The Colonel's Mistake Read online

  He breathed slowly, gaping at the scene sprawled out before him, searing the visual image into his memory. He wondered what could have led to such a brazen, unprecedented attack. The CIA had been operating in Baku ever since the Soviet Union had fallen apart, and no one had ever been killed. It was considered a friendly posting. The fact that the CIA had let him stay in Baku after resigning stood as a testament to that.

  But it was a friendly posting in a bad neighborhood, with Iran to the south, Russia and Chechnya to the north, and a simmering civil war with the Armenians to the west. Somehow, Mark thought, his mind racing, some of that violence must have spilled over. A levee had broken.

  He searched the first-floor offices. They were empty and undisturbed. On the second floor, near the top of the carpeted steps, he found another dead operations officer and chief of station George Logan. Logan’s chest had a big hole where his heart should have been. The way the blood had seeped out made it look as though he had little wings growing out of his back.

  Logan had been a Washington desk jockey with little experience abroad, Mark recalled. He bent down to pick up one of the spent bullet cartridges, his hand shaking a bit despite his admonitions to himself to stay centered. The kind of guy that, when Mark was feeling cynical, made him think that maybe the CIA’s overreliance on technology wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  Mark hadn’t thought Logan deserved his own station. But the man sure as hell hadn’t deserved this.

  PART II

  Port of Jebel Ali, United Arab Emirates

  The soldier lay hidden beneath a canvas tarp, on top of a battered red shipping container that rested on three others and was surrounded by thousands more. Beyond this vast field of containers stood a row of yellow rust-stained cranes. Beyond the cranes, across an expanse of calm water, loomed the USS Ronald Reagan.

  The soldier’s digital camera made steady clicking sounds as he zoomed in on each section of the massive aircraft carrier.

  Over a thousand feet long, the Reagan was one of eleven nuclear-powered Nimitz-class aircraft carriers in existence. As the weak light of dawn grew stronger, the soldier grew bored and started imagining all the riveters and welders and electricians and nuclear technicians who must have been needed to put the thing together. But the more he thought about it, the harder it was for him to conceive that something so colossal could have been created by human hands.

  Mark called Ted Kaufman, his former division chief, from a secure line in the Trudeau House.

  “How many bodies?” demanded Kaufman.

  “Five.” Mark listed their names.

  “Christ.”

  The line went silent except for Kaufman’s breathing. Mark imagined the panic that was setting in. He’d heard that Kaufman had been a decent operations officer decades ago, but as a division chief he’d proved to be much better at avoiding crises than managing them when they hit. Between Campbell’s assassination and now the slaughter at the Trudeau House, Mark figured Kaufman was now facing the biggest crisis of his career. The Baku station was under siege.

  “I think you have to assume all of your Azeri assets are in danger,” said Mark. “Daria in particular. Gobustan is anything but secure. And I would not want to be a woman around some of those guards.”

  “Dammit all.” The line went silent again. Then, recovering himself, Kaufman said, “We’ll get a forensic team to the Trudeau House within twenty-four hours. In the meantime, get the hell out of there. And don’t, I repeat, don’t let the Azeris know what happened. I don’t want them screwing up the scene before our guys get there.”

  “What are you going to do about Daria?”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  Mark wondered how Kaufman intended to “handle it,” given that Kaufman’s knowledge of the intricacies of Azerbaijan and Azeri politics was limited at best. Kaufman, although responsible for the whole Central Eurasian Division, was a Russia specialist. Azerbaijan was an afterthought for him.

  Which meant that, ultimately, the job of protecting Daria would be left to either the US ambassador—a political appointee who didn’t even speak Azeri and had been on the job for only four months—or the CIA’s junior in-country officers. It occurred to Mark, however, that after what had happened at the Trudeau House, the CIA might not even have any officers besides Daria left in Azerbaijan.

