The Colonel's Mistake Read Online Free PDF Page B

early five o’clock shadow and he had a large Turkic nose. “I see this car,” he said, frowning and pointing at Mark’s Niva, “and I think maybe a gypsy, or even a Kurd, has come!”
    Mark smiled. “I’ve been downsizing.”
    “Downsizing, what is downsizing?”
    “Downsizing is what you do when you start to teach,” said Mark, switching to Azeri.
    They shook hands.
    “Ah yes. I remember. Western University. I have to admit I wasn’t sure you were being completely—how do I put it—
open
with me when you told me of your intentions. But my people tell me you actually do teach classes. They learn much from you.”
    “I’ve wondered about some of my students.”
    “My men have been attentive, I hope.”
    “Very. Thank you for coming, Orkhan.”
    Orkhan Gambar was the Azeri minister of national security. Given that the United States and Azerbaijan were on good terms, Mark’s affiliation with the CIA had been known to Orkhan and they’d frequently exchanged information. But since the CIA’s presence in Azerbaijan wasn’t officially acknowledged, their meetings had been held in secret. Often they had met here.
    “Come.” Orkhan lightly guided Mark by the elbow as his driver produced an M-16 rifle and began to stand guard. “We talk by the fire.”
    Mark followed Orkhan down a series of worn stone steps, into the bottom of a little depression. A white plastic table and three white plastic chairs had been set up a few feet away from a hillside that had been burning ever since an underground reservoir of natural gas had caught fire decades ago. A few enterprising Azeris had tried to set up a tea shop near the flames, but the tourists had proved few and the shop had gone out of business.
    Orkhan settled into a chair and pulled it up close to the fire. On previous occasions he’d told Mark that getting extremely hotfor a half hour or so made one feel cooler for the rest of the day. All Azeris know this, he’d said.
    Mark sat down next to him now and pulled out the bag of pistachios, certain that Orkhan wouldn’t be fasting during Ramadan.
    “You remembered. This is why we get along so well.”
    That and the fact that the US government had sent an ocean of what was supposed to have been counterterrorism money Orkhan’s way, thought Mark.
    Not for the first time he considered that Azerbaijan was a country with a lot of things going for it. Though its people were predominantly Shiite Muslims, they were tolerant of Christians and Jews. Women could wear whatever they wanted without risking being stoned to death. In the south there were vast forests and lush groves of citrus trees. To the north, the snowcapped mountains and picturesque little villages almost could have been Switzerland were it not for the general lack of indoor plumbing. And the coastal center was rich with oil. But the country was also hopelessly corrupt. Mark had little doubt that plenty of America’s money had gone directly into Orkhan’s pocket. That was why they got along so well. But the pistachios didn’t hurt either.
    “How is your family, Orkhan?”
    They exchanged pleasantries for a while. Then Orkhan asked about Nika. Although Nika had made the mistake of marrying a Russian when she was twenty-four—a marriage that had lasted only six months because all Russians are thieves and drunks—he indicated that she came from a decent family and that her job as a professor of English literature at Western University appeared to be secure.
    “But you must tell her not to smoke around her child,” Orkhan said. “This is very bad for children, I hear. I see she does this at her home.”
    “I wasn’t aware.”
    Orkhan sat back and smiled, a hard smile that showed his teeth. Mark caught a glimpse of a gold crown in the back and recalled that the Ministry of National Security was the Azeri equivalent of the old KGB. They even occupied the same building that the KGB had operated out of, and had wound up employing many of the same