The Leveling

THE MUD-BRICK HOUSE rose up like a little knoll on the surface of the flat grassy plain.

Behind the house, an old pickup truck had been driven into a drainage ditch next to an outhouse and a solitary apple tree. A cow stood in the wooden bed of the pickup, unable to lie down because of the way she’d been tied to the cab. Goats had wandered through a hole in the stick-fence enclosure and were grazing on either side of the road.

Li Zemin, chief of mission for the Guoanbu in Ashgabat, pulled up in a jeep with his driver.

He was a tall man with sunken cheeks and an angular jawline. His lips were pressed together in a tight, controlled line that was neither a smile nor a frown, and his alert-looking eyes suggested intelligence. Although he held no military rank, his uncle—the man who’d raised him from the age of two—was a high-ranking army general and member of China’s powerful Central Military Commission. Partially because of this connection to power, but also because rumors of Zemin’s ruthless management of the Turkmen Guoanbu had reached the army, the special forces Chinese soldiers who stood in front of the house snapped to attention as Zemin passed by.

Zemin tipped his head in acknowledgment. Then he ordered one of the soldiers to get the cow down from the pickup truck and set it free to graze in the surrounding grassland.

His inspection of the site was perfunctory. The men who had been killed in the raid were Chinese Uighur separatists who had been harbored by the Taliban, then driven by the Afghan government across the border into Turkmenistan.

As Zemin was paging through a Qur’an that had belonged to one of the separatists, checking it for handwritten codes that the military might have missed, a call came through on his satellite phone. When he saw where it was from, he excused himself and walked alone back to his stripped-down Chinese-made Hafei minitruck.

He picked up the phone, spoke his name, and then listened to the circumstances of John Decker’s escape and recapture.

“I must also inform you that the interrogation is not going well,” said the caller. “My men are not properly trained for such work.”

“Perhaps it is possible to get men that are?” Zemin was careful not to let sarcasm seep into his tone.

“Certainly. But not men that I trust. Understand, I did not anticipate that you would be followed. Had I known this to be a possibility, I would have made different arrangements.”

I did not anticipate you would be followed.

Over the years, Zemin had learned to consider his emotions as he might a wild dog on the street, as something outside of himself that one should keep an eye on but not be controlled by.

But the American John Decker had followed him. That Zemin couldn’t deny.

And that failure had been compounded by the Guoanbu’s inability to contain Sava. Yet.

“I will have two men for you within twenty-four hours,” said Zemin.

“Set a flight plan for Tehran, divert to Karaj. I’ll have them met at the airport so they won’t need to go through customs.”





42




DECKER WAS BROUGHT back to the house from which he’d escaped, stripped, and thrown to the basement floor. His hands were once again handcuffed and his legs bound with rope. Two armed guards stood over him at all times. After a few hours, a two-man crew arrived carrying an enormous drill with an eighteen-inch bit attached to it. Decker worried for a moment that it was to be used on him, but the men just pulled up the trapdoor and descended a ladder into the pit. He heard the high-pitched whine of what sounded like the drill piercing metal.

The man in the black turban came down to the basement just after the men with the drill had emerged from the pit.

“I have made new arrangements for you.”

Decker ignored him, as he always did. He kept his eyes focused on the arabesque swirls in the carpet, trying to shut down his ability to hear.

“You will have new friends soon. Look at me!”

Decker pretended that he was still outside, climbing a mountain.

Someone kicked him in the stomach.

Orders were given, prompting one of the men to throw Decker face-first down the steps into the pit. He saw that the hole he’d dug out had been filled in. And that the door to the safe was open. A guard followed him down and tried to grab him under the armpits, but Decker was feeling stronger from the food and drink, and as he stood he twisted and head-butted the guard in the nose.

The guard was taken by surprise and fell back. Decker was on him instantly, using his head like a sledgehammer to pound the man’s face.

It was futile, though. The guard had no gun to steal, and two more guards were in the pit within seconds. Though they beat the hell out of him, Decker didn’t regret it. If he was capable of fighting back, he’d fight.

Keep pushing.