  In the wake of the Soviet Union’s implosion, Azerbaijan had been deemed crucial because it had gobs of oil and bordered Iran and Russia; but after the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq, the US focus had shifted to the war zones and the whole Azeri station had been downsized.

  “Try going through Orkhan,” said Mark. “He’s the only guy we’re tight with who can spring her.”

  “I said I’d handle it.”

  Mark thought again of all the people dead at the Trudeau House and concluded that Kaufman, safely ensconced in a nice house in suburban Virginia, wasn’t up to handling squat.

  “What was the Baku station working on that could have led to this kind of blowback?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “So this was just a coincidence?”

  “Don’t give me that crap.”

  Mark was about to end the conversation when Kaufman added, “So after we got the news about Campbell, I spoke with the Azeri ambassador. She told me Campbell specifically requested that Daria be his translator at the convention.”

  “Did they know each other?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why would he ask for her by name?”

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  “You worked with Daria for two years,” said Kaufman. “You know her better than I do. Any chance the Azeris are onto something?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning Daria survived on the same day a former deputy secretary of defense, along with nearly all my officers in Baku, were killed. Do you think it’s within the realm of possibility that she was somehow involved with what happened?”

  “Listen to me, Ted. You need to lock down the entire Baku station and get your remaining ops officers under protection. Including Daria. She’s your best asset over here, believe me. Then find out who hit us, and hit back hard. Blow them out of the fucking water. End of story. Daria’s clean.”

  “It was a close call whether to even post her abroad.”

  The doubts about Daria’s loyalty, Mark knew, stemmed from the fact that she was the product of a mixed marriage. Her mother was Iranian—hence her Iranian first name—and her father was American with English roots, hence the Buckingham.

  The one time Mark had come across something vaguely suspicious regarding Daria—charges on a personal credit card that suggested she was traveling to a region outside of her declared area of operations—it turned out she’d been visiting an orphanage. On her own time. For the purpose of donating $500. When Mark had investigated the payment, he’d learned it had come from her modest personal bank account and had gone directly toward food and medicine for the kids. And when he’d investigated the orphanage, he’d learned that it was just a straight-up charity, with no ties to terrorists or corrupt money-launderers.

  Mark knew, however, that fear often trumped logic at the CIA. As a result, most Agency officers were white guys like himself, men who had to struggle to blend in with the locals in Azerbaijan and Iran. And it was on Iran that Daria, with her honey-toned skin and fluent command of Farsi, had been recruited to spy, using Azerbaijan as a base. Her posting had been a welcome exception, an exception Mark had hoped would mark the beginning of a new way of thinking at the CIA.

  That hadn’t turned out to be the case. When Mark had quit the CIA, Daria was the only operations officer in Baku who wasn’t vanilla white. And Kaufman had never liked, or trusted, her.

  Washington, DC

  Colonel Henry Amato eyed his boss—National Security Advisor James Ellis—from the opposite side of an oval table. Ellis was a tall man, with a prominent chin, deep-set eyes, and a patrici
an air that had been perfected at Harvard and elite think tanks. On television, when he was wearing makeup and standing side by side with the president, he looked distinguished. But at ten to midnight, in a basement conference room beneath the West Wing of the White House, under fluorescent lights that exposed Ellis’s yellowing teeth and deep wrinkles, Amato thought cadaverous a better description.

  And then there was the chewing.

  Amato watched with disdain as Ellis methodically ground his jaw in small circles. It was a habit his boss lapsed into when other people were speaking, as if to suggest he was so engaged that he was literally chewing over what was being said. Which certainly wasn’t the case now.

  At the moment, Ellis was pretending to listen to the director of national intelligence. Reading from a file marked Top Secret, the DNI was sharing preliminary satellite evidence and intelligence reports that suggested a limited troop mobilization was underway in Iran.

  Upon finishing, the DNI dropped the file on the table and shook his head. “Now maybe I’m grasping at straws, but I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that Campbell’s assassination has something to do with this activity in Iran. God knows what the Iranians are really up to, but the timing is too suspicious to ignore.”

