Oath of Office

Urbano da Rocha lay on his back in a plastic lounge chair, reading a car magazine and daydreaming about the new Bugatti he could now afford to buy. An intense midday sun reflected off the white deck and dazzled the blue water of the pool. A heavy gold chain lay across his hairless chest, glinting along with the buckle of his swimsuit. Skintight silk covered with gold brocade, the suit was modeled after taleguilla—the breeches worn by matadors. It was complete with tassels — called machos—and da Rocha thought it looked ridiculous, but Lucile had bought the suit for him in Seville. As with the actual taleguilla of a matador, the suit required da Rocha to arrange his partes nobles to one side or the other. In the case of the matador, this was away from the side he used to confront the bull. A wise choice, considering what the sharp horns of a Spanish fighting bull would do to those “noble parts.” The suit might look foppish, but it certainly sparked some interesting games in the bedroom. He’d hardly gotten a moment’s sleep since the deal with the Russians went through.

Killing always brought out the best in Lucile Fournier.

Groaning now, he set the magazine aside and sniffed the air, taking in the odor of cut grass on the rising heat from the fields below the eighteenth-century villa — his fields and his villa. He gazed down the hill at the olive grove below — his olive grove. And it was only the beginning. Oh, this place was well and good by Portuguese standards, but now he could buy an island of his own if he wished. His estates would dot the globe. If the Russians could be trusted to keep their word — and why shouldn’t they — then there would be many more deals to come. Not too shabby for a former Ochoa errand boy.

He caught a flash of movement in the corner of his eye and let his head fall sideways to watch Lucile’s tan body arc off the diving board and enter the water with hardly a burble. She was that way with everything, precise, perfect. It seemed she hardly even had to practice. She merely conceived an image of what she wanted to do, replayed it over and over it in her mind until she could picture the most minute detail — and then did it. Killing Hugo Gaspard had been da Rocha’s idea. How to do it had been hers. She suggested it be public, demonstrating to others in the business that there was a new player in town who was not to be underestimated. Anyone who could murder the feared Frenchman in broad daylight — in front of his armed bodyguards, no less — was surely someone to be reckoned with. The same with Don Felipe. She’d taken special care procuring the toxin and devised a method of delivery that could be carried out under the nose of the Russians without causing them to get overly nervous.

Shielding his eyes against the blinding sun, da Rocha whistled at Lucile. It was not a catcall or a summons. Lucile was not the sort of woman who answered to a snapped finger. It was a whistle of awe.

Both hands on the deck, she pressed herself up and out of the pool, swinging her leg up in a fluid motion that would have been awkward for most people. She accomplished it with perfect strength and grace. Like a goddess just appearing on earth, her wet skin glowed under the golden evening light. She tipped her head to get all her hair on one side, and then used both hands to wring out the excess water. She wore the same black two-piece she’d had on when she’d shot Gaspard, with the same alluring tear in the cloth over her buttock.

“It is so hot today,” she said. “You should come in the water.”

“I will,” he said.

Her face fell into a frowning pout. She stomped her foot before turning at the edge of the pool, arching her back, looking over her shoulder to taunt him with the ripped swimsuit. “Do not wait too long. The water is making me wrinkle.”

“Just a tiny bit of work to do first, my little prune. You know, banking matters.” He reached for the laptop on the teak table beside his lounge chair and opened it up. Lucile had kept him so busy that he’d not logged on since returning home. It took only a moment to connect to Wi-Fi.

45

Sixteen hours and three layovers after leaving Seville, the aging Ariana 737 carrying Jack Ryan, Jr., and Dom Caruso made a rapid descent toward the Herat airport, south of the city. There were few missile attacks of late, but the pilots didn’t seem to want to try their luck by staying in the air too long at low altitude. The other passengers rocked sleepily in their seats, reading or chatting happily with seatmates, apparently used to the rapid descents. Strong winds buffeted the airplane even after they’d landed, causing it to shake as the pilot took them down the runway toward the sad-looking terminal.

Ryan rolled his neck from side to side, doing little to get rid of the kinks brought on by long hours of sitting, and more than that, the anticipation of seeing Ysabel Kashani. He beat his head against the tattered headrest.