The Leveling

Mark hadn’t told Decker about the extent of the destruction. Mainly because he hadn’t wanted Decker to feel bad about having initiated it.

“The e-mail you sent me was intercepted. So your Chinese Guoanbu buddies in Ashgabat arranged for someone to kill me. My place got completely trashed and I got tossed out of Azerbaijan. It was a disaster. I lost my job, my book, and my home all in the span of a few hours.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Me too.”

“Hey, I tried to ditch Alty’s iPhone after I sent the e-mail, but I fucked up. It was kind of a tight situation.”

Mark thought about Alty’s brother Nuriyev and all the pain that would result from Alty’s death. “I’ll bet.”

“No hard feelings?” asked Deck.

“We’re good.”

A break in the clouds allowed a few slivers of sunlight to penetrate the dark sky. The light sparkled as it hit the blue water, and then a burst of wind stretched the sail taut, so that the water rushing off the bow bubbled like a fountain.

Mark began to think of all that had happened since leaving Baku, and how little he still knew about what had really been going on. The situation was too fluid, too layered, too complex. There were limits to what one washed-up spy—or for that matter, an old ayatollah or a Chinese Guoanbu chief, or even a supreme leader—could understand. Why kill yourself trying?

He exhaled deeply, and instead began to think again of Daria, and of what Decker had just said about her.

That was another situation that he’d thought was insurmountably complicated. But for a moment he allowed himself to consider the possibility that things had changed.

When he’d first met Daria, she’d been a young, naive idealist. And he’d been a cynical, burned-out spy. But since then, a leveling of sorts had taken place between them. The hunt for Decker had made that clear. So maybe now it was as simple as two people liking each other.

He began to wonder where she had gone, and what she was doing with all that money she’d undoubtedly made, and whether he’d even be able to find her if he tried.

The latter question was the only one he was able to answer with certainty.

Of course he’d be able to find her. It had taken him—what?—three days to find Decker? Finding Daria would be a piece of cake.





Epilogue


Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan



THE OLD WOMAN shook her head and clucked with disapproval as she drew the long muslin curtains closed. They had been washed the previous month but had already grown dirty again from little hands tugging on them. She’d have to wash them again tomorrow.

Even with the curtains shut tight, the afternoon light filtered into the room, making strange patterns on the worn red carpet. Although the children were supposed to be sleeping, one little boy’s eyes were open, staring at the patterns. The old woman gave him a look, and he quickly turned his head.

The children were all in identical pine toddler beds. One had a harelip, another the short neck and small ears of a Down syndrome child. The rest appeared normal. Because of a lice infestation the week before, the boys and girls alike all had their hair cut tight to their scalps.

The woman enjoyed the stillness for a moment, lulled by the sibilant rhythms of the children breathing. Until she heard the sound of gravel crunching under car wheels, that is.

She froze up, hoping it wasn’t that government inspector from Bishkek who’d come by last month. She walked back to the curtains and pulled one open a few inches.

A black Volga idled in the driveway. The checkerboard symbol on the car marked it as one of the city’s expensive official taxis, and she could see the silhouette of a single passenger in the backseat. A single passenger, she thought to herself, shaking her head with disapproval at the extravagance of it, especially when there was a bus stop just down the road.

But the old woman’s displeasure abated when she saw who stepped out of the taxi. The foreigner had dark hair and carried a briefcase in her right hand. Her green dress stood out next to the bright blue bench at the end of the driveway.

Every year there were new ones, thought the old woman. She didn’t trust the do-gooders. She didn’t believe in their ability to perform miracles. Still, she remembered liking this one more than the rest. Instead of saying what her organization was prepared to give, this foreigner had first asked what was needed.

What was needed? What was needed were parents! Someone to read a story to a child, to make him a favorite meal, to buy him a favorite toy. No one here had anything of his or her own. It wore on the children. Their minds didn’t grow. They were starved for individual love.