  Ellis said, “What’s your take, Henry?”

  Instead of answering, Amato—who was Ellis’s top Iran advisor—remained perfectly still, as though standing at attention before a superior officer. The fluorescent lighting above was unnervingly bright and flickering a bit, contributing to his feeling of nausea.

  “Henry?”

  He hadn’t seen any of this coming. It was as if someone had cold-cocked him with a two-by-four.

  He was a deacon at Saint Mary’s. A volunteer at Walter Reed. His wife had died two years ago but he’d remained faithful to her since her death, just as he had for the twenty-three years they’d been married. What sins he committed, he regularly confessed to God. As of a few days ago, he’d thought that all he needed to do was to soldier on through a few more years in government and then tolerate a quiet retirement.

  And now this.

  Daria had survived, but they would hunt her down. They had the men and the resources. Good God, he wasn’t prepared to shut down the whole operation, but he had to do something.

  “Henry?” repeated Ellis, and this time his tone was sharper.

  “Sorry, sir. I worked with Jack Campbell years ago and I confess the news of his death hit me pretty hard.” Amato turned to face the DNI. “I don’t see a link between the troop movements in Iran and Campbell’s assassination,” he lied. “More likely what happened to Campbell is about settling old scores.”

  “Old scores?” said the DNI.

  “Well, of course Campbell had a long history with Iran.”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “Before the revolution in ’79, he helped coordinate training for SAVAK, the Shah’s secret police. After the revolution, when Ayatollah Khomeini ordered a review of all the old SAVAK records to see who’d been hunting down his followers, I’m sure Campbell’s name came up. Add to that the fact that Campbell took a hard line with Iran when he became the deputy sec. def., and it’s not hard to figure out why the mullahs might have targeted him. They’ve got long memories—they probably waited decades for the opportunity to present itself.”

  The DNI asked a few more questions, then said, “Well, you could be right. Maybe Campbell’s assassination doesn’t have anything to do with the troop mobilization we’re seeing. But Campbell was a big player in his time, and if the Iranians think they can take him out and get away with it, they’ve got another thing coming.”

  Mark let himself out of the Trudeau House the same way he’d come in, walked the ten blocks back to his apartment, and sat down at his desk in his spare bedroom, intending to work on his book. But after five minutes of staring at his computer screen and seeing nothing but the mutilated bodies of his former colleagues flash across his memory, he realized he was kidding himself. He was in shock. He wasn’t going to get any work done today. Nor could he just ignore all that had transpired since the night before.

  Mark had helped train Daria. And as her station chief, he’d always looked out for her, just as he had the rest of his operations officers. Now that Logan was dead, she had no one in Azerbaijan to turn to for help.

  But the thought of potentially sticking his neck out to help her any more than he already had was setting off alarm bells in his head. Don’t go being some kind of delusional do-gooder, he told himself. Fifty-fifty he’d just make the situation worse by meddling. He’d seen it happen time and time again. Wait for the Agency to restaff. Let them handle this mess.

  But by then it might be too late.

  “Shit,” he muttered and picked up his phone and dialed. After waiting on hold for a long time, his contact came on the line. Mark spoke to him briefly and then hung up.

  Minutes later he was on the street, starting up his Russian-made Niva, a boxy four-wheel-drive car that he’d purchased after going on a professor’s salary.

  He headed north toward the center of the Absheron Peninsula, a scarred and grossly polluted spit of land fifty miles long that jutted out into the Caspian Sea. The roads were crowded with an unruly mix of sleek Western cars—BMWs, Mercedes, Land Cruisers—and old Russian jalopies that belched noxious fumes. He passed decrepit Soviet factories, some languishing, some completely abandoned, many of which sat right next to gleaming new high-rises. Gas pipelines, huge billboards with photos of the current president, and piles of garbage lined the sides of the road.

