“We are backing no one.”
“Aryanpur is running his operation from somewhere on Neft Dashlari. In Azeri waters. People will conclude that you are backing him whether you are or not. I’m doing you a favor by helping you to pinpoint his base. Instead of having an international incident explode under your nose, you can get ahead of the game, take out Aryanpur’s men yourself, and then sell all the intel you collect back to the Americans. Not a bad deal for you.”
“And you expect what, in return for this…favor?” A mean, but not entirely unfriendly, smile formed on Orkhan’s face.
Mark told him.
Orkhan appeared deep in thought. After a time he said, “Go back to your car. I need to speak with Aliyev.”
77
The aging Russian Mi-2 charter helicopter that transported Mark and Amato to Neft Dashlari was piloted by an Azeri Air Force captain who wore Levi’s jeans and a T-shirt that said San Francisco Sucks.
The two Azeris crewing the helicopter were also dressed like Americans; both were armed with M16 rifles.
Amato was wearing the same suit he’d had on since leaving Washington. He’d combed his wild gray hair, but his five o’clock shadow had grown into a stubbly beard. Around his waist he’d strapped a military belt with a large Glock semiautomatic pistol. He was a big man, and the juxtaposition of the gun and the business suit and the unshaven face made him look more than a little unhinged — and dangerous.
They flew east, screaming along the coast to the end of the Absheron Peninsula, and then over open water for another thirty miles until Neft Dashlari came into view. From the air it looked like a giant mutant spider, with a central mass of buildings surrounded by a vast snarl of stilt roads that led to oil derricks. Even from the air, Mark couldn’t see the eastern end of it.
The helicopter banked right and for five minutes followed a derelict stilt road that occasionally dipped below the shallow water. They shot past a few dilapidated industrial buildings, some on stilts, some on small landfill islands. But then they hit a section where the road had been repaired and there were a few bright new buildings clad in yellow-painted steel and emblazoned with the names of oil companies Mark didn’t recognize.
The sky was overcast and threatening rain.
Amato held a GPS locater in his hand. “We’re close!” He had to shout to be heard above the roar of the rotors.
Mark turned his back to Amato and allowed himself to be handcuffed.
Minutes later, a floating helipad came into view. A large white circle surrounding a yellow bull’s-eye had been painted on the black rubber surface.
Mark reminded the pilot not to even touch down and the pilot flashed him a thumbs-up. A small guard shack sat in one corner of the landing pad. A man emerged from it and shot off a single flair.
“Good to go!” said Amato.
As the helicopter hovered a few feet above the landing platform, Amato grabbed Mark by his shirt collar, raised him to a standing position, and shoved him out the bay door. With his hands secured behind his back, Mark couldn’t steady himself. So when he stumbled onto the landing pad he fell on his face.
For a moment the roar of the helicopter was deafening and the wind intense. But soon the noise died down to a point where Mark could hear the lonely sound of the sea lapping up against the floating platform. He felt the butt of Amato’s gun on the back of his neck.
A second man emerged from the guard shack. Both he and the first carried AK-47s and were dressed like soldiers, but with no identifying marks on their uniforms.
Amato spoke to them sharply in Farsi. One of them raised what appeared to be a digital camcorder. He focused on Amato’s face, and then Mark’s. Not long after, the soldier with the camera received a call on his radio. Mark understood enough to realize that he and Amato had been positively identified.
He was led to the little guard shack where they stripped him naked, cutting away his shirt because of the handcuffs. They searched every pocket and inch of fabric. Then one of the men cold-cocked him on the side of his head. Mark thought he blacked out for a moment.
“Open your mouth!” ordered one of the soldiers.
His body was searched. When they were satisfied that he wasn’t hiding any physical paraphernalia, they dragged him back out onto the helipad.
Blood from Mark’s nose ran in small rivulets down his chest. His nakedness, and the rough wet rubber of the helipad beneath his bare feet, made him feel vulnerable and defenseless.
The Iranians spoke to Amato in Farsi and pointed to a flat-bottomed inflatable boat that was tied to the edge of the helipad.
“Get in,” said Amato. He gave Mark a push. At that point the Iranian soldiers stepped up, grabbed Mark by each of his arms, dragged him to the boat, then shoved him forward so that once again he fell flat on his face. Someone threw a blanket over him. The two Iranians climbed in the boat.
“Stay down,” said Amato.
Mark turned his head so that his left eye could see through a slit in the blanket. They motored quickly along a route that took them under several stilt roads and then followed a newer road along which men were working and derricks were actually pumping. Little patches of oil floated all over the water. He saw a white van driving along one of the stilt roads.
After a while one of the Iranians kicked him in the gut and pulled the blanket completely over his head so that he couldn’t see anything. When the boat finally came to a stop, and the blanket was pulled away again, Mark found himself looking at a dismal concrete-block Soviet-era building that measured about a hundred feet long and was surrounded by water. The small scrap of landfill on which it sat had been reclaimed by the rising Caspian, leaving the ground floor about two feet under water. The stilt road which used to provide access to the building had fallen into the sea, leaving behind only a few rotting posts.
In the distance, maybe a quarter mile away, Mark saw the vague shape of a newer lime-green building with a shiny silver roof.
One of the Iranian soldiers tied the boat to a rusted metal stanchion, then waded in knee-deep water to a door. A new soldier emerged from inside the building and a frantic conversation about where to take Mark ensued.
“Stand up.” Amato jammed the butt of his pistol into the back of Mark’s neck. “Get out of the boat.”
Mark stepped into the water. It was warm and smelled of oil. Beneath his bare feet lay an algae-covered concrete staircase. He slipped a bit before righting himself.
Upon entering the building he saw two Iranian soldiers, one of whom punched him in the gut before dragging him down a hallway.
He imagined he was back in Baku, in his apartment, on his balcony. The sun was setting. It was warm. Pain was just an illusory sensation that his mind could shut down if it needed to, he told himself. Put it aside.
The soldiers took him to a cramped room — an old dorm, Mark thought — with a bare minimum of space for the two Soviet laborers who would have been crammed into it back in the day. After hitting him again, the Iranians secured his hands to a bolt on the floor. Because his hands were cuffed behind his back it was a struggle to keep his head above the two feet of water sloshing about in the room. Eventually he realized that if he just took a deep breath, and then relaxed and let himself slip fully under until he needed to take another breath, he’d be better off.
Oily water slipped into his ears. The muffled sounds echoing throughout the building had an unreal and distorted quality to them. He heard a door slamming and what could have been more yelling. But no sounds of motorboats or gunfire, which is what he was hoping to hear. He wondered whether he’d pushed his luck too far this time, and whether Amato had even activated the GPS signaling device on his phone.