The Leveling Page 10

  “You can’t enforce a noncompete over here,” said Mark. “What’s the point?”

  “Step one foot in the States and they’re enforceable. You guys won’t be hanging out over here forever. Eventually you’ll go back.”

  Mark sighed. He figured that, if he put his mind to it, he could find a way to get Holtz to back down. But that would take effort. And besides, he was pretty psyched about the hundred-thousand-dollars-a-year-for-sitting-on-his-butt deal.

  Daria said, “This is a joke.”

  “Those are my terms if you want to know what I know about Decker. Take them or leave them.”

  Mark looked at Daria.

  “I don’t care,” she said, clearly disgusted. “Let’s just get it done.”

  27

  Washington, DC

  “I TALKED TO the Israeli defense minister an hour ago. At minimum they’re talking about targeting the reactor at Bushehr, the uranium enrichment sites at Natanz and Fordo, and the nuclear-related sites in Arak, Tehran, Ardakan, Darkovin, and Esfahan,” said the secretary of defense.

  It was well after midnight. The president was seated in his cramped study just off the Oval Office, cradling his head in his hand. On his desk was a crystal tumbler that held his nightly two fingers of single-malt Scotch—Lagavulin, his favorite. But tonight the Scotch had gone untouched for hours.

  The Iranians had pushed too far this time. While the attack on Khorasani’s daughter was appalling, the Israelis probably didn’t even have anything to do with it. And even if they had, what Khorasani planned to do in retaliation was insane. He had to be stopped. It was just a question of whether the Israelis stopped him on their own, or with the help of the United States.

  “They should be able to hit those targets on their own,” continued the secretary of defense. “Whether they can actually destroy them all—”

  “They can’t.”

  “—is another matter.”

  “Can we?”

  “You’ve read the latest assessment from CENTCOM.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Assuming our targeting intel is good, I agree with CIA and DIA that the odds would be in our favor. But destroying Fordo and confirming that the two nukes we believe are there have been taken out will require a ground team.”

  “And your personal view on whether the Israelis can pull off that kind of insertion on their own?” asked the president.

  “I’m skeptical. Very skeptical. At the minimum we’d have to allow their helicopters to refuel on one of our carriers, or piss off the Iraqis and find a way to set up a refueling station in western Iraq. They’re close to being able to pull it off, but they’re not there yet.”

  Dammit all, thought the president, thinking not of what his secretary of defense had just said—he’d already known the answers, he’d just wanted to hear them one more time—but of the overall predicament. The Iranians had it coming, nobody disputed that, but an attack would come with a cost. He imagined the Iranians mining the bejesus out of the Strait of Hormuz, causing the price of oil to go through the roof and triggering a worldwide depression, while every living Iranian rallied around their idiotic government because they loved their country more than they hated the mullahs who ran it.

  Knowing what his friend was thinking, the secretary of defense said, “Don’t forget about a possible invasion or uprising in Bahrain. Sixty-five percent Shiite, and the Iranians would love to get rid of our Fifth Fleet.”

  The best-case scenario? The attack successfully wiped out the Iranian nuclear program, oil prices spiked temporarily but the market absorbed it, Iran made a stink and lobbed a few missiles at Israel but backed down because it didn’t want to provoke a land invasion from the United States, and the Saudis and other Sunni dictators cheered silently while their people decided they hated the United States a bit more than they already did.

  The president shook his head. It galled him that whatever happened, best case or worst case, the United States would bear all the costs while China and Russia and even the Europeans would probably reap all the benefits. All because of what had happened to one woman.

  “I’ll talk to CENTCOM one more time and then sleep on it,” said the president. “You’ll have my decision by morning.”

  28

  Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

  MARK SIGNED ALL the forms Holtz put in front of him. Daria did too.

  “There’s just one other thing,” said Holtz.

  “No, there isn’t,” said Daria.

  “Actually, there is. I just got the call an hour ago. Apparently Langley’s been looking all over for Mark, calling everyone. We’re talking a brief detour to the embassy, that’s all.”

  “Tell us about Decker first,” said Mark.

  Holtz gestured with his finger, prompting Mark to look behind him. Across the lobby, standing in front of an interior waterfall that ran between two enormous plates of clear glass, stood the CIA’s chief of station, Turkmenistan.

  “You’re a dickhead, Bruce.”

  “Relax, Sava. Langley just wants to debrief you on whatever went down in Baku, that’s all. I couldn’t say no, not if I want to stay in business over here. Shouldn’t be more than an hour. Then I’ll tell you everything I know about Deck, just like we agreed.”

  Mark recognized William Thompson, the lanky gray-haired guy who walked over to greet him; they’d worked together on a couple of occasions over the years. Mark remembered him as cautious and competent. Nearing retirement age.

  They shook hands and exchanged a few greetings.

  “You’ve been recalled,” said Thompson. He settled his long frame into an easy chair next to Mark. He had a patrician, but not pretentious, air to him. “I suspect that’s not what you want to hear, but there it is. I’ve been ordered to see to it that you’re on the next flight back to Washington.”