  Near the Balaxani oil fields—a purgatorial wasteland of oil sludge and rusting nodding-donkey oil pumps—he pulled over and bought pistachios from a guy who was selling them out of the back of his battered truck.

  Just beyond the oil fields the landscape opened up; interspersed among the hellish images of industrial waste were a few green fields. When Mark came to a collection of vacant buildings on the left-hand side of the road, he pulled into an adjacent gravel lot and parked in front of a tall cypress tree, next to a stray dog. A minute later a black Mercedes pulled up next to him. A driver got out of the car and opened the rear door.

  “It is really you, Sava?” The dark-haired man who emerged spoke in heavily accented English. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, a conservative red tie, and long and pointed black leather shoes that reminded Mark of witches. His face showed the beginning of a very early five o’clock shadow and he had a large Turkic nose. “I see this car,” he said, frowning and pointing at Mark’s Niva, “and I think maybe a gypsy, or even a Kurd, has come!”

  Mark smiled. “I’ve been downsizing.”

  “Downsizing, what is downsizing?”

  “Downsizing is what you do when you start to teach,” said Mark, switching to Azeri.

  They shook hands.

  “Ah yes. I remember. Western University. I have to admit I wasn’t sure you were being completely—how do I put it—open with me when you told me of your intentions. But my people tell me you actually do teach classes. They learn much from you.”

  “I’ve wondered about some of my students.”

  “My men have been attentive, I hope.”

  “Very. Thank you for coming, Orkhan.”

  Orkhan Gambar was the Azeri minister of national security. Given that the United States and Azerbaijan were on good terms, Mark’s affiliation with the CIA had been known to Orkhan and they’d frequently exchanged information. But since the CIA’s presence in Azerbaijan wasn’t officially acknowledged, their meetings had been held in secret. Often they had met here.

  “Come.” Orkhan lightly guided Mark by the elbow as his driver produced an M-16 rifle and began to stand guard. “We talk by the fire.”

  Mark followed Orkhan down a series of worn stone steps, into the bottom of a little depression. A white plastic table and three white plastic chairs had been set up a few feet away from a hillside that had been burning ever since an underground reservoir of natural gas had caught fire de
cades ago. A few enterprising Azeris had tried to set up a tea shop near the flames, but the tourists had proved few and the shop had gone out of business.

  Orkhan settled into a chair and pulled it up close to the fire. On previous occasions he’d told Mark that getting extremely hot for a half hour or so made one feel cooler for the rest of the day. All Azeris know this, he’d said.

  Mark sat down next to him now and pulled out the bag of pistachios, certain that Orkhan wouldn’t be fasting during Ramadan.

  “You remembered. This is why we get along so well.”

  That and the fact that the US government had sent an ocean of what was supposed to have been counterterrorism money Orkhan’s way, thought Mark.

  Not for the first time he considered that Azerbaijan was a country with a lot of things going for it. Though its people were predominantly Shiite Muslims, they were tolerant of Christians and Jews. Women could wear whatever they wanted without risking being stoned to death. In the south there were vast forests and lush groves of citrus trees. To the north, the snowcapped mountains and picturesque little villages almost could have been Switzerland were it not for the general lack of indoor plumbing. And the coastal center was rich with oil. But the country was also hopelessly corrupt. Mark had little doubt that plenty of America’s money had gone directly into Orkhan’s pocket. That was why they got along so well. But the pistachios didn’t hurt either.

  “How is your family, Orkhan?”

  They exchanged pleasantries for a while. Then Orkhan asked about Nika. Although Nika had made the mistake of marrying a Russian when she was twenty-four—a marriage that had lasted only six months because all Russians are thieves and drunks—he indicated that she came from a decent family and that her job as a professor of English literature at Western University appeared to be secure.

  “But you must tell her not to smoke around her child,” Orkhan said. “This is very bad for children, I hear. I see she does this at her home.”