The Leveling

“I think you have the wrong number.”


“You said you were Mark Sava. John gave me this number. He said he sometimes stayed here, that you were his friend.”

A lightbulb clicked on in Mark’s head.

“Are you talking about John Decker?”

Eight months ago, when the CIA was under siege in Baku, Mark had worked with Decker. They’d gotten along well enough professionally, and Decker had proved his worth many times over. Then three months ago, Decker had shown up uninvited at Mark’s apartment and asked whether he could crash there for a week or so, seeing as he was between contractor jobs. Mark hadn’t been thrilled with the arrangement, but he’d said OK.

“I’m trying to reach him.”

“He’s not here,” said Mark. “Honestly, this isn’t a good time.”

“I haven’t heard from him in two weeks, no phone calls, no e-mails, nothing. I’ve left a million messages for him, he just doesn’t answer.”

Mark heard a couple of dogs barking. Speaking in a thick New England accent, a woman said, “Tell him about my birthday.”

Mark recalled that Decker had grown up in the north woods of New Hampshire. Born into a military family. That female voice in the background reminded Mark of Decker.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Mark. “I haven’t heard from him in months, so if you were in touch with him two weeks ago, then your contact information would be a lot more up-to-date than mine.”

“We’re just a little bit worried here. It was his mother’s birthday yesterday. He always remembers to call.”

“You know, Mr. Decker…I can tell you’re worried, but really there’s nothing I can do.”

“If you hear from him, will you tell him to call home?”

“Absolutely. Now, I’m sorry, but you’ve caught me at a rough time. I have to go.”




Mark tried to call Orkhan on the way to the airport.

Orkhan’s secretary claimed not to know where her boss was or when he’d be back, so Mark explained the situation with his computer and backup disks and said he expected the Azeri government to help recover his stolen belongings.

Orkhan needs to look into it personally, he said. Personally!

The receptionist said she’d relay the message.

Mark figured Orkhan was probably listening in on the conversation, blowing him off.

He took stock of what he had—a change of clothes, a black diplomatic passport that he was supposed to have turned in when he left the CIA, a credit card, and $456 in cash because the Azeris had let him stop at his bank in downtown Baku to close out his checking account.

He still hadn’t decided where to go. He thought back to that morning, drinking a cup of thick Turkish coffee at an outdoor café in Molokan Gardens in downtown Baku. That was just before meeting Heydar—what?—five hours ago? Everything had been so pleasantly normal.

He used to thrive on chaos when he was younger, but now…now he was getting too old for this crap.

The Ministry of National Security agent driving the car weaved in and out of the heavy traffic, stopping and starting with sudden, aggressive jerks.

Mark turned in his seat to look back at the city. Several green-domed mosques were sandwiched in among gleaming new skyscrapers. In the distance, bleak desert hills—dotted with oil derricks—marked the southern edge of the city. He’d always liked thinking of Baku as an exotic oasis in the desert, secluded from the wider world. He loved the medieval walls of the old city, the long promenade along the Caspian with its carnival rides and tea shops, the views from the heights at the southern end of the city, the fourteenth-century caravansary restaurant where he’d often met with visiting diplomats in smoke-blackened private rooms.

He was romanticizing the place, he knew. Much of Baku was just a dump. But it had been his dump.

He told himself to let it go. Moving on might be better for him in the long run anyway.

What would anybody want with his damn book, though? What good would it be to them? What was the point, just mindless destruction?

He thought about how Buddhist monks would spend days constructing an intricate sand painting, only to destroy it right after they’d finished. The exercise allegedly helped them embrace impermanence. Which was exactly what he needed to do.

Let it go.

Embrace impermanence.

Those fucking Russians. I bet it was the fucking Russians.

They were obsessive about their history; they’d probably been monitoring him and decided they didn’t like what he was writing. Maybe instead of embracing impermanence he’d just hunt down the Russian dickwads who’d stolen his book and rip their damn throats out.

He started to think through the logistics of how he would launch such a hunt, and the money and time and risk involved, and the odds of it turning out successfully, and then he sighed.




Orkhan pulled up to the airport in his armored black Jeep Commander as Mark was being escorted to the international terminal.