Spy for Hire (4 page)

Mark jogged back to his Mercedes, reloaded the Dragunov, laid the rifle across the passenger seat, and threw the car into drive. A minute later, he was pulling up behind the Camry.

Two men stood outside the car, looking wary and frustrated as they stared at their flat rear tire. The older of the two—Mark guessed he was in his fifties—was bearded and wore a dark blue suit, shiny black dress shoes, and a bright red tie; the younger twentysomething had just a hint of a mustache and wore dark gray slacks and a white dress shirt. Both men glared at Mark as he pulled up behind them. The one in the suit gestured to the road, indicating that Mark should continue on his way.

Mark rolled down the window of his Mercedes, leaned out, smiled, and with great enthusiasm, yelled out to them in Kyrgyz, “You have a flat tire! I will help you!”

The man in the suit said something that Mark recognized as Arabic but couldn’t understand.

The younger man replied in Turkish, “We are not in need of assistance.”

Mark understood Turkish perfectly well. Indeed, most Central Asian languages were Turkic-based, including Azeri, a language he’d learned to speak fluently years before. But there were big differences between all the regional dialects, just as there were big differences between Latin-based languages like Spanish and French and Italian. So he knew he was on safe ground pretending not to understand Turkish.

Mark repeated in Kyrgyz, “I will help you!”

He saw the tousled black hair of a child poking up above the rear seat of the Camry.

In Turkish, the younger man said, “Leave us, sir. I tell you, we are not in need of assistance.”

Mark climbed out of his car. “Do you have a spare tire?” He eyed both men, looking for odd bulges that might indicate one of
them was carrying a concealed firearm. He saw none, but something about the way the older man in the suit carried himself—a hint of arrogance that Mark had found to be common in people who were confident in their ability to defend themselves—raised his hackles.

“Sir,” said the older man in Turkish. “I must insist that you leave us.”

Mark glanced up and down the road. No cars were visible in either direction. He stuck his hand through the open driver’s side window of his Mercedes, grabbed his rifle, and pointed it at the older man.

“Both of you on the ground, hands clasped behind your necks.” He spoke in Turkish now too. His tone and expression had changed from that of village idiot to one of bored, steely competence.

“We are guests in your country, sir. This is no way to treat guests.”

Muslims were known for showing deference to guests. Given that Kyrgyzstan was a Muslim country, it wasn’t a bad angle to work, Mark thought. In theory, that is. If a random act of highway robbery was what you were trying to avoid.

Mark pointed to the shoulder of the road. “This isn’t my country, neither of you are my guests, and I’m not here to rob you. Both of you, on the ground. You can use your hands to lower yourselves but keep them in sight at all times and once you’re down I want them clasped behind your necks.”

The two men glanced at each other, then at Mark. Inside the car, the child was quiet.

“What is it you want?” said the younger man. “If it is money—”

“I just told you what I want,” said Mark.

“There is a child in the car.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I cannot leave him alone in the car while you—”

Mark was getting tired of this conversation. “You’re not in a position to make demands.”

The older man in the suit glared at Mark with an unyielding stare as the younger man rushed forward. Mark backed up, aimed quickly, and shot the younger man in the foot. It all happened in less than a second.

The older man didn’t even so much as flinch, or show any concern whatsoever, as his colleague began hopping on one leg, howling in pain.

“Both of you on the ground.” Mark watched as they awkwardly lowered themselves into the dirt. He hadn’t wanted to use the gun. Not with the kid in the car. Not without knowing the full extent of what was really going on. “Spread your legs wide.”

“I have a wallet,” said the older man. “Inside is over three thousand dollars, US bills. Take it, and leave us.”

“Hand it over.” Mark noted that the older man wore a watch on his right wrist, which meant he was likely a lefty. “Reach for it, slowly, with your right hand. No sudden moves.”

The man did so, then began to open his wallet and extract the money.

“Hand the whole thing over.”

Mark grabbed the wallet when it was offered up and flipped it open. It was stuffed with cash—US hundred-dollar bills.

But what Mark really found interesting was the driver’s license. It was green and white, with a photo of the man in the lower left-hand corner, and was covered with Arabic script—except in the top right section, where, in English, it read
KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA, MINISTRY OF INTERIOR, DRIVING LICENSE
.

“Huh,” said Mark, eyeing both men. “You both Saudis?”

Neither man answered.

“Is the kid a Saudi?”

Still no response.

Mark used his phone to snap a photo of the driver’s license, and then tossed the wallet, and the cash inside it, back to the older Saudi.

He pointed to the younger man. “Hand yours over.”

After confirming that the younger man was also a Saudi, and taking a photo of his driver’s license, Mark walked back to the Camry and pulled open the rear door. Sitting behind the passenger seat was a boy Mark guessed was about two years old. His black curly hair was in need of a trim, and his dark brown eyes were wide with fear. A seat belt was tight around his waist.

The boy wouldn’t look at him.

Mark searched his limited knowledge of Arabic. He settled on
sadiq
, which meant
friend
. He pointed at himself as he said it.

“Don’t you dare touch that boy!” called out the Saudi that Mark had shot. “You know not what you do.”

Mark had a bad feeling about this. But he’d promised Daria. “Who is he? Why did you take him?”

“He is my nephew. He comes from a powerful family. He was kidnapped.”

“From Saudi Arabia?”

“That is not your business.”

“What family?”

“That is not your business either. But I can tell you I am here on behalf of the boy’s family.”

Mark sighed. “You can’t just steal a child from an orphanage.”

“We only stole what was stolen from us.”

