“Talk to me about Peters.”
Kaufman was silent for a moment, as if debating whether to let the Orkhan matter drop. “I’m having trouble establishing contact.”
Mark knew Leonard Peters — while studying international law at Stanford, he’d written a paper on the Iranian courts that had caught the attention of the Agency. So he was smart as hell, but the agents he’d recruited had been second-rate.
“How have you tried to establish contact?”
“Phone, embassy courier.”
“You know where he’s living?”
“I have him on Sarabski Street.”
“He also used to keep an empty apartment on Aslanov,” said Mark. “For meeting agents.”
“See, that’s why I called you, you know these things. Any chance you could swing by?”
Mark didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stared out at his balcony, where he noticed that his potted tomato plants were wilting. He made a mental note to water them when he got off the phone. They’d been a house gift from Nika and keeping them alive had become a bit of a hobby.
Kaufman said, “I can have you put on the books as an independent contractor if you like.”
There were two worlds out there, thought Mark. One was populated by normal people who believed that their lives were governed by natural laws that were knowable and consistent, if sometimes brutal. And then there was an underworld, populated by insane people who believed in no consistent set of laws, or even a consistent reality. When Mark had started with the CIA, he’d been up to his neck in that underworld. He’d even thought it was a more honest place — that the normal world was just a figment of people’s collective imagination — and that by refusing to buy into the fantasy he was mustering the courage to see things the way they really were.
Now he didn’t care whether the normal world was a fantasy, as long as he had a chance to enjoy it for a while. Which is why he’d quit the Agency.
Still, Peters could be next on the list. Someone should warn the guy.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Mark. “But don’t bother putting me on the books. I’m doing you a quick favor and getting Peters off my conscience. Nothing more.”
“You have a conscience? This is news. By the way, I’ve arranged for a little extra security.”
“No thanks.” Mark figured that if anyone had wanted him dead because of his ties to the CIA it would have happened already, when his guard was down. And besides, when it came to personnel, he thought Kaufman’s judgment sucked.
“Not for you,” said Kaufman dismissively, as if the thought of protection for Mark had never ever crossed his mind. “For Peters. I want him under armed guard from the minute you find him.”
12
Adidas, Polo, Tommy Hilfiger, Sony…hundreds of Western shops, intermixed with nightclubs and restaurants, lined Nizami Street in downtown Baku. High above, colorful advertising banners fluttered slowly in the waning breeze. The street was blocked off to cars and crowded with shoppers, which was why Mark had thought it would be a good place to meet John Decker, the man Kaufman had contracted to protect Peters.
He could see Decker’s head now, a hundred feet away, bobbing up and down above the crush of people around him. It was an unusually large head, complemented by a chiseled face and topped with soldier-short dirty-blond hair. For brief moments, when the crowd parted, Mark caught glimpses of Decker’s bright blue short-sleeved shirt, easily spotted in what was otherwise a sea of dour brown and black fabric. Equally conspicuous was the broad smile on Decker’s face.
People in Azerbaijan smiled plenty — just not while they were walking around by themselves in public.
Mark couldn’t help but smile briefly himself, thinking this was the CIA he remembered. Former Navy SEAL John Decker would be the perfect person to act as a bodyguard for Peters, assuming Peters never attempted to meet any of his agents, conduct any clandestine work, or do anything that involved blending in with native Azeris. Which was to say Peters wouldn’t be able to do anything that a CIA operations officer investigating Campbell’s death would be required to do.
Decker approached a line of cabs — mostly old Russian-made Ladas — on Vurgun Street where it intersected with Nizami. He began to look inside each one, eliciting bored looks from the cigarette-smoking drivers who were lounging around next to their vehicles.
Mark, who was sitting in his Niva behind the line of cabs, tapped on his horn, but Decker didn’t notice. So he drove forward a few feet and rolled down his window.
“Need a ride?”
Decker waved him away without making eye contact.
Mark looked out his windshield for a moment, then said, “Buddy! Get in the damn car.”
This time Decker turned.
“I’m your contact,” said Mark quietly.
Decker’s eyes widened and he gave a significant nod of his chin. He climbed in the Niva, although it was a tight squeeze for him and his head nearly touched the ceiling. He offered his hand to Mark and in a serious, I’m-all-business tone, said, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
Mark ignored Decker’s hand — he needed both of his own to muscle the manual steering. On top of that he was irritable and worried about Peters and Daria.
He estimated that Decker was in his midtwenties. One more guy out of thousands drawn to Baku by the oil money, looking to cash in on his Navy SEAL experience. Only Mark thought Decker was too late. A decade ago Baku had been like the Wild West during the gold rush. But the big security firms had long-since discovered Baku and taken over.
“You don’t look like a SEAL. You’re too big.” Six four, Mark guessed. And broad-shouldered. Guys the size of Decker were usually too slow and awkward to handle the training.
Decker screwed up his face a bit. “Are you always this friendly?”
“Are you armed?”
Decker lifted his pant legs, revealing a snub-nosed Glock holstered on one ankle and a five-inch double-bladed combat knife on the other.
Mark shrugged. “OK, John Decker. You’ll do. Let’s go find your protection detail.”
Peters’s apartment — the allegedly empty one he kept on Aslanov Street — was locked, but Mark had brought a couple of small lock-picking tools with him.
“Old-school. That’s pretty slick,” said Decker as Mark went to work. After a few minutes of watching Mark unsuccessfully try to pick the lock, he said, “You know they make electronic picks now. I trained on one a few years ago. They’re great.”
“That so?” said Mark.
“Yeah, you just stick it in and it does the work for you.”
“You got one now?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what’s your point?”
“Ah, no point I guess.”
After another minute the door swung open.
Mark, for one, wasn’t overly surprised at the state in which they found Leonard Peters. Even before discovering the body in the bathtub, he’d noted the scratch marks around the lock. Then there was the overturned ashtray in the living room and Peters’s ridiculous pipe — Mark always suspected Peters had fancied himself a bit of a Sherlock Holmes — broken in two on the living room floor.
It was a small apartment, but Peters evidently had started living there, for it had been furnished with care — supple leather couches from Turkey, a fancy espresso maker, dark blue curtains…The bed had been made. Other than the few things in the living room and kitchen that appeared to have been disturbed as the result of a struggle, nothing was out of order.
Mark went back into the bathroom and examined the body. Decker stood behind him, Glock drawn. There were gunshot wounds on Peters’s arms, but also precise shots to his head and chest, reminiscent of the clustering Mark had seen at the Trudeau House. The body rested in a seated position with one arm hanging over the side of the tub, like a modern-day Death of Marat.