The Leveling

SINCE QUITTING THE CIA and taking a teaching position at Western University, he’d done a pretty good job of shutting out the chaos and confusion of the world around him—the bitter political fights, the brutal all-consuming intelligence wars, the rank corruption…he’d put all that behind him. He’d beaten that cancer.

But now it was back.

After a while, he asked, “May I see the photo?”

“No,” said Orkhan. “It is with our forensic department.”

“Was it a recent one?”

“No. You are younger. Not so much gray.”

“File photo or—”

“You are walking on the street, I think. Not looking at the camera. I would guess the photo was taken by an opposition intelligence agency.”

“The paper?”

“Printed off a computer printer, low quality. It tells us nothing.”

“How would an assassin have even known that I was going to be at the library this morning? I didn’t tell anyone I was going to be there.”

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Nor will it matter if we find out who tried to kill you and why—whether it was the Iranians or the Chinese or the Russians or some person you fought with years ago, the result is the same.”

Mark waited for Orkhan to explain, but Orkhan just stared at him, so Mark asked, “What result?”

With some discomfort, Orkhan said, “Clearly you have become a source of disturbance.”

“I was shot at. I would say whoever shot at me was the source of the disturbance.”

Mark recalled that the would-be assassin had been a man of about thirty, with short-cropped black hair, dark skin, and a mix of Caucasian and Asian features. The pistol the bodyguard had kicked out of the assassin’s lifeless hand was a Russian-made Makarov, but that told Mark nothing—Makarovs were a dime a dozen in the region.

Who would want him dead? He was out of the intelligence game.

“The incident at the library will be widely reported on. It makes it seem as if Azerbaijan is out of control.”

“So do what you always do—pull the report from the news.”

“Yes, of course we will do this.”

“So?”

“So we will do this, but Aliyev will still be unhappy.”

“I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

Ignoring Mark’s sarcasm, Orkhan said, “My friend…”

Mark always got worried when Orkhan started addressing him as my friend. After all the years he’d collaborated with Orkhan—on oil deals, on ways to curtail Russian and Iranian influence in the region, on creative ways for the Americans to arm the Azeris—he’d come to realize that my friend usually meant something unpleasant was coming.

“My friend,” repeated Orkhan, “I’m saying you need to leave.”

“Leave where? Baku?”

“No. Azerbaijan.”

“For how long?” Mark figured he could lay low and do some book research in Russia for a few months. Western University wouldn’t like him taking off on such short notice—he had classes to teach, one tomorrow in fact—but there was a dearth of English-speaking professors in Baku, and he knew they’d take him back whenever they could get him.

Orkhan got up and began to pace. Without making eye contact with Mark, he said, “Permanently.”

“I have a valid work permit. It’s good for another six months. And the Agency likes having me here as backup. You can’t just toss me out.”

“Your work permit has been revoked.”

“By whom?”

“The minister of labor.”

Mark leaned back in his chair and stared briefly at the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

For eleven years Baku had been his home. Eleven years. As a young man, he’d bounced around the Caucasus and Central Asia as a part of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. But then he’d been posted to Baku, and the place had quickly grown on him. The Agency had let him stay.

His whole life—everything he had—was in Baku.

Besides, this wasn’t exactly the first time he’d been associated with violence in Azerbaijan. And he hadn’t gotten kicked out of the country in those previous cases. Instead, he’d worked with the Azeris to resolve the problem.

He pointed that out to Orkhan.

“Yes, but back then you were working for your government. There would have been diplomatic consequences if we had expelled you.”

“There may be consequences now as well.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I still have ties to the Agency.”

“They will not be enough.”

“What kind of time frame are we talking about here?”

“Immediately.”

“As in I’m notified immediately, but have a reasonable period of time to get my things together?”

“In a few minutes you will be escorted back to your apartment to gather what you can carry, and then you will be escorted to the airport. Once the paperwork goes through, probably by later today, you will officially be a persona non grata.”

“Jesus, Orkhan. You couldn’t give me a couple days? To fucking pack?”