  “Way to go, Bruce,” said Mark.

  “That wasn’t the deal,” said Holtz to Thompson. “You were going to debrief him at the embassy.”

  “I was OK with that,” said Thompson. “Turns out Langley wasn’t. I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to mislead anyone.”

  “Sorry?” Holtz looked from Thompson to Mark and then back at Thompson again. “Sorry? We had a deal.”

  “I can’t be recalled,” said Mark. “I’m not on duty, I’m a private citizen.”

  “Langley says you’re not,” said Thompson. “Something about a contract to write political reports?”

  “It was a once-a-month deal. I did it for them for free.”

  “I apologize if this comes as an unwelcome surprise, Mark. Everyone knows the Baku station was one of the best in the division when you ran it. But my orders from Langley are explicit.”

  Thompson picked up a secure cable printout and handed it to Mark. Mark studied it for a moment, then stared at Holtz.

  “I was kind of in the middle of something here, William.”

  Thompson sighed. He looked tired and unwilling to argue. Mark wondered how long he’d been posted in Ashgabat.

  “Well regardless, at this point it’s out of my hands,” said Thompson. “I don’t know why Langley wants you back, but they do. If you want to call the seventh floor and duke it out with them, be my guest.”

  “What’s your sense of it?”

  Thompson shrugged. “Waste of time. The decision’s already been made. I understand there was an incident in Baku—”

  “Someone came after me. I’m trying to figure out who.”

  “So they mentioned. The whole Central Eurasia Division’s been on heightened alert ever since. I’m sorry, there isn’t a thing I can do about it. You know the drill.”

  Mark took a moment to think before saying, “Well, then that’s it. I’ve been recalled, I’ll go to Washington.”

  “Thank you for your understanding.”

  “The only thing I would ask is that you extend me the courtesy of allowing me to retrieve my belongings prior to departure.”

  Thompson smiled weakly. “I’m
sure I can arrange to have them picked up. You’re not staying here?”

  “I flew in this morning and hoped to catch a flight back to Almaty this evening.”

  “Hmm…”

  “I left my bags with a German expat who manages an Internet café downtown. He did some work for me in Baku a few years back. I stopped in to see him.”

  “Are you talking about the Matrix?” asked Thompson.

  “That’s the place. My man won’t release my bags to anyone but me. I have some sensitive documents with them.”

  “Wouldn’t you carry sensitive documents with you?”

  “No.”

  Thompson waited for Mark to elaborate. When it became clear that Mark had no intention of doing so, Thompson scratched his temple and said, “Well, why don’t we pick up your bags on the way to the airport.”

  “When do we need to leave?”

  “Now. Langley was clear on that point. Find you, deliver the message, bring you to the airport, and watch you get on the plane. I’ve got to call in the flight info. They’ll probably have an escort waiting for you at your first connection.”

  “Such trust,” said Mark.

  “It’s not about trust—”

  Mark checked his cell phone. “I just need to make a few calls first. To cancel the appointments I’d made for the day. Daria, I don’t have much of a signal here. What about you?”

  Daria checked her phone. “I’m good.” She tapped a code into the touch screen, unlocking it. “Here.”

  Mark took it from her. Then he looked at Thompson and Holtz and Daria. “If you don’t mind? A little privacy would be nice.”

  Thompson looked as if he did mind.

  “Don’t worry, William. I won’t run.”

  “I’ll wait for you right there.” Thompson gestured to the entrance doors, which were just across the lobby. “Please, don’t take too long.”

  After Holtz and Daria left with Thompson, Mark took Daria’s phone and checked the time—it was a little after ten in the morning. He e-mailed Alty8@online.tm a message: Dear John, noon at the mosque won’t work. Instead meet me in twenty minutes at the Arch of Neutrality.

  Then Mark dialed the number for Daria’s cell phone—the one in his hand—and left her a voice message telling her what the new plan was and what he wanted her to do.

  As he was exiting the hotel, he handed Daria her phone. “Someone tried to call when I was using it. I think they left a message.”

  29

  JOHN DECKER’S HALLUCINATIONS included visions of the vast north woods of New Hampshire, of swimming through the air and then floating over the trees, of finally being able to realize his boyhood dream of flying. Below him he saw the house where he grew up, his dad splitting firewood by the woodshed, his brother cranking up the ATV for a Saturday ride. He was soaring with the turkey vultures, circling and tipping his wings. A breeze started to blow, which gradually turned into a gale.

  The winds blew him off his house. Soon he lost the ability to steer and struggled even to stay aloft. He was blown over the state line, northeast into the vast stretches of forest in Maine. There were no more houses below him, and as he was pushed farther north, he began to see patches of snow. The air was cold. He began to shiver.

  You are a Navy SEAL. Navy SEALs don’t give up.

  And you are not in New Hampshire.

  The gale was pushing him toward Canada with phenomenal velocity. The Arctic would soon be below him. He should have dropped to the ground in the forest. At least there he would have had a chance.

