Dan Mayland
Spy for Hire
For Kirsten and William
Author’s Note
At danmayland.com, you’ll find extras that might be helpful or interesting to have when reading Spy for Hire or other novels in the Mark Sava series — maps that may be downloaded or printed, my own photos of places featured in the novels, lists of characters, an annotated bibliography, and a glossary.
DM
PART I
1
Former CIA station chief Mark Sava opened the door to his two-bedroom condominium, hung his black nylon windbreaker on a coatrack, and cast a disapproving glance at the outdoor balcony off his living room.
His condo was upscale for Bishkek — oak floors, new Chinese appliances, tile countertops — and in a safe part of the city, on a treelined street near several foreign embassies. But the balcony was a sad affair, barely three feet wide by eight feet long. The metal balusters were rusting. The concrete floor was cracked. And positioned as it was on the second floor of a three-story building, it was too close to the street to provide any real privacy.
Mark was in a good mood, because he’d just beaten a Kyrgyz friend at narde, a backgammon-like game he’d grown addicted to of late. But that lousy balcony was a constant irritation.
It was one o’clock in the afternoon on November seventh. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fall. The roadside pumpkin vendors had packed up and left weeks earlier. Soon there would be snow.
For a brief moment, Mark longed to be back in Baku, Azerbaijan — his home until seven months ago, when the Azeris had kicked him out because of an intelligence operation gone bad. In Baku, the balcony of his eighth-floor apartment had been a spacious affair, with more than enough room for a few plastic lawn chairs, a little table, and his collection of tomato plants.
Tomato plants… they’d freeze here in the winter, but maybe in the spring, he’d buy some. He looked out to his rump of a balcony again, imagining where he’d put a few pots, but instead his eyes fixed on what was going on just outside the Soviet-era hospital building across the street.
“In November?” he said out loud, speaking half to himself and half to Daria Buckingham, an Iranian American former CIA operative who was also his live-in girlfriend.
“What?” called Daria.
Mark stepped into the kitchen, where Daria was frying chicken with onions and carrots in a large cast-iron pot. She turned, and smiled at him. It was a wide, easy smile that reminded Mark why he’d fallen for her.
“They’re bringing the mattresses out again.”
Every so often, orderlies would drag out the frayed, red-striped, futon-like hospital mattresses and air them out in one of the building’s courtyards. It always depressed Mark to think that a human being, a sick human being no less, had to sleep on one of those things.
“You know, you could volunteer to help.”
“Yeah, and after that I’ll volunteer to help Sisyphus push his rock up the hill.”
“Maybe figure out a way to get them some good mattresses.”
“It’s not like, if there’s piss on them, they’re going to dry out. It’s too cold. What do they think they’re doing?” When Daria didn’t answer, Mark added, “Remind me never to have a heart attack here. I take it the chicken’s for the kids?”
“Yeah.” Daria used the back of her wrist to wipe a strand of her long dark hair out of her eyes.
Mark took a moment, as he always did upon entering a room, to analyze the situation. Daria was wearing an apron over a nice black skirt and a green blouse, which told him she’d come from a meeting, probably in Bishkek, and that she had more meetings planned for later in the day; her phone was on the counter, and turned on, so she’d likely been trying to conduct business while she cooked; onion skins were scattered all over the countertop cutting board, which suggested she was rushed because she typically cleaned as she cooked; and her large brown eyes looked happy but tired.
He’d be tired too if he worked as much as she did, he thought. Her work helping orphanages throughout Central Asia — work funded by an intelligence operation she’d made a killing on — was what motivated her. She was constantly meeting with wealthy supporters of her cause, traveling to orphanages, making dinners…
He admired her dedication. Not so much that he wanted to join her cause, but he was relieved that, after going through hell while working for the CIA, she’d lived to find her true calling.
“Smells great.” Mark put a hand on her waist and leaned into her for a kiss. Daria surprised him with a more passionate response than the perfunctory peck he was expecting, given that he hadn’t shaved or showered yet that day. The feel of her smooth warm cheek as it brushed against his own was a comfort.
“It’s for the orphanage in Bishkek,” she said. “One of the kids is being adopted, it’s his last night. Remember?”
Mark didn’t. “Oh, yeah.” He started cleaning up the onion skins on the cutting board, but then he felt Daria’s eyes on him and he turned to face her. “What?”
His first thought was that she was annoyed at him for claiming to have remembered the dinner, when in fact he hadn’t — she was perceptive that way — but her expression looked more intense than that. He couldn’t tell whether she was holding back laughter or tears. They locked eyes for a moment.
“Nothing.” Daria turned back to the chicken.
Between the kiss and now this, Mark wondered what was up, but he figured that if it was important, he’d find out soon enough — probably that night. They often saw each other only in passing during the day, but they always made a point of catching up before going to sleep.
“Hey, another deal came through this morning,” he said. “The Agency’s subbing out an intel job they want done in Almaty.”
In his teens, Mark had worked his butt off after school and on weekends as a gas station attendant in Elizabeth, New Jersey. In his twenties, he’d served as a CIA case officer and paramilitary operative in the CIA’s Special Activities Division. In his thirties, he’d been one of the youngest officers in the CIA to be given his own station. But now? Now he was pretty much just loafing, cashing in on his CIA experience by drumming up business for a privately owned spies-for-hire firm that operated out of the nearby US air base. Every time he brought in work, he collected fifty percent of the profits.
“What’s the job?” she asked, sounding less than enthusiastic.
“Intel op on a Chinese construction firm that’s upgrading the oil ministry building. We’ll have to put a couple officers on TDY in Almaty.”
TDY was short for temporary duty.
“Is the job already cleared with State?”
“Seems to be. I talked to—”
The phone started ringing.
Mark didn’t feel like talking to anyone, so he didn’t move to answer it.
Daria flashed him a look that said, Listen, I’ve been working like crazy all day trying to help impoverished kids while you’ve been sitting on your ass playing that silly narde game with your old geezer buddies down at that filthy Chinese restaurant and making money hand over fist by selling your reputation. The least you could do is shuffle a few feet to the phone.
“I’ll get it,” said Mark, but he was a second too late.
Daria picked up the phone. After listening for a minute, with the handset held a little ways from her ear because the person on the other end was talking so loudly, she said, “Hold on, slow down. No. Tell them they need to go through the normal channels, no exceptions.” And then, “No, they can’t do that. Absolutely not. Do not let them take that child.” And then, “OK, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stall them until I get there.”