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.
You’re weirding me out, Deck.
Daria hit Reply and sent Alty8@online.tm a message: wtf?
She tried calling Decker’s cell phone. No one answered. When she tried to leave a message, an automated voice told her Decker’s voice mail account was full. Which was also odd, she thought. You’d have to have an awful lot of unopened or saved voice mail messages to fill up an account.
Or maybe someone had just butt dialed Decker and left an hour-long message by mistake. That could fill up a mailbox. Or maybe Decker had just butt dialed himself. That she could see happening.
She sent him a text message—Hey John, what can you tell me about 3 photos from Alty8?
Then she called the Hotel President in Ashgabat, Turkmenistan, where, last she knew, Decker had been staying.
No one named John Decker was currently a guest, the receptionist told her.
“He’d be registered under CAIN, or Central Asian Information Networks. A group of us had a block of rooms.”
“Everyone from CAIN checked out three days ago.”
As Daria considered that bit of information, she thought to click on Details at the top of the e-mail from Alty8. It turned out that Alty8 had CC’d one other person: Mark.Sava@wu.edu.az.
She drew in a quick breath.
What the hell is going on, Deck? And what could Mark possibly have to do with it?
“I didn’t know you were up,” said Mark.
It was seven in the morning. Daria had heard him making coffee in the kitchen but hadn’t wanted to ask for his help.
She was slumped on the hardwood floor in the spare bedroom — a room that had been his office until two weeks ago — trying to tie a plastic garbage bag around the fiberglass cast on her broken arm. Her teeth marks were all over the ripped black plastic. Mark stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed with concern.
The intelligence war that had decimated the CIA’s Baku station was over. That bloody conflict, fought over a proposed oil pipeline from China to Iran, had left her deeply wounded, physically and emotionally. The only reason she was still alive was because of Mark. But she couldn’t stay in his apartment forever. She had to learn to care for herself.
“I want to take a shower.”
Daria tried to speak calmly, but found it impossible to mask her anger. She was breathing heavily and trembling, partly from frustration, partly from the exertion of having attempted to tie the plastic bag around her arm with only one hand and her teeth. She wanted to rip the bag apart and throw it out the window.
“OK,” said Mark.
“I’m not supposed to get the cast wet. I need help tying the bag around my arm. Please.”
She glanced at her bicep, where the cast ended, and was struck by how waiflike it looked. She knew the bruises and cuts on her face still looked angry and raw. She turned her face away from Mark.
“I didn’t know you were up,” he said again. “I would have helped you.”
Daria was embarrassed by the sweat on her forehead. Mark noticed the smallest details when it came to other people; he was always sizing people up. The sweat would tell him how hard she’d been trying to tie the bag herself, how utterly dependent she was on him for even the smallest things.
“Just get it around my arm, above the cast.”
“Yeah, sure.”
As he approached her, she looked at the crow’s-feet around his deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes. Feeling his fingers on her arm filled her with a sense of well-being, and for a second it didn’t bother her that he could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead. He cinched a knot tight above her bicep. She stood up.
“You want help getting to the shower?” he asked.
“I’ll be OK.”
But she wasn’t OK.
She could feel his eyes on her as she made her way from the bedroom to the bathroom. He was sizing her up, she was sure. He was so damn calculating.
Part of her hated him for what he saw. But part of her wanted him to touch her again. To put his hand lightly on her forehead or her shoulders.
She managed to turn on the water and adjust the heat, but a minute into her shower — as she was trying to shampoo her hair — her legs gave way and she fell.
“Daria?” called Mark from the bathroom door.
The deep bruises in her thigh muscles were spasming. Water from the shower sprayed into her nose. She felt as though she were drowning. She wasn’t sure she could pick herself up without falling again.
The bathroom door opened and a little stream of cool air blew over her face.
“Daria?”
“I slipped.”
Her good arm grasped the lip of the bathtub, poking out a bit from behind the dark blue shower curtain.
“Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
She tried to push herself up, but her legs spasmed again.
Mark reached around the curtain, grabbed her wet arm, and lifted her up. Her hand trembled as she struggled to stay upright.
“I’ll stay here,” said Mark from the other side of the curtain.
You’ve wasted over thirty years of your life. Promise yourself that, if you live through this, you won’t waste any more.
I promise.
“Just hold on when you need to,” Mark added.
“I’ll be OK.” But she continued to grip his arm tightly, afraid she would fall again if she let go.
She wished she could see Mark’s face.