  You are cold because you are in shock. Control your body. Control your emotions.

  The brief glimpse Decker had caught of the mountains when he’d fought his way out of the trunk of the car had hurt him as much as the beatings he was taking. They were so steep and so bare. There’d been nothing out there—no color, no comfort. Those were mountains where you went to die.

  He needed trees and streams and moss-covered rocks. He needed laughter at the kitchen table with his mom and dad and brother and sister.

  Don’t give up on yourself, asshole.

  Decker woke up choking on mud. He felt the damp ground beneath his naked body. When he tried to push himself up, a pain like needles being stabbed into his fingers caused his whole body to seize up. He moaned and rolled to his side. Everything smelled rotten and damp.

  He teetered for a moment, and swallowed a scream as he dug out a new handful of dirt from the wall.

  A small hole eventually became a two-foot-long tunnel. At three feet he hit something that felt depressingly solid. He held his breath, preparing himself for the disappointment of encountering a concrete footing wall that he guessed extended below the basement slab. With the few good fingers that he had left, he brushed the dirt off the wall and felt for cracks in it.

  He found lots of them.

  The footing for the slab, he realized, had been made of crushed stone—which is why water had been able to run right through it. When he pulled on the rock directly in front of him, it moved. With the first rock gone, the next three were easy to dislodge. Soon he had a hole big enough to squeeze through.

  He flipped onto his back and redoubled his efforts, digging up now that he was past the foundation. How many feet was it to the surface, he wondered. Six? Eight?

  The darkness and the dank air pressed in on him. His huge frame wasn’t doing him any favors. Most SEALs were just normal size—and more agile, which meant they could squeeze into tight places without much trouble. He’d been an anomaly. A clump of dirt fell into his mouth and he began to choke, suddenly overwhelmed by claustrophobia.

  He coughed up the dirt and squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Every fiber in his body was screaming out for him to back out of his little tunnel, run up the steps, heave open the trapdoor, and run like hell in the hopes of seeing the open sky, even it was for just a second before they shot him.

  Manage your emotions. They underestimated you. They underestimated what it was possible for you to do.

  He listened to himself breathe for a moment. Then he felt the dirt in his mouth and forced himself to think of what it tasted like.

  It tastes like dirt, you moron. Calm down. Keep digging.

  Decker closed his eyes and mouth, drove his wounded hand into the dirt above his head, and was confused when his arm kept going up. He wondered whether he’d stumbled upon some underground chamber.

  Then he opened his eyes and saw light. Sunlight, filtering through wooden deck boards. He blinked as his eyes struggled to focus.

  30

  Ashgabat, Turkmenistan

  STANDING IN THE center of downtown Ashgabat, the 230-foot Arch of Neutrality had been built in the shape of a gigantic three-pronged Turkmen cooking trivet, from which a pot might be hung. At the peak of the arch was a gigantic gold-plated statue of the dead dictator Turkmenbashi, which rotated throughout the day so that it always faced the sun. Mark peered at it from the backseat of Thompson’s black government-issued Ford sedan.

  The arch was a couple of hundred feet away. Thompson had pulled over closer to it than Mark had wanted him to.

  Beyond the arch, a vast empty parade ground sprawled before a blindingly white, gold-domed government palace. Scores of other buildings surrounded the palace, all of them white-marble confections that had sprung up in the years after the Soviet Union had collapsed, built with money from natural gas sales. Most were largely empty inside.

  Turkmenbashi’s idea had been build it and they will come, but so far no one had. The whole place had an apocalyptic, neutron-bomb feeling to it.

  There were a few soldiers lingering nearby, though. Two of them, wearing oversized peaked caps and dressed in green ceremonial uniforms adorned with an excess of gold trim, stood stiffly at attention in little glass-walled guard shelters near the arch. A cheerful bed of marigolds lay between the guard shelters. Another soldier directed light street traffic, and a group of six air force guys, dressed in comically bright blue-and-white camouflage, strolled by
the World Trade Complex.

  The World Trade Complex, despite its name, was really just an uninspired mall with a few tired shops inside, one of which was an Internet café known as the Matrix.

  As Thompson unbuckled his seat belt, Mark said, “I think you should wait with the car.”

  “In sight at all times until you get on the plane. Those are my orders.”

  “Listen, William. It’s not safe.”

  Thompson stared at Mark for a long moment. They were seated in the front seat, close enough to each other so that Mark could see the deep wrinkles and liver spots on Thompson’s forehead. Gray hairs sprouted out of Thompson’s ears.

  Thompson cleared his throat. “I thought you were just picking up your bags.”

  “The people who tried to kill me in Baku may be close.”

  “You tell me this now?”

  “I lied to you earlier. I can’t go back to Washington. Not yet.”

  Thompson gripped the steering wheel with both hands and looked out the windshield. “Don’t do this to me, Sava.”

  Thompson had a deep voice. For the first time, Mark detected a hard edge to it.

  “You ever run into a guy named John Decker? Big guy, former SEAL. Did protection work.”

  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.”