At the bottom of the page was a photo of both Rivka and Sarah. Sarah recognized it as one that Rivka’s parents had taken earlier in the week. The caption read:
MISSING AMERICAN WOMAN LAST SEEN WITH SLAIN ISRAELI
23
The Caucasus Mountains. Would you believe that the Soviet elite thought of these small republics — Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan — as a holiday paradise? They have everything: sunny beaches, snowy mountains, luxurious orchards, and some of the best wine in Eastern Europe. Or is it Asia? It’s hard to say. The region seems to connect Asia with Europe, and it’s a mixture of cultural elements from both continents. Now that the Soviet Union is no more and these countries are more or less independent, all we hear about are the ethnic conflicts that plague the area. But I’ve never had any problems here. In fact, I kind of like it.
I drive out of Turkey in the Pazhan, which is beginning to worry me. The engine’s starting to make a
I travel north and enter Armenia just west of Yerevan. I have no trouble at the border. My Interpol credentials get me through, and it helps that these places are far less suspicious than the other countries I’ve visited on this assignment. I have to cross over the mountains, north of Lake Sevan, to access the straighter, more level road heading east into Azerbaijan. The distance in miles really isn’t that much, but the up-and-down nature of the trip stretches the time frame. I just try to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery.
I reach my destination after nightfall. Baku, or Baki — depending on whom you talk to — is the largest city in the Caucasus. In America they say that Chicago is the “windy city,” but it has nothing over Baku. Baku’s name, in fact, comes from Persian words that mean “city of winds.” Perched on the shore of the Caspian Sea, Baku is bombarded by strong gales on a frequent basis. Another distinctive aspect of Baku is that it’s surrounded by gaseous and flammable oil fields. Since oil is the country’s main commodity, most of Baku is an industrial city that works to refine the huge amounts of petroleum. What’s amazing is there are areas of earth that literally flame up because gas is coming out of the ground. So Baku is sometimes called the “land of fire,” as well. Back in the times of the Greeks, many of the myths grew out of this area because of its unusual natural characteristics.
It’s not a very attractive city. I find it very polluted, especially on the outskirts, but I believe this is a legacy of former Soviet rule. The inner city and the harbor area have lately been built up to attract more tourists. It’s trying to be downright cosmopolitan, albeit a little more conservative than, say, Istanbul.
If I wanted to I could stay at a four-star hotel, but that’s not my style. I prefer budget places where no one pays much attention to the guests. I find such an establishment located on board a former Caspian Sea ferry that sits on a permanent mooring beside the Port Office in the area known as Boom Town. The place is a dump but the cabins have hot water and privacy. I don’t plan to stay long.
After a welcome night’s sleep I greet the morning refreshed and ready to work. I have a breakfast of bread and honey with yogurt at the teahouse near my so-called hotel, and then I walk through Boom Town to the address I found on the shipping manifest in the Akdabar storeroom. Those weapons were definitely shipped from Azerbaijan, and whatever business occupies the address had something to do with it.
It turns out to be a bank just off Fountain Square, the center for people watching in Baku. The fountains happen to be working today, so the cafe terraces are busy and lively. Since I’m wearing my civilian sports jacket and trousers, I blend in easily. No one notices the casually dressed businessman enter the Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank except the security guard at the front door. He’s standing outside as if he were actually a hotel concierge waiting to hail a taxi for a guest. I notice there’s a retinal scanner by the door — which will make my entry during off-hours all the more difficult. I’ll have to think about that one.
As I open the door, the guard nods at me and asks me something in Azeri. I simply smile, point to the information desk, and go inside. It’s a fairly small bank lobby with two teller windows and two executive desks on the floor. A barred gate leads to an area behind a wall, which I presume are back offices, the vault, and maybe safe-deposit boxes. I go to the table that holds bank literature, pick up a pamphlet, and pretend to study it as I case the place. There are two surveillance cameras up in the corners and appear to cover the entire lobby. I glance through the teller windows — only one is occupied — and see a pretty Azeri woman in her thirties counting manat, the official currency. There’s not much room back there, so I figure all the good stuff in the bank is through the barred gate.
While I’m studying the place, a man enters from the street, stands and speaks quietly to the guard, and then walks over to the teller window. I recognize him as the man with Namik Basaran in the photo that was in Rick Benton’s folder. He’s dressed impeccably in an expensive suit and has the demeanor of a king. I make him out to be perhaps the bank manager.
He speaks to the teller for a moment and then moves to the barred gate. He unlocks it with his own set of keys, enters, closes and locks the gate behind him, and disappears. He didn’t look at me once.
It’s funny how all the little pieces start falling into place. Whoever this guy is, he’s obviously pretty chummy with Basaran. In the photo they look like old pals who have enjoyed a longtime business relationship. Of course, the guy could simply be Basaran’s banker. Much remains to be seen.
I take a couple of pamphlets and leave the lobby. As I walk by the guard I don’t look at him — instead I study one of the pamphlets as if I’m trying to make up my mind whether or not to use the bank’s services. He says something that probably translates to “Have a nice day, sir,” and I grunt affirmatively without looking up.
I walk south to what is referred to as the Old Town. It’s a little maze of alleys that probably should be more impressive than it is. There are some interesting medieval monuments scattered about, but it’s mostly made up of nineteenth-century oil-boom structures and Soviet-era tenement buildings. I find a harbor
When I’m done I walk along the harbor and contact Lambert via my implant.
“Colonel, are you awake?” I ask. “Colonel?”
He answers after twenty seconds or so. “Sam?”
“It’s me, Colonel. Did I wake you?”
“Um, yeah, but that’s all right. We haven’t spoken in a while. Are you in a secure place?”
“I’m walking along Baku harbor. There’s no one around. I thought I’d check to see if you have news, because I have some.”
“I do,” Lambert says. “But you go first.”
“You know the address I found attached to the arms at Akdabar Enterprises?”
“Yes?”
“It’s a bank. The Swiss-Russian International Mercantile Bank. Right off of Fountain Square in Baku.”
I hear Lambert chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I ask.
“It’s such a coincidence. We’ve been hard at work gathering information about those men you asked for. Just a second, let me get to my portable transmitter… ” I wait a few seconds. He probably has to get out of bed and go into his office. After a moment I hear him again in the depths of my ear. “I’m uploading a photo. Take a look.”
In a flash my OPSAT displays a picture of the guy I just saw in the bank. The same guy in the photo with Namik Basaran. “Got it,” I say.
“That’s Andrei Zdrok.”
“No shit.”
“That’s him.”
“Son of a bitch. You won’t believe this, but he’s here. I just saw him in the bank. He walked in like he owned the joint and went into the back offices.”
“Well, he does own the joint,” Lambert says. “Unfortunately there’s not a lot on him we could dig up, but what we’ve found is interesting. He’s a Russian banker — he’s actually from Georgia — and he’s the
