Trying to recall some of his own memories from when he’d been a two-year-old made Decker think of his dad again. The guy hated hospitals and couldn’t stand being cooped up. Being bedridden must be killing him.
Decker exhaled, then twisted around looking for Jessica’s phone, which she’d placed by her head next to a bottle of water. He navigated to the e-mail account he and Mark were using to communicate. Since they were high above the cell towers near the lake, the reception here was decent.
During the day, he’d checked that e-mail account at least once an hour. But it had been nearly two hours now since he’d last looked. His hopes weren’t high. He’d resigned himself to having to call his family again the next morning and make another excuse for his absence. By tomorrow night, though, he’d be making his excuses to Mark.
To his surprise, there was a message.
Take package immediately to Bishkek. Further instructions regarding delivery of package to follow shortly.
“Jess, Jess, wake up,” said Decker, gently shaking her shoulder. “We’re outta here.”
55
Bandar bin Fahd returned to his suite at around eleven that evening. Hidden under the bed, Mark heard him pour himself a glass of what he imagined was Laphroaig. A thirty-minute conversation in English followed — with, Mark gathered, a London-based employee of Fahd’s private equity firm.
Fahd began with an update on a 180-key hotel in London he was considering purchasing, then went on to talk about what the turmoil in Bahrain might mean for one of his firm’s current investments — a water park south of Manama. He sounded nothing like the whoring, drunk idiot Mark had hoped he’d be. After Fahd showered and listened to the BBC world news for ten minutes, the lights went out. Mark swept his finger over his iPod. It was nearly midnight.
He started thinking about Rad.
He’d seen his brother all of three times since his mother’s suicide. The first time had been just two days after it had happened. He’d come back home, not because he was tired of being homeless — he wasn’t — or wanted to reconcile with his father — he hadn’t, but because he’d been concerned about Rad and his youngest brother.
But he needn’t have been.
The woman his father had been “counseling” down at the Eastern Orthodox church was caring for his brothers — the same woman his father married six months later.
The second time Mark had seen Rad was a full seven years after the suicide. Mark had just received his first paycheck from the CIA. He’d come back to New Jersey to check on his brothers, to see if they needed anything now that he had something to give. One of the priests who’d remembered Marko had arranged for him to meet them at church after Sunday school. Mark had asked Rad and his younger brother whether they were doing OK. They were. He’d asked whether they needed anything. They didn’t. Not from Mark, at least — indeed, they’d hardly remembered him.
And then there had been that lunch in New York City fifteen years ago. After that, there’d been a couple of phone calls, and Mark had sent some money when Rad had graduated from college. But they’d never seen each other again in person.
So why are you doing this?
Because he’s your brother.
A few shared genes, that’s all that was, thought Mark. What mattered was the relationship between two people, not the fact that they were related. Human beings and mice shared a lot of genes but nobody — or almost nobody — went around thinking they owed anything to mice. Why should it be any different with humans you shared a few genes with?
Intellectually, Mark couldn’t think of a good reason why it should be different. But it was. He wondered where Rad was, whether he was still thirsty, still panicking. Probably.
Hang in there, brother.
At one in the morning, Mark received a text message from Larry Bowlan:
Ready.
He inched his way out from underneath the bed. Fahd’s breathing was steady, and he snored lightly.
Experience had taught Mark that it was almost always better to proceed slowly and deliberately in an operation like this — and to shut down the natural impulse to get it over with quickly just because you felt exposed. So he timed his micro-movements to Fahd’s breathing, moving slightly each time the Saudi exhaled.
It took him five minutes to make his way out from under the bed, and another two before he was standing next to Fahd. By now not just his movements, but his own breathing was tied to Fahd’s.
Though all the curtains in the room had been pulled shut, just enough dim light from the street seeped through so that Mark, his eyes now fully adjusted, could see through the gloom. Fahd had a dark neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a white sleeping robe and had pulled a single sheet up to his chest, having cast the heavier blankets to the side. His hands were folded on his stomach.
This was a disciplined man, Mark thought. Odd that he would use prostitutes as much as he did, but then people were odd. And the Saudis sure did have some screwed-up ideas when it came to women.
Mark positioned one hand just above Fahd’s throat, and the other above Fahd’s head, inches from the pillow. He waited for the Saudi to start his exhalation — better to attack when the lungs were empty — and then struck with precision and speed.
The palm of his right hand came down on Fahd’s throat as his thumb and fingers pressed down on Fahd’s carotid arteries. At the same time, he used his left hand to rip the pillow out from under Fahd’s head and press it down over Fahd’s nose and mouth.
Mark leaned down, exerting just as much pressure as was needed but no more. The Saudi fought for maybe thirty seconds or so, then went limp — knocked out, but not dead.
Mark immediately released his hands from Fahd’s neck, reached beneath the bed, and pulled out a roll of duct tape from his suitcase.
He used a bed sheet to wrap the Saudi up, as if swaddling a baby, and then bound him with the tape. Just as he was finishing, Fahd began to regain consciousness. Mark slipped a pillowcase over Fahd’s head, pulled out the Makarov he’d taken from the dead bodyguard, racked the slide quickly and loudly, and said, “I need you to be quiet and compliant. Nod if you understand.”
Fahd stopped struggling. Moments later, he nodded.
“I’m going to continue to bind you. If you fight me, I’m going to knock you out again. If you yell, I’ll have to silence you quickly. You understand what that means?”
Fahd nodded again.
“But if you handle this like a professional, I will too, and I promise you’ll be free within the next twelve hours. It’s all up to you. Do we have an understanding?”
Fahd nodded, and didn’t put up a fight as Mark finished binding him.
“Stand up.”
Fahd tried to.
As he did, Mark said, “I’m going to pick you up.” He crouched down, placed his shoulder at Fahd’s midsection, and struggled to hoist the Saudi up onto his shoulder in a rough approximation of a fireman’s carry.
Mark made his way slowly to the door, which he opened with one hand while steadying the Saudi on his shoulder with the other. Along the way, he grabbed the bottle of scotch.
Before exiting the room, Mark listened for footsteps in the hall. Hearing nothing, he stepped into the hall, cast a wary eye at room 516, where he suspected Fahd’s bodyguard was sleeping, and turned right. He walked fifty feet before stopping at a utility closet, which he unlocked with the master key. Inside was a large laundry cart with canvas sides.