The Leveling

“But I’ve already been questioned. I’ve already told you everything I know.”


It didn’t matter. He was a witness. There were forms that needed to be filled out, procedures that needed to be followed.

“Does Orkhan Gambar know I’m here?” he asked, just as the door was closing shut.

It was a cheerless room, with just a table, a few metal chairs, bare concrete walls that leaned in a little bit, and a stopped clock that hung above the door. As he sat down, he replayed the scene from the library in his head: Heydar struggling with the SAT practice questions, the sound of gunfire, the would-be assassin shot through the head and crumbling into an untidy heap of flesh, Heydar panicking, and the bodyguard blocking the door and calling in reinforcements with ruthless, unflappable efficiency.

Mark had just stood there until the Azeri security forces had escorted him away.

He should have noticed the gunman sooner, been more attentive to the bodyguard’s reaction, sat at a table that would have allowed him an easy exit, used a book or a chair or a pen as a weapon…

Not that it really mattered. He didn’t need to be sharp anymore. Heydar’s father had survived two assassination attempts within the past year. This latest spasm of violence was undoubtedly just a way to try to get at the father by coming after the son.

It didn’t have anything to do with him. Security on Heydar would be redoubled. Life in Baku would go on.

Mark fished his cell phone out of his pocket and checked the time—it was a little after eleven. He was starting to get hungry.

He’d cooperate with the Azeris as best he could today, but by evening he planned to be drinking a bottle of wine on the balcony of his eighth-floor apartment, figuring out a lesson plan for the senior seminar he was teaching at Western University the next day. He’d go to sleep just after the sun went down, and by morning the memory of his lousy presentation and the incident at the library would be behind him.




Heydar’s father showed up around noon, wearing a dark tailored suit and a showy gold watch that matched the gold fillings that gleamed in the back of his mouth. Although he wasn’t much taller than Mark, he was much heavier and built in a powerful, bear-like way. His nose was thick, long, and hawk-like. He smelled of aftershave.

“Get out,” said Orkhan to the guards who’d accompanied him.

The door clicked shut. To break the ice, Mark leaned back in his metal chair and said in Azeri, “I spent last night with a Russian.”

Orkhan grunted as he considered this information for a moment. His eyes, usually dead in a KGB sort of way, showed a brief flicker of interest, as Mark had known they would.

Mark had been declared to the Azeris, both when he’d run the CIA’s Azerbaijan station and when he’d served as an operations officer. As a result, he’d known Orkhan for the better part of a decade. Early on in their relationship, he’d learned that there were few things Orkhan liked better than hearing the Russians insulted.

“It was on the train back from Tbilisi,” said Mark. “I was unlucky. He was assigned to my sleeping compartment.”

“This is why you should drive.”

“He was drunk.”

“Of course he is drunk, you already told me he was a Russian.”

“He had a bottle of vodka. Dovgan. Kept me up all night.” Mark intentionally didn’t mention that he and the Russian had hit it off well and talked late into the night about Russian politics, a conversation partly fueled by the many toasts the Russian had offered and Mark had accepted. To their collective health! To love! To friendship between the United States and Russia! To the men who made the train! To blow jobs! To…

Orkhan exhaled loudly through his nose. “The drink is their religion! You should have asked for a different compartment the minute you see he is a Russian. They are as bad as the Armenians. Filthy, drunk, and not to be trusted. You should know this.”

“I never learn.” A moment of silence passed as Mark waited for Orkhan to begin questioning him about the shooting. Finally Mark said, “Heydar’s bodyguard was quick.”

“Of course.” Orkhan sat down, plumping onto a metal seat and letting out a huff as he did so. “He is one of my men.”

“Heydar is OK?”

“Ah yes, Heydar.” Orkhan spoke with a tinge of weariness. “The problem with Heydar is that he is lazy, like his mother. It’s his genes.”

“English is a hard language to learn. And the SAT is a hard test.”

Eight months ago, when the CIA station in Baku was under siege, Orkhan had done Mark a favor. To repay this favor, Mark was trying to help Heydar get into the University of Texas so that Heydar could become a petroleum engineer and help run Azerbaijan’s oil industry. The SAT, however, was proving to be a nearly insurmountable obstacle for the boy.