The Leveling

Mark’s minder led him to the back of Orkhan’s car. Orkhan opened the door and Mark climbed in.


“I’ve been speaking to Heydar.” Orkhan frowned deeply.

The back of the car was sealed off from the chauffeur in front by a plate of soundproof glass.

“And?”

“And I have concluded I was too quick to judge the boy. Heydar found out that you were leaving and he was gravely disappointed. He considers you his best teacher.” Orkhan paused, as if preparing to reveal some important bit of information. “He now tells me he thinks he can pass this SAT if he studies harder.”

Given the look of stoic pride on Orkhan’s face, Mark decided not to mention that the test wasn’t pass-fail.

“I sometimes get frustrated with him, and forget that he is just a boy,” said Orkhan. “I was not interested in my studies at that age either.” He shook his head.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find another tutor,” offered Mark.

“Heydar doesn’t want another tutor. He wants you.”

For a brief moment, Mark though Orkhan might be saying that he could stay in Azerbaijan. Maybe this whole mess could be put to rest right now. Maybe—

“He asks that when you get to America, will it be possible to do a videoconference once a week?”

A long moment passed. Mark reminded himself that one should never burn one’s bridges unless the enemy was directly upon you. Orkhan wasn’t the enemy. But still.

Orkhan added, “I will pay, of course, for all the equipment, and for all the charges. If you require a charge yourself, that will be no problem provided it is reasonable. You have already repaid your debt.”

He looked outside to the airport. In the distance, at the end of one of the runways, he could see the top of a mound of twisted, weed-strewn metal, the remains of previous plane crashes that had been swept off the runway and left to rust. He was going to miss this place.

“I’ll call you,” Mark said. “When I’m settled.”

“Heydar will be grateful.”

That resolved, Orkhan unlocked the door of the Commander, a sign that it was time for Mark to leave.

“What about my computer?”

“What computer?”

Mark explained about his apartment, and his missing laptop and files. “Didn’t your secretary mention it?”

Orkhan said, “Of course I will have my men look for it. Anything they find will be stored with the rest of your belongings.”

“My book was on that computer. It means a lot to me.”

As Mark was stepping out onto the sidewalk, Orkhan said, “Next time you should back up off-site.”

“What?”

“Back up off-site, you know, through the Internet. Heydar tells me about this—he is not always as stupid as he seems. The young, they know these things.”

“I’m only forty-four. That’s not old.”

Orkhan shrugged. “Have a good trip, my friend.”





13


Baku, Azerbaijan



THE PERKY TWENTYSOMETHING woman at the Azerbaijan Airlines ticketing window informed Mark that there were no direct flights to the States, but that a red-eye was leaving for London in three hours. From there he could catch a flight back to Washington.

If that was where he wanted to go.

It had been nearly three years since Mark had been stateside. The thought of going back now felt to him a little like going back to imperial Rome after a long stint manning a lonely outpost in the German hinterlands. It wasn’t that he’d gone native, as some in the CIA had feared. But it was true that being abroad for so long had changed him. He suspected he knew how to navigate the intricacies of Azeri culture better than his own.

Back home, things were more complicated, more personal. There was too much lingering rancor.

“Sir?” prodded the woman.

Mark pictured the sterile halls of CIA headquarters in Langley. He imagined being hooked up to a polygraph when he first showed up, and then being debriefed by a bunch of young, well-intentioned analysts who’d never been to Azerbaijan. Did he really want to go back to that?

But Baku had changed since he’d first arrived. The airport terminal was modern and clean, having been recently renovated. At his local grocery store, the Russian checkout lady was no longer reflexively rude. There were giant malls, 3-D cinemas, and wireless hot spots all over the city. Armani and Tiffany had invaded years ago.

With all the oil money sloshing around, the idea that Baku was still the hinterlands was a fiction. Christ, he could see the sign for the airport Holiday Inn from where he was standing. He’d been hiding in a remote corner of the world, but the world had found him.

Langley, he thought. It would only be for a few days. Inevitably he’d run into people he knew, but that too could be minimized. But then what?

“Yeah, get me on the flight to London,” he told the ticketing agent. “But route me all the way to Washington, DC, if you can.”

“What class will you be flying, sir?”