Mark walked back into the living room.
“We ready?” asked Rosten.
Mark walked to his balcony door. A Kyrgyz cop car had pulled up a few feet behind the black embassy Mercedes on the street below. “This shouldn’t be open,” he said. He closed the door and locked it. “OK, let’s blow.”
After Mark reset the burglar alarm, he and Rosten trudged back down the narrow flight of stairs. Out on the street they were greeted with a blast of wind and the smell of wet oak leaves rotting in the street gutter. The marine security guard opened the rear door of the idling Mercedes for Mark.
Suddenly sirens started sounding.
Two cops piled out of the Kyrgyz cop car and started running toward Mark.
A second Kyrgyz cop car, closely followed by a third, barreled down the one-way street, going the wrong way.
The Kyrgyz cops — both fit older guys — charged Mark. One had his gun drawn. The other carried a set of handcuffs.
The cop with the gun called out Mark’s name and ordered him to stop.
“What’s going on, Sava!” said Rosten, his voice wary.
Speaking rapid-fire Kyrgyz, the lead cop explained that the police were there to arrest Mark. Rosten couldn’t understand a word, so Mark translated while allowing himself to be handcuffed.
“No,” said Rosten. “No, Sava. No. I’m not letting you walk off like this.”
“I have some outstanding parking tickets. It’s probably that.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you Sava?”
“Parking tickets in Kyrgyzstan are no joke.”
Rosten put his hand on the elbow of the man who’d handcuffed Mark. “You’re not going anywhere.” He turned to the marine guard. “A little help, here?”
As the marine closed in, three more Kyrgyz cops jumped out of the two cop cars that had just screeched to a stop in front of the Mercedes.
Rosten pointed a finger at Mark. “You tell them that if they don’t release you now, they’re going to have a diplomatic incident on their hands.”
Mark turned to the cops and said in Kyrgyz, “This guy is crazy. Watch for weapons, and don’t let him get close.”
The Kyrgyz with the gun shouted for Rosten to back off.
“I think he’s intimating that you’re interfering with an arrest,” said Mark.
The three Kyrgyz cops who’d just arrived formed a wall between Mark and the marine guard. Rosten stood behind them, glaring furiously at Mark.
The marine pulled out his wallet to show some identification to the Kyrgyz cops, but he was ignored. The cops pushed past Rosten and led Mark to one of the waiting patrol cars.
Rosten pulled out his black diplomatic passport. “I’m a diplomat, get it? If you take him, there’s going to be hell to pay.” He repeated the same words in Arabic, but the Kyrgyz cops didn’t understand him.
“I’ll probably be able to resolve this pretty quickly,” said Mark. “I’ll call you when I know what the deal is.”
“Up yours, Sava. You’re not fooling anyone.” Rosten turned to the marine. “Get in the car. We’re following him.”
The marine did as instructed, but before the Mercedes could pull out, one of the Kyrgyz cops drove up and blocked it from moving. The guy behind the wheel of the Mercedes laid on the horn and held up his middle finger, but the cop was unmoved.
Another Kyrgyz cop helped Mark into the police car that was pointing the right way down the street.
As they drove away, lights flashing and siren blaring, Mark could see Rosten staring him down. He’d made an enemy, of that there was no doubt. But he also sensed he’d been able to preserve — barely — his position with the CIA’s Central Eurasia Division while still remaining loyal to Daria. On balance, he’d done all right, he thought.
“Thanks,” he said to the Kyrgyz cop.
As soon as they’d turned onto the busy Kiev Street, the cop tossed a set of keys back to Mark.
“The one for the cuffs is the small silver key.”
“I got it.”
“Where do you want to go?”
Mark glanced behind him as he unlocked the cuffs. “Here’s fine.”
23
Mark walked to the Shanghai. The place was empty inside — except for Belek, the old Kyrgyz, who was sitting in the back at one of the narde tables. The buffet station in the center of the restaurant had been cleared of everything except some rice noodles and steamed dumplings; Mark knew they would be recycled for lunch tomorrow.
Mark approach Belek, offered a brief nod of acknowledgment, and sat down across from him. The old man’s brown sport coat was fraying at the elbows, and the blue wool sweater he wore beneath it was pilling. He had the narrow and high-bridged nose of a Caucasian, but his dark brown eyes were almond-shaped, with epicanthic folds that made them look Chinese.
A cup of Chinese tea sat before him.
“Thank you,” said Mark.
Belek smiled. The last time Mark had seen that happen was when the Uzbek had set the record for consecutive narde losses.
“Your business is always appreciated,” said Belek. “Even on short notice.”
Mark had first met Belek five months earlier, on the same day a powerful Kazakh senator had requested an emergency meeting with CAIN. Because Decker and other CAIN operatives had been busy at the time, Mark had asked Serena Bamford for the name of someone local who might be able to help.
Bamford had given him Belek’s name. The former chief of the Bishkek police department and older brother of the current chief, Belek had brokered a deal between CAIN and the Bishkek police department. That deal had been followed by others.
It was only after working together for a month that Mark and Belek had discovered their mutual interest in narde.
Mark pulled his iPod out of his front pocket. “I’ll transfer the funds now.” He knew he could pick up free Wi-Fi reception from the fancy coffee shop next door.
“There is no rush.”
“Actually, there is. That’s why I asked to meet. I need a flight out of the country. I can’t go through the military or civilian airport at Manas.”
Leaning back in his seat, Belek frowned and cupped his tea with both hands. “This embassy official you wanted to escape from. Will he cause trouble for the police?”
“He’ll try to, but he won’t know the right people to cause real trouble. He doesn’t know Bishkek.”
Mark doubted that Bamford, or any other Agency assets in Bishkek, would try too hard to help Rosten. They’d make a show of trying to, but it would be just that — a show.
“When inquiries are made…”
“Tell whoever is making them that I was processed for multiple parking ticket violations and released.”
Belek’s eyes fixed on Mark. They were calm eyes — probing and observant. Eventually, he said, “This flight. When do you need it?”
“Now.”
“Where will you be going?”
Mark told him. It was a bit of a crazy move on his part, but he had the money, and the time, and Bamford had asked him to take the fight out of her station. Besides, it would be awfully nice to get out of Bishkek for a while.
He’d think of it as a vacation.
“Can you drive to Osh?” asked Belek.
Osh, the second largest city in Kyrgyzstan, was only a hundred and eighty miles south of Bishkek as the crow flies, but twice that far by road, and the roads were lousy.
“I was hoping for a helicopter. A police helicopter. This is a matter of some urgency.”
Belek frowned again.
“The price is negotiable,” added Mark. “I’d also consider it a personal favor.”
The Kyrgyz were a tribal people. Most were descendants of nomads who used to wander the mountains, moving from place to place as they sought out good grazing grounds for their livestock. Some were still nomads. A culture that prioritized protecting and promoting the members of your extended family and friends had developed as a result; helping your brother meant your brother would help you, and together, with luck, you both might survive.