The Leveling

“I’m not stupid.”


Mark turned back toward Ashgabat and spent the next half hour explaining everything he knew about why Decker had been in Turkmenistan—the counterfeit money, the rivalry between the United States and China and Russia, CAIN’s role, how Decker and Alty had wound up working together…he didn’t hold back a thing.

At one point Nuriyev put his hand up, as if to say stop, you are telling me that which I should not be allowed to hear. But Mark kept talking. He figured he had nothing to lose. The secrets he was divulging weren’t ones he’d been charged with keeping.

He finished by telling Nuriyev that he, Mark, used to work for the CIA but no longer did. And that anyway, the CIA wasn’t the all-powerful force that Nuriyev seemed to think it was.

“Even if your colleague wasn’t working for the CIA, he used my brother in an investigation that was paid for by the US government. My brother is eighteen years old. He should not have been involved. Your government used him. This John Decker used him.”

Nuriyev spoke emphatically, but with his sweaty shirt and rumpled hair, he looked unsure of himself. A hot breeze started blowing and his shirt billowed up.

Mark was thirsty. Which made him think of another time when he’d been thirsty.

A few days after Decker had showed up in Baku, looking for a place to stay, Mark had needed to drive out to the mountains west of the city, to interview a 102-year-old Azeri man who’d worked with Soviet intelligence in the 1920s. It was research for his book. Mark had been reluctant when Decker asked to come along, but Decker had proved to be a decent traveling companion—he’d just bought a copy of Interview with the Vampire from a secondhand bookstore in Baku, and had read for most of the car ride out. Which had been fine with Mark—small talk annoyed him.

The only problem was that the final seven-mile stretch of road to the village where the old man lived had washed out the week before. Finishing the journey on foot wouldn’t have been a big deal, except that Mark took a wrong turn early on—a mistake he only figured out after he and Decker had been climbing for three hours. They’d been forced to slog back down the way they came. And then start up the right trail.

The thing was, Mark had been sweating like crazy, and he hadn’t packed any water for the trip. After several hours of hard hiking, Decker had offered him his half-full water bottle. Mark had refused it at first, but Decker had insisted that he didn’t need it because he had a second one in his pack.

Mark had been grateful for that water. But then he realized he’d never seen Decker pull out a second bottle. So when they finally got to the village, and Decker went to take a leak, Mark had opened Deck’s backpack. There was no other water bottle. Decker had given away his only one.

Mark had never mentioned the incident, but he thought about it now. A guy who would give his only water bottle away to a jackass who had just led him hours up a wrong trail wasn’t the kind of guy who would intentionally screw over an eighteen-year-old kid.

Mark turned to Nuriyev.

“Did Decker know how young Alty was? Would Alty have told him?” Mark let that sit for a moment. “Listen, my colleague and your brother are missing. My government won’t lift a finger to help get them back and neither will yours. I’m trying to help on my own.”

After seeming to consider Mark’s remarks for a while, Nuriyev finally said, “When Alty started working at the British Pub, he became obsessed with all things foreign. And the more he learned, the more unhappy he became in his own country.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Those photos you showed me. I believe they were taken with Alty’s iPhone. I told Alty the phone was a stupid waste of money, but he insisted on buying it.”

“Was it a new iPhone?” Mark remembered that Daria had said the quality of the photos was poor.

“No. Used. He didn’t have money for a new one.”

They stood in silence for a long time. Eventually Mark said, “You said you haven’t heard from your brother in four days.”

Nuriyev didn’t respond.

“But the bartender at the British Pub said Alty has been gone for a week.”

“He wanted me to try to save his job. To make an excuse for him. So he called me. That was the last time I heard from him.”

“Where was he when he called?”

“Iran.”

“Where in Iran?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was my colleague with him?”

Nuriyev sighed. “Come, we must drive to south, toward the mountains.”





45


Washington, DC