“If he really is your nephew, and he really has been kidnapped, then you need to go back to the orphanage, apologize, file the appropriate paperwork, and wait for things to get sorted out. That’s the way it’s done, even in Kyrgyzstan.”

Mark turned back to the car and unlocked the boy’s seat belt, causing the boy to flinch. Mark extended his hand. When the
child didn’t respond, Mark leaned inside, wrapped his left arm—the one that wasn’t occupied with the rifle—underneath the boy’s armpits, and gently lifted the child to his chest.

As he walked back to his Mercedes, the boy began to cry and squirm. Not a good situation, thought Mark. Not a good situation at all. He saw the boy turn and look back toward the Saudis. Screw it, thought Mark. Regardless of what he’d promised Daria, he was going to let the kid decide.

He put the boy down on the ground and stroked the child’s head while keeping the rifle pointed in the direction of the Saudis.

“Hey buddy, I’m not going to hurt you. We’ll sort this all out.” Mark spoke Kyrgyz because he didn’t know how to console the boy in Arabic. “If you want to stay with these men, you can.” Turning to the Saudis, Mark said, “Talk to him. If you guys are his family and I think he wants to go with you, I’ll let him.”

Though Mark was no longer holding the boy, the child made no move to approach the Saudis. Instead, he stood there crying, looking more desperate and scared than ever.

The Saudi with the shot foot called out to the boy in a soothing voice. Mark couldn’t understand what was said, but the boy didn’t appear to be persuaded. If anything, he leaned in closer to Mark. Then the Saudi spoke more rapidly in Arabic. The boy remained unconvinced. When the Saudi’s tone grew harsh, prompting the boy to cry even harder, Mark leaned down, picked the kid back up, and walked to his Mercedes.

Before setting the boy down in the car, Mark opened the trunk. Inside was a first aid kit that Daria had bought him a few months ago. She’d put it in his trunk along with a wool blanket and a spare flashlight. Mark, while appreciating the kindhearted gesture, had thought it a little overkill. The hunting rifle was the only emergency item he’d packed.

Now, however, he was glad for the first aid kit. He dropped it to the ground.

“Stay down until I’m out of sight.” Looking at the Saudi with the shot foot, he said, “When you do get up, you’ll find some bandages in this kit. I’m going to take the child now, but if you really are here on behalf of his family, I suggest you make your case to the orphanage. The people who run it won’t know where I am, but I’ll check in with them. If you’re telling the truth, then I’ll make arrangements for a
legal
transfer.”

5

“It was Holtz!” said Daria. She called as Mark was pulling away from the Saudis. Bruce Holtz was the owner of Central Asian Information Networks—or CAIN, for short—the spies-for-hire firm that Mark had been working with for the past seven months. “
He
brought the boy to the orphanage. Yesterday. He just dumped him at the front desk.”

“Why?”

“You tell me.”

“Ah…”

“What’s that noise?”

“I have the boy. He’s crying—”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I was going to—”

“I told you to call me as soon as you—”

“Two minutes, that’s how long I’ve had him. Two minutes. And you know, I’m trying to be nice to him, but he’s upset and… Daria, I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.”

Mark explained how he’d taken the child away from the Saudis. At gunpoint. He had to speak loudly so that he could be heard over the boy’s crying. “Wasn’t a good scene. And, you know, maybe the reason the kid only speaks Arabic is because he’s a Saudi. Maybe those guys really were here to take him back to his family.”

“Is he OK?”

“He’s not happy, but he doesn’t seem hurt. He’s right next to me. I’m looking at him now.” Mark glanced at the child
sitting next to him. He was a bit pudgy, in a baby-fat sort of way, with cheeks that were healthy and full. His baby teeth were straight and white and he had a cute round nose. Though scared and confused at the moment, he appeared well cared for. Mark tried to muster a friendly smile, but the boy was looking down at his clenched fists as he cried. “We’re headed back toward Bishkek.”

“You have him in the front seat?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he wearing a seat belt?”

“Ah, no.”

“He should be in the back seat at least.”

Daria sounded flustered.

“You know, I’m kind of trying to prioritize what I worry about right now.”

“If you get in an accident—”

“I’m not gonna get in an accident. Talk to me about Holtz.”

“When I asked Nazira how the boy—”

“Does he have a name?”

“Muhammad.”

“Great, that should help us identify him.”

Muhammad was the most popular boys’ name in the world.

“When I asked Nazira how Muhammad came to the orphanage, she told me a big American dropped him off yesterday. She said he was wearing a belt buckle in the shape of a football helmet. And that he had a goatee. And—”

“OK, that’s Holtz.”

“One of us has to call him.”

“Maybe I should handle it,” said Mark. Before starting her orphanage project, Daria had worked briefly for Holtz, and it hadn’t gone well. “I’m kind of headed his way anyway.”

CAIN’s headquarters was located at Manas, a major US air base just north of Bishkek.

“I don’t want Holtz anywhere near Muhammad.”

“Then hustle back to Bishkek, and you take Muhammad while I meet with Holtz. Besides, the boy needs someone who can understand him and I’m not doing so well on that front.”

Daria wasn’t fluent in Arabic, but Mark was certain she could do better than he was managing to do. He glanced at Muhammad again, who was now twisting his shirt up into his fists.

Mark didn’t connect with kids the way Daria did. He had no experience with them and had no idea how to put them at ease. But he wanted
someone
to put Muhammad at ease. No little kid should be scared; no little kid should have to get shuffled from an orphanage to a cynical middle-aged spy with a beat-up car, a two-day beard, and a gun.

“All right,” said Daria. “I’m already halfway there, probably just a little bit behind you. Meet at our place?”

“I’ll be there.”

6

Kyrgyzstan