The Colonel's Mistake by Dan Mayland Read Free Book Online

around him. It was an unusually large head, complemented by a chiseled face and topped with soldier-short dirty-blond hair. For brief moments, when the crowd parted, Mark caught glimpses of Decker’s bright blue short-sleeved shirt, easily spotted in what was otherwise a sea of dour brown and black fabric. Equally conspicuous was the broad smile on Decker’s face.
    People in Azerbaijan smiled plenty—just not while they were walking around by themselves in public.
    Mark couldn’t help but smile briefly himself, thinking this was the CIA he remembered. Former Navy SEAL John Decker would be the perfect person to act as a bodyguard for Peters, assuming Peters never attempted to meet any of his agents, conduct anyclandestine work, or do anything that involved blending in with native Azeris. Which was to say Peters wouldn’t be able to do anything that a CIA operations officer investigating Campbell’s death would be required to do.
    Decker approached a line of cabs—mostly old Russian-made Ladas—on Vurgun Street where it intersected with Nizami. He began to look inside each one, eliciting bored looks from the cigarette-smoking drivers who were lounging around next to their vehicles.
    Mark, who was sitting in his Niva behind the line of cabs, tapped on his horn, but Decker didn’t notice. So he drove forward a few feet and rolled down his window.
    “Need a ride?”
    Decker waved him away without making eye contact.
    Mark looked out his windshield for a moment, then said, “Buddy! Get in the damn car.”
    This time Decker turned.
    “I’m your contact,” said Mark quietly.
    Decker’s eyes widened and he gave a significant nod of his chin. He climbed in the Niva, although it was a tight squeeze for him and his head nearly touched the ceiling. He offered his hand to Mark and in a serious, I’m-all-business tone, said, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
    Mark ignored Decker’s hand—he needed both of his own to muscle the manual steering. On top of that he was irritable and worried about Peters and Daria.
    He estimated that Decker was in his midtwenties. One more guy out of thousands drawn to Baku by the oil money, looking to cash in on his Navy SEAL experience. Only Mark thought Decker was too late. A decade ago Baku had been like the Wild West duringthe gold rush. But the big security firms had long-since discovered Baku and taken over.
    “You don’t look like a SEAL. You’re too big.” Six four, Mark guessed. And broad-shouldered. Guys the size of Decker were usually too slow and awkward to handle the training.
    Decker screwed up his face a bit. “Are you always this friendly?”
    “Are you armed?”
    Decker lifted his pant legs, revealing a snub-nosed Glock holstered on one ankle and a five-inch double-bladed combat knife on the other.
    Mark shrugged. “OK, John Decker. You’ll do. Let’s go find your protection detail.”

    Peters’s apartment—the allegedly empty one he kept on Aslanov Street—was locked, but Mark had brought a couple of small lock-picking tools with him.
    “Old-school. That’s pretty slick,” said Decker as Mark went to work. After a few minutes of watching Mark unsuccessfully try to pick the lock, he said, “You know they make electronic picks now. I trained on one a few years ago. They’re great.”
    “That so?” said Mark.
    “Yeah, you just stick it in and it does the work for you.”
    “You got one now?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Then what’s your point?”
    “Ah, no point I guess.”
    After another minute the door swung open.
    Mark, for one, wasn’t overly surprised at the state in which they found Leonard Peters. Even before discovering the body in the bathtub, he’d noted the scratch marks around the lock. Then there was the overturned ashtray in the living room and Peters’s ridiculous pipe—Mark always suspected Peters had fancied himself a bit of a Sherlock Holmes—broken in two on the living room floor.
    It was a small apartment, but Peters evidently had started