PART II
27
Mark touched down in Bahrain at seven in the morning.
He used his British passport to pass through customs without having to bother with a visa, exchanged money, bought three more prepaid cell phones — though his iPod was rigged like Daria’s, he didn’t want to be dependent on Wi-Fi — and then called the embassy in Bishkek.
“You’ll never guess where I am,” he said, after being transferred to Rosten’s cell.
“It damn well better be on the way to the embassy. I spoke with Kaufman, and he spoke with the director, and—”
“Bahrain!”
“What?”
“I’m in Bahrain, just touched down. It’s nice here, Val.”
Mark was standing outside the main airport terminal. It was sunny out. Fellow travelers were milling all around him. He was tired, but he’d been able to sleep for a few hours on the plane. Maybe he’d try to find someplace where he could eat breakfast outside, he thought; take advantage of the good weather.
He wished he’d brought his sunglasses with him.
“You’re in Bahrain? Now?” Rosten sounded incredulous, as though he hadn’t heard Mark right.
“I figured, that’s where the kid was from, so if I wanted to know more about him, why not just come here, show the local cops a picture of Muhammad, and ask them to figure it out?”
“You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t do that.”
“Not yet, but I intend to. And if they can’t or won’t help, I’ll post photos of Muhammad all over Manama myself if I have to.”
Bahrain’s capital — Manama — lay just a few miles south of the airport, on the largest island of the Bahraini archipelago, which itself was situated on the western edge of the Persian Gulf. The airport was located on the second largest island in the archipelago, and the two islands were connected by a bridge.
“You’re determined to flush your life down the toilet on this, aren’t you?”
“Calm down.”
“Because that’s what you’re doing.”
“I’m calling your bluff, Val.”
“I’m not bluffing.”
“Well, regardless, I’ve listened to too much BS to feel comfortable just handing the boy over and trusting you to do the right thing. I need to know what’s going on, and then together we can make a call.”
“We’ll find you down there, Sava.”
Mark scratched the three-day stubble on his chin. It was beginning to itch. “I don’t doubt you could. But, you know, after the reception I received at the embassy last night, I put a few contingency plans in place. So finding me won’t mean you find the kid. Or end this.” He listened to Rosten breathe heavily into the phone for a while, then said, “I’m not going to wait around all day, Val. You’ve got two more seconds to decide.”
Rosten told Mark that he’d call him back after conferring with the director of the CIA.
“Actually, how about I call you back,” said Mark. “Say in a half hour.”
Mark tossed the phone he’d been using into a nearby garbage can. Then he hopped in a cab.
What a relief to be out of Bishkek, he thought, as he was being driven into Manama. The last time he’d been here, some ten years earlier, he’d been working with Near East on an arms trafficking op; it had been the height of the summer, when temperatures of a hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit were common. But it currently felt like a balmy eighty degrees or so. How pleasant.
He had the cabbie drop him off in the diplomatic section of Manama. A gentle breeze from the Persian Gulf wafted through the canyons that cut between the gleaming skyscrapers. Mark stuck his hands in his front pockets and began to walk, feeling remarkably relaxed about the whole situation. He’d dealt with CIA crap like this before. All the posturing and bluffing usually didn’t amount to much. It would all work out.
In the meantime, he was going to enjoy Bahrain.
The main island was just thirty-five miles long and some ten miles wide. The country’s culture had been defined by tact and restraint — at least until the uprising had started. While vulgar upstarts in Dubai built indoor ski areas and goofy islands shaped like palm trees, Bahrainis had built a thriving financial sector. While the Saudis to the west choked their citizens with a repressive religious regime, the king of Bahrain talked of allowing religious freedom, and even followed through on some of the talk. And while the Iranians to the north thrived on confrontation with the United States, the Bahrainis had developed deep ties to the Americans — especially to the US Navy.
Mark recalled that on the cab ride from the airport, the cabbie had actually switched on a real meter! True, the same cabbie had then tried to impose a dubious surcharge over the metered fare, but this was a small insult compared to what Mark had come to expect in Bishkek.
To be sure, he knew the island was no paradise, especially now; in the airport, he’d read that two anti-government protestors had been killed in a skirmish with the police just the day before. But Bahrain, even on the brink of revolution, was still a far cry from the third world.
He walked a few more blocks, then stopped at a Cinnabon, where he ordered a coffee and a cinnamon roll with extra frosting. He took a seat at one of the yellow metal tables that had been set up outside and ate his roll while basking in the warm breeze. After a full half hour had passed, he called Rosten back.
“OK, Sava. We’ll deal.” Rosten sounded more resigned than angry.
“Good news.”
“You’re not making any friends at Langley, though.”
“What’s going on, Val?”
“How familiar are you with the political situation in Bahrain?”
“Familiar enough.”
Mark knew that Bahrain was a monarchy, one that had been ruled by the same Sunni Muslim royal family for hundreds of years. The problem was that most Bahrainis were Shia Muslims. The Shias — or Shiites, as they were sometimes also called — weren’t happy about that arrangement.
Not happy at all.
“Good. Then I’ll make this simple. Muhammad is a Sunni.”
“Muhammad is a two-year-old.”
“A two-year-old who was born to a Sunni family. For political reasons, he was kidnapped by a group of Shias. We got involved, in a way that — in retrospect — might not have been the best call on our part. But now we want to help reunite the kid with his extended family in Bahrain.”
“His parents really are dead?”
“Yes.”
“How’d they die?”
“Let’s just say it wasn’t from natural causes. And no, the Agency had nothing to do with it.”
“Huh.”
“This is what you wanted, right? To know you were doing the right thing for the boy? Well, here’s your opportunity. You get to reunite the kid with his family. So pat yourself on the back, Sava. I’ve arranged—”
“Back up a bit — kidnapped for political reasons?”
“The specifics involve issues you don’t need — and probably don’t want — to know about.”
“How and when was he kidnapped?”
“I’m going to try to arrange for you to meet with someone who was taking care of Muhammad before the Shias kidnapped him. He should be able to provide whatever proof you need to convince you that the child really belongs with him.” Rosten paused, as if expecting Mark to weigh in. When Mark didn’t, he added, “The only thing I require in return is that you not mention the CIA’s role in this other than to confirm that, once we learned you had the child, we immediately worked to facilitate the process of getting Muhammad back to his family.”