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housed the office of the president, was open to anyone willing to make a large political donation, and was, in fact, white. In the Kyrgyz version, however, it was because the Soviets had glued white-marble tiles all over its clunky concrete frame.
    While waiting for Holtz, who evidently had stopped by to make a strategic political donation, Mark sat outside on a low wall stained with pigeon droppings, across from a long line of thick blue spruce trees. The nearby guards who were manning the west-side service entrance were dressed in army-green camouflage and teal berets. They ignored Mark, and he ignored them.
    One of the few good things about Bishkek, Mark thought, was that it was a pretty easygoing town. Sure, they had an occasional political riot here and there, but for the most part, the city had an open, leafy Midwestern-college-town feel to it. The cops and soldiers didn’t bother people much unless they wanted bribes.
    Holtz walked out of the building ten minutes after Mark got there. He was a tall man, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that had grown even broader over the past year—the result of finedining rather than time in the gym. But in a custom-made suit and a tightly cinched belt, Holtz looked like a guy to be reckoned with as he strode confidently across the brick pavers in front of the White House. His goatee, which he’d started growing a month earlier, made him look mean. Which he pretty much was.
    Holtz shook Mark’s hand enthusiastically as they met outside the gatehouse.
    “Sava! You stalking me, dude?”
    “I called the office. Jana told me you had a late meeting here. Figured I’d wait.” Jana was the suspiciously attractive secretary Holtz had recently hired. “Listen, we need to talk.”
    “We’re talking now.”
    “Tell me about the kid.”
    Holtz tried to keep the grin that had been on his face fixed in place, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “You don’t have to speak in code, Sava. There’s no one around us that can hear.”
    Mark started to walk toward Panfilov Park, a weedy Soviet-era amusement park located behind the White House. “Tell me about the kid, Bruce. The kid you dropped off at the orphanage. The orphanage Daria’s been helping.”
    “Oh. That kid.”
    “Yeah. That kid. Muhammad.”
    “Why do you ask?”
    Mark explained what had happened with the Saudis.
    Holtz looked stricken.
    “That’s how I feel too,” said Mark. “What’s going on?”
    Holtz exhaled. His jaw was set in a hard frown. “Fuckin-a. I knew this was gonna come back to bite me in the ass. I knew it. OK, bring him to me, I’ll deal with it.”
    “Oh, yeah. Daria will agree to that, I’m sure.”
    “Daria has him?”
    “She does now. And you’re the last person she’d turn a child over to.”
    “I know you guys are tight, but she can go stuff it.”
    “Believe me, she returns the sentiment. Now, what’s up?”
    “I’m sorry you got involved in this. I didn’t think—” Holtz shook his head. “Well, what’s done is done. I can’t go into details, but I promise I’ll figure out a way to make it right.”
    “You gotta fill me in on this one, Bruce. We’re partners.”
    Holtz made a face. “You’re the figurehead executive vice-president of a company I own. We’re not partners.”
    “Close enough.”
    “No, not close enough. I bust my ass running the company, you collect a check for sitting on your ass. That’s not partners.”
    But they were, in a way, thought Mark.
    To be sure, Holtz had been doing pretty well on his own—despite his light résumé—before Mark had come on board. With the war in Afghanistan winding down, the CIA had been cutting down on personnel in Central Asia, and the air base at Manas was seeing a lot less traffic. CAIN had been in the right place at the right time, one of the few reasonably reputable private intelligence firms in the region for governments and energy companies to turn to.
    But getting Mark on board had resulted in an