recognized the slate-gray carpet and the heavy ivory-colored window shades and the black lacquer table and the floral-patterned bedcover. There was more, though. He was seated, but not in a normal chair; he’d glimpsed footrests — he studied the mental image in his head — and a bit of a wheel by his foot.