The Leveling

Thompson turned back to Mark.

“He was working for Holtz, here in Turkmenistan,” Mark added. “A few days ago he disappeared. I think his disappearance may have something to do with why I was targeted in Baku.”

Thompson exhaled and tapped the steering wheel. “We kept a few tabs on Holtz’s team. If this Decker guy’s the same person I’m thinking of, I can tell you two things about him—he used to go drinking at the expat pubs, and he’d jog practically a half marathon nearly every morning. That’s about all I remember from the reports. He wasn’t a focus.”

Mark smiled, reminded of why he’d liked Decker. No native Turkmen ever went jogging. If you wanted to stand out in Ashgabat, jogging was a good way to do it. But it sounded like just the kind of thing Deck might do. The guy was a fitness nut, in better shape—despite his nighttime activities—than anyone Mark had ever known.

Thompson said, “I can ask around about him. That much I’m willing to do. But you’re still going to the airport.”

Mark opened the car door and stepped out. “Just tell the Agency I screwed you over. Believe me, they’ll buy it. I’ll deal with the consequences when this is over. Not your fault.”

“I’m warning you, Sava. Don’t do this.”

Mark took one last look around, inspecting the surrounding buildings. It was a hazy day, the sun was bright, and the air felt thick in his lungs. Benches lined the perimeter of the square surrounding the arch, but only a few of them were occupied. All told, even though it was the middle of the day, he could see no more than ten people, half of whom were soldiers.

He hoped Daria was out there somewhere, though. The original plan had been to wait until noon, e-mail Alty8 instructions to come to the base of the Arch of Neutrality instead of the mosque, and then go just close enough to the arch to flush out whoever showed up. Mark had figured that whoever did would be thrown off by the sudden change of venue and that the soldiers guarding the arch would provide some protection. He also knew that the square was always empty, so it would be easy for Daria to watch the situation unfold from a distance. Finally, since the arch was in the center of the city, there would be plenty of places to run to after giving it a quick brush-by.

Mark still hoped to execute a version of that plan, so he turned to Thompson and said, “I’m sorry.”





31




DECKER LAY ON his back in a low crawl space, naked, blinking, nearly blinded by the light that filtered through the interstices of the deck planks above him, and hyperventilating from the pain engulfing his body. After a moment he forced himself to crawl out to the edge of the deck. As far as he could tell, he was on the side of a modest split-level house that had been built into the side of a hill. He’d gotten lucky, because he’d popped out in a spot where the basement floor was nearly at ground level.

The sun hit his face, and for a moment he just lay there, hypnotized by the warmth, not caring that someone might see him.

Eventually he looked around.

The house was situated near the bottom edge of a bowl-shaped ravine, beyond which rose jagged snowcapped peaks. Juniper and tall narrow aspen trees ringed the lower parts of the ravine and lined the banks of a small stream that cut through its center. Looking up, he could see that the top of the ravine consisted of an uneven line of jagged broken rocks, so unforgiving, exposed, and lonely that Decker’s spirits sank. Climbing up unnoticed would be out of the question.

From underneath the house, he heard the distinctive creak of the trapdoor being opened.

What he needed was water. Water and a car.

Two cars sat parked on a long dirt driveway—a green Peugeot and a black Khodro—but they were a hundred feet away and completely exposed.

From inside the pit, Decker heard voices and then cries of alarm. He had to move quickly, but deliberately. No mistakes.

A detached garage stood in back of the house. Decker limped up to it and yanked open the side door. No car, just a large oil stain on the floor where one had been. A pair of baggy, grease-stained work pants, a collection of gardening tools, and a brown jacket hung on one wall.

He put on the work pants as best he could with his cuffed hands. They only came down to the middle of his shins, but the waist was OK. He grabbed the jacket and a pair of sharp pruning shears, wishing he’d also been able to steal shoes.

As he limped out the back of the garage, a door smacked against the side of the main house. He heard boots pounding on the deck, then more cries of alarm. He plunged into a dense cluster of juniper trees at the base of the ravine and watched the panic unfold. One of his captors raced down the dirt driveway. Another appeared on the deck and started shouting orders. Yet another ran off toward the floor of the ravine, head low like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent.





32


Ashgabat, Turkmenistan