The Leveling

DARIA BUCKINGHAM SAT down on a bench in a little park near her apartment, took a sip of the coffee she’d just bought, and closed her eyes. It was only two in the afternoon, but she was tired. In just over three hours, she needed to show up for her third day at her new job—concierge at the plush InterContinental Hotel in downtown Almaty. These side trips outside the city were taking their toll on her. Physically and emotionally.

She tried to block the image of the slum from her mind and allowed herself to rest for a moment, enjoying the feel of the spring sun on her face. The oak trees in the park had just leafed out. In the distance, the rugged mountains of the Tian Shan poked through the white clouds that hugged their steep sides. A flower vendor sat nearby, beneath a rainbow-colored sun umbrella, and little kids swung back and forth on an orange-and-green-painted swing set.

Almaty was a beautiful city, she thought, telling herself she should notice that beauty more often than she did. In the years since the fall of the Soviet Union, it had gone from a dismal backwater dump to a wealthy center of commerce.

On a bench adjacent to her own, an old woman with dirty swollen fingers was tossing bread crumbs to pigeons. She wore old army boots, some soldier’s castoffs that she’d laced up with rough twine.

That made Daria think of the slums again.

The meeting with the director had gone well. She hadn’t made any promises, but she had seen the hope in his eyes when she’d asked what—if money was available—would be most useful to him. Even with the trace of scarring on her face, she knew she looked like someone who had lived a privileged life, someone who might actually be able to deliver such funds. Her teeth were white and straight. She dressed well, and she knew how to carry herself like a rich foreigner when she found it advantageous to be perceived that way.

Daria thought about the meeting for a moment longer, jotted down a few notes to herself on her phone, and then checked her e-mail.

The new message had a blank subject line.

She didn’t recognize the sender’s address—[email protected]—and was about to delete it, thinking it was spam. But the .tm domain indicated that the e-mail had come from a server in Turkmenistan, which struck her as odd.

Turkmenistan was one of the most insular and technologically backward countries in the world. All Internet traffic was closely monitored, so the country generated far less spam than some of the other former Soviet republics in Central Asia. Daria knew the country fairly well. Until just three weeks ago, she’d been working there.

The e-mail came with three attachments.

Another reason not to open it, thought Daria. An e-mail from an unknown sender, from a backwater country, with attachments that were probably viruses.

On the other hand, most viruses out there weren’t designed to hit smartphones. And she did know someone who was probably in Turkmenistan right now. This wasn’t his e-mail address, but…

Daria opened the e-mail. There was nothing in the text box. Which left the attachments, all JPEG photo files.

She looked around to see if anyone was behind her, anticipating that porn ads would pop up when she clicked on them. The first photo was of two men—one tall with Asian features, the other olive skinned and wearing a black turban—exchanging a briefcase; the second was of a three-story brick mansion with a tile roof, high balconies, and a large portico; and the third was a strange blurry nighttime photo that Daria had trouble deciphering at first.

She stared at the last photo for a long time, trying to make sense of it.

The center was dominated by a vertical swath of white. But it was the blurry form on the edge of the photo that really captured her attention. A hand and muscular arm were held high in the air. A single finger extended up from the hand. Affixed to the wrist was a bulky black watch trimmed in blue.

She enlarged the photo, focusing on the watch. The lousy quality of the photo made it impossible for Daria to be sure, but she could have sworn the watch was a Timex Ironman. And that the same arm, wearing that same watch, had been around her shoulders just a few weeks ago.

Decker, she thought.

Daria stared at her phone. The faceplate of the watch glowed green, as if the nightlight button had just been pushed—maybe with the hope that the day and time would be visible? It wasn’t.

John Decker was a former Navy SEAL, a freak of nature when it came to physical ability—one of those guys who Daria was sure, by the age of ten, had been able to run faster, climb higher, and lift more weight than 90 percent of guys twice his age—and an unlikely friend. Until two weeks ago, she and Deck had been working for the same private intelligence contractor in Turkmenistan. Decker had gotten her the job, pulling her away from a lousy situation back in the States. She’d been grateful that he’d thought of her.