Death of a Spy by Dan Mayland

Author:Dan Mayland [Mayland, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Espionage, Political, Terrorism, Thrillers
Amazon: B00N2ZXB74
Goodreads: 23208338
Publisher: Richard Curtis Associates, Inc
Published: 2014-01-02T12:00:00+00:00

Always it was tea, thought Mark as he sat waiting in the cramped living room. He liked to think of himself as a patient man, but that image of himself was always tested when he visited an Azeri for the first time. They prided themselves on being hospitable—the most hospitable people in the world!—and hospitality inevitably involved taking a long time to prepare tea.

As he waited, Mark studied what he could of the apartment. The walls in the living room had been painted a pale green and the furniture looked new. Two handcrafted lutes—one long-necked, one short—were displayed on stands in the corner. Floor-to-ceiling shelving lined one wall. In the center, at eye level, was a cranberry-colored crystal vase etched with a starburst pattern. He stood to examine it.

“Beautiful,” Mark said—quietly, so as not to wake the baby again—when Rasul came out with the tea. Gesturing to the vase, he said, “The quality of Czech crystal can’t be compared to what they make today.”

Back in the Soviet days, Czechoslovakia had been known for making the best crystal in Eastern Europe.

“A wedding gift. From my parents.”

“They live in Ganja?”

“Baku.”

Rasul set a tray with pear-shaped clear glasses and a teapot down on a low table. His hand trembled as he poured the tea. Also on the tray was a bowl of sour cherry jam, two baklava pastries, and a Snickers bar that had been sliced into bite-sized pieces.

“Thank you.” Mark took a sip of tea. It had been prepared the Azeri way—light—instead of the dark Turkish method that he preferred. “Perfect. Do you have any family in Ganja?”

“No.”

“And Aida. She was from Baku as well?”

“Yes. We moved last year. For her job. It was supposed to be temporary.”

“Will you now move back?”

Rasul shrugged and stared blankly down at his hands, looking as though he just wanted to be left alone but was too polite to say as much.

“Please,” said Mark. “Sit a moment.”

Rasul sat down on a chair opposite the couch.

Mark ate a slice of Snickers, then said, “About this life insurance. As I said, your wife took out a policy when she signed up with the firm. At Bazarduzu, we consider our employees to be family. We grieved when we heard of your loss. And we want you to know how much we valued your wife’s work. We want to do everything we can to help.”

“There has been no body, so no funeral, no proper burial, no…” Rasul’s voice trailed off. With his right hand he began to use his thumb to touch each joint on each of his fingers, pausing briefly at each joints; it was a habit used by some Muslims, akin to using rosary beads to keep track of prayers. A minute later, he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“No body?”

“I saw her at the police station. I identified her, we spoke of funeral arrangements. Then later that day they said she had tested positive for tuberculosis, but she never had tuberculosis, she was healthy.”

“Did they show

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