Over the years, Mark had grown increasingly confident of his ability to detect when someone was lying to him. Sometimes the signs were obvious — forced smiles, inability to make eye contact, a statement followed by a cough or some other covering gesture — but sometimes they weren’t, and then he just had to rely on his gut. Other than exhibiting tension, Abdullah wasn’t showing any obvious signs that he was lying.
But the old man was lying now. Of that Mark was certain.
Dammit, he thought. Why would Abdullah lie about something as basic as who the kid’s nanny was?
The answer was obvious, of course — because divulging the identity of the real nanny would jeopardize the transfer of the child to Abdullah. Otherwise, there would be no reason to lie.
Dammit.
When it came to royal families, Mark figured Muhammad could do a lot worse than the one that ruled Bahrain. They were known, for the most part, for being reasonably enlightened, at least when compared to the other rulers in the region. Not so enlightened that they wouldn’t torture political prisoners — they did — or censor the press and the Internet — they did that too — but they did allow people to vote for members of parliament, they didn’t kill or imprison gays, women were permitted to drive, and people were generally free to practice whatever religion they choose — especially if you weren’t a Shia.
So he wasn’t opposed to handing Muhammad over to the royals. But he was opposed to being lied to.
Mark said, “This nanny. May I speak with her?”
“Unfortunately, no. There were complications with her operation.”
“And you don’t know anyone named Anna?”
“No. If you don’t speak Arabic, perhaps you misunderstood what the boy was trying to say.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then he may have been trying to say something to you in English. He is being taught English at our local school. He goes every Sunday.”
Mark got the idea that Abdullah was offering that bit of information as further evidence of his relationship to the child.
“Isn’t he a little young for school?”
“Not too young to learn a language. At his age, the mind is like a sponge. This is the kind of opportunity we provide for the boy. Now speak to me of Muhammad and how you intend to return him to his family.”
Mark considered his options. And what Daria would do in this situation. After a moment, he asked, “Can you make arrangements to fly Muhammad from Bishkek back to Bahrain?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll have the boy transferred to your representative first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Why not now?”
“He’s not in Bishkek now.”
“Where is he?”
“With people I trust somewhere in the countryside, a good distance from the city, in hiding. I don’t even know myself exactly where. The reason for this is the boy’s own security, of course.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t take much time for me to reach my people and for them to bring the boy to the city, but it will take some. The roads are awful, and the country is large. I’ll have him brought to the lobby of the Hyatt Regency hotel in Bishkek at six tomorrow morning.” Mark checked his iPod. It was nine forty-five in the morning. “Will that give you enough time?”
“More than enough.”
“Bishkek is three hours ahead of Bahrain.”
“It will not be a problem.”
“The boy has no passport or documentation. I’d recommend a private plane.”
“I understand. And your arrangements. Would you care to make them from here?”
“I would not.”
34
Rad Saveljic groaned as he clutched his stomach. Maybe it was cancer, he thought. Because he couldn’t imagine how spicy food and a bad salad could make him feel this awful.
After breakfast at the Connaught, he’d caught a rickshaw to the vacant Delhi lot where the new BP office building would be located. Within minutes, he’d thrown up right in front of his boss. Then he’d thrown up again in the rickshaw he’d hired to take him back to his apartment. Then he’d dry heaved over the toilet for twenty minutes before stripping off his clothes and collapsing on the bed in his boxer shorts and undershirt.
Now, after trying to fall asleep for the better part of an hour as his stomach writhed, he threw the single cotton sheet off his body, stood up, and put his hand up to the wall-mounted air conditioner gurgling above his bed. He knew it. The air coming out of it wasn’t cold, not cold at all!
The building superintendent had come over the day before and supposedly fixed the thing. For a while Rad had thought he’d detected slightly cooler air coming out of it, but now the air conditioner was functioning more like a heater — and a loud one at that.
It was early afternoon and it seemed hotter than it had been in days past. Ninety degrees at least, and this in November for crying out loud. The pollution seemed thicker, too. And even though it was the middle of the day, it was hotter inside than out. He felt as though he were in a steam room.
Rad was half-tempted to take a rickshaw right back to the Connaught Hotel and check himself in for the night. But that would cost him a hundred and seventy bucks. He’d already been spending too much on food at the Connaught.
Better to just crack a window, see if he could get a bit of a breeze going.
But then he’d have to worry about the monkeys.
They were all over the city, begging and stealing food, terrorizing little kids. The day he’d moved in, a gang of them had clustered in his backyard. At first, he’d thought they were cute. He’d even taken a picture of one of them and texted it to his fiancée. How cool is this! Monkeys! Then he’d tried to feed one of them half of an apple he’d been eating. The little bastard had snapped at his finger and seconds later a half a dozen other monkeys had gathered around him, screeching.
He’d been driven back inside his apartment. Shaking. They’d scratched at the rear door and windows. Ever since, he’d kept out of the back garden and made sure to keep all his windows and doors shut tight.
But it was so hot in here. Surely everyone in Delhi didn’t keep their windows shut twenty-four hours a day. He’d overreacted. Reassuring himself that the monkeys weren’t going to climb through his window, Rad slid off the bed, walked to a nearby double-hung window, unlocked it, and slipped the top part down. A puff of air — not a cool one, but cooler than the stale air in his bedroom at least — wafted across his face. He stood there for a minute, enjoying the light breeze and listening for monkeys.
He heard nothing.
Another open window would make the air flow even better, he thought — get a cross draft going. He walked into his living room, but none of the windows there would open. They’d either been painted shut or become swollen shut from the humidity. So he cracked the door that led out to the back garden — just a few inches — and made sure the screen door was locked.
Then he went back to bed. This time, he was able to fall into an uneasy sleep.
35
As a young operative, Mark had never felt much sympathy for those in the CIA old guard who’d sat behind their desks at Langley, mourning the end of the Cold War. At least with the communists, there had been a defined enemy — the Soviet Union — and an ideology — communism — to fight. Now there wasn’t, which made things more complicated, so…
So adapt, Mark had thought. Yes, the world’s morphed into a big chaotic cesspool of sectarian violence and intolerance. Deal with it or retire.