The Leveling

“That’s right.” As Mark nodded with as much feigned encouragement as he could muster, he noted the sound of footsteps behind him—someone was entering the room. “And examined?”


Heydar’s jaw muscles went slack and his mouth dropped open as he stared at the SAT book. He breathed loudly through his mouth.

“To look at closely,” said Mark eventually. “Like if you look at the cover of this book for a long time, you have examined it. Understand?”

Because Heydar’s father was the powerful Azeri minister of national security, the kid had a bodyguard assigned to him at all times. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw the bodyguard currently on duty slowly lower a natural gas industry magazine he’d been pretending to read.

“At the Turan you can examine the beaver,” said Heydar.

“You’re not funny. And if you don’t study the vocabulary lists, I can’t help you.”

“I think I am funny.”

“You’re not.”

The boy shrugged and looked up at the ceiling. “I have too much hunger.”

“I don’t care.”

“We buy two chicken donors, one for me one for you. Then we study in the park.”

It was eight thirty in the morning. Mark had just eaten breakfast. Besides, he’d tried the studying-in-the-park routine before; Heydar had spent far more time ogling women than he had studying.

“If you don’t want to do this, fine. Personally, I don’t give a shit. That’s between you and your dad. We both know I’m just doing him a favor.”

“They do not like your big speech, I see. This is why you have such a bad mood. This is why you think nothing is funny.”

Mark cradled his head in his hands. “My speech went fine.”

“OK. If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

But that was a lie.

Yesterday afternoon, at an academic conference in Tbilisi, Georgia, Mark had given a speech about Russian influence in Azerbaijan during the 1920s. Two of the paltry ten people in the audience, including a fellow professor from Western University—a colleague!—had nodded off. Mark had spent two weeks preparing for that presentation. He should have just passed out packets of Ambien right at the start and not bothered.

Also, he was a little hungover. The kid was right. He was in a foul mood.

Mark stood up. Heydar’s bodyguard stood up as well.

“Wait. I try, I try,” said Heydar.

That Mark began to think of his own death at this point was pure coincidence. It was a technique he used, whenever he got annoyed at something or someone, to put things in perspective. He reasoned that in forty years or so, maybe a lot sooner, he’d be a rotting corpse. So why let an eighteen-year-old kid get under his skin? And so what if his presentation had flopped? Would that matter when he was on his deathbed? Let it go already.

“Then tell me what dismantled means, or what you think it might mean. Focus on the prefix, dis. Come on, Heydar, you can do this.”

Heydar’s jaw went slack again as he looked at the word. Twice he almost began to speak, as though he hoped the answer would come to him if he just opened his mouth and let the words form on their own. Finally he said, “Screw up the University of Texas. I don’t care if I go.”

“Well, your father does.”

Just then, three shots rang out in quick succession.





2




JOHN DECKER OPENED his eyes slowly, forced into consciousness by the excruciating throbbing in his head. Walls pressed around him on all four sides, as if he were in a coffin. Each time his heart beat, he felt as though his skull were going to split open.

He blinked a few times and brought his fingers up to his eyelids, to confirm that nothing was impeding his vision. His eyes were clear; it was simply that the darkness was absolute. He wondered whether he was dead, but the pain in his head—and his leg, what was wrong with his leg?—suggested otherwise.

He touched his massive left thigh, but instead of hard muscle, he felt something spongy and warm and wet.

You’ve been shot.

Decker grabbed at his chest, intending to break the rubber band that held his emergency tourniquet in place on his gear vest, worried that his femoral artery had been hit. But there was nothing. No vest. No tourniquet.

His mind flashed back to the disaster at the mansion, and he remembered that he’d already used his tourniquet, but only as a pressure dressing. Someone had removed it. He felt his leg again. It was wet, but the bleeding had stopped.

Calm down, you’re not going to bleed out.

It all came back to him in a rush. A little swell of panic began to rise up in his throat. He had a sudden urge to kick out at the darkness.

Keep your shit together, buddy. Manage your emotions. Remember your training.





3


Baku, Azerbaijan



THE MINISTRY OF National Security occupied a monolithic limestone building on Parlament Prospekti. It was the same building that had housed the KGB back in the Soviet era, which Mark thought appropriate, given what he knew about the Azeri national security ministry. He was taken to an interrogation room in the basement. To be questioned about the incident.