“Miss Buckingham?” asked the older man. He had a long neck and straight black hair that had been parted to the side, and his hairline was slightly receding, resulting in a prominent widow’s peak. He spoke with an American accent, and carried himself like an American — head thrust forward, more overtly aggressive than most of the Chinese intelligence agents Daria had encountered.
“What do you want?”
“We need to talk to you,” he said, adding, “We’re from the US embassy here in Bishkek.”
That she believed. “You’re Agency.”
Neither man denied it.
“Why were you breaking in?” she asked.
“We knocked first. Where are you coming from?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Your prior ties to the US government require that you cooperate with us now, Ms. Buckingham.”
That much was true, Daria allowed. Just because she’d been kicked out of the CIA didn’t mean all her obligations to the Agency had ended. Her original contract had made that clear. There were restrictions on what she could say and do that would apply for the rest of her life.
The young redhead maneuvered himself so that he was between Daria and the exit. Daria didn’t move to stop him.
“I’m fully aware of my obligations,” she said. “What does that have to do with you breaking into my home?”
“We’ve been told you have a child. Not a child of your own. An orphan.”
“And what of it?”
“The US government has an interest in this boy and believes he’s in danger. We’ve been sent to protect him.”
“By breaking into my home?”
The Asian opened his palms. “We were simply searching for the boy. As we were ordered to do.”
“He’s not here. I just returned from dropping him off with friends. And you don’t have to worry about him. He’s safe.”
“Others don’t see it that way. Listen, we don’t have much choice in the matter. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t fight us on this. All we want to do is recover the boy and bring him back to the embassy, where he’ll be safe. Can you help us?”
Daria pretended to consider the matter. “If I take you to the boy, can I go with him to the embassy? He’s young, and scared. No offense, but neither of you guys looks like the mothering type.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” said the Asian.
It was clear the redhead didn’t get a vote.
Daria paused again, as though hesitant. “OK. I just brought him back to Balykchy.”
“Back to Balykchy?”
“Yeah. He was taken from an orphanage there.”
“We haven’t been briefed. Is he at this orphanage now?”
“No, I left him with friends who live near it. I wasn’t sure it was safe to bring him back to the orphanage itself. I was afraid someone might try to take him again.”
The Asian sighed. “Then let’s get going.”
Daria led the way down the staircase. When they got to the street, she began to talk rapidly about what had transpired earlier in the day, drawing the attention of the two CIA officers away from the rope dangling from her balcony.
15
After getting off the phone with Holtz, Decker took off his climbing harness, put on his hiking boots — which he’d stored in a bag near the base of the cliff — shouldered his backpack, cinched it tight, and began to jog down the trail that would eventually lead him to his Ford Explorer.
Jessica had already packed up, and was running a few steps ahead of him, stepping from rock to rock as she rapidly navigated the steep, narrow trail. Her pack was strapped tight to her back, her dirty-blond hair tied back with a blue bandanna.
She’d been a good sport about having to abort the climb, Decker thought. And supportive, without being overly doting, after he’d told her about his father.
Decker’s phone rang. The normal ring tone told him it wasn’t his mother, but he figured it might be one of his brothers.
Still jogging, he pulled out his phone and pushed Talk, wondering as he did so whether this was the call — one of his brothers telling him he was too late.
“Deck, it’s Mark.”
“Oh. Hey.”
“What are you doing?”
“Ah, climbing. Actually, I’m descending. Had to stop the climb, something’s come up.”
As if he hadn’t heard the bit about something coming up, Mark said, “You in country?”
“Yeah, just south of Bishkek.”
“Great. Listen, I need you buddy.”
“You know, this is kind of like a really bad time.”
Decker was still jogging. He kept his eyes on the trail.
“We’re talking emergency.”
“I’m hoping to catch a flight to—”
“Delay it. I’ll cover any costs for the switch. We’re talking five-alarm fire.”
“It’s not the money…”
Decker was about to tell Mark about his father, but then he stopped himself. When had Mark ever called him for help before? When had he ever used the word emergency?
Never.
Dammit, he thought. Mark was his friend, arguably his best friend.
Mark didn’t like to climb. Or hike. Or pound beers at the expat bars and talk about football, or do a lot of the things Decker liked to do. But Mark was a friend in the sense that he was a guy Decker had been able to rely on in the past — if Mark hadn’t bailed him out of a tight spot in Iran last spring, he’d be dead — and knew with absolute certainty he could rely on in the future.
Mark said, “I wouldn’t need you for long, I hope. Maybe for just a few hours, maybe for a day or two.”
“Damn, Mark, it’s just that…”
Mark didn’t say anything.
“OK,” said Deck. “I’ll make this work.”
What are you saying? You can’t make this work.
“Thanks. I need you to power down your phone, remove the battery, then get rid of any other electronic devices you might be carrying. Go to the place where I taught you to play narde. Take extensive SD measures before you get there. When you arrive, you’ll find a package.”
SD was short for surveillance detection. Which told Decker that Mark was mighty worried about something. “What is it?”
Tell him you can’t do this.
“Not over the phone. I can’t be sure yours is secure. You’ll know it when you see it. Just be gentle, remove it immediately from the site, hide it, and protect it. We’ll communicate through our mutual account. Check it every two hours. I’ll deliver more intel as soon as I can.”
By mutual account, Decker knew Mark was talking about an anonymous Gmail account to which they both knew the password. It was their backup way to communicate — by saving draft messages to it — just in case normal lines of communication became compromised.
“When—”
“Now. Go there right now.”
“It’s gonna take me some time, buddy. I’m not far miles wise, but it’s a hike to the car and then roads are shit. I mean, I’ll rush, I’m rushing now, but—”
“Just get there as soon as you can. I have to sign off.”
16
Mark hung up on Decker, exhaled, and stared at his phone — hoping to see a text message from Daria. Then CIA station chief Serena Bamford opened the door to the conference room.
A heavyset woman in her mid-forties, Bamford had a full head of wavy dark-brown shoulder-length hair, a pale complexion she’d inherited from her Estonian grandparents, and an unflappable, perpetually cheerful demeanor that masked her considerable intellect. After graduating with a master’s in Russian studies from the University of Michigan, she’d been tapped by the Agency and had gone on to serve as an operations officer in Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Moscow, and Uzbekistan before being given her own station in Bishkek two years ago.