Oath of Office

Jack looked to Caruso for help but got nothing. A silence fell over the interior of the van until Dovzhenko cleared his throat.

“I appreciate you coming,” he said. “I have information you might find useful.”

“I look forward to hearing it,” Ryan said.

More silence.

Hamid kept glancing in the rearview mirror, which, for some reason, was seriously beginning to piss Ryan off.

“Can I help you with something?” Ryan asked.

“No,” Hamid said.

“You keep looking at me like you have a question.”

“No,” the Afghan said again. “Merely an observation.”

“And what’s that?”

“I find myself surrounded by invaders.”

Ysabel looked sideways. “What are you talking about?”

“Persia, Russia, the United States — you have all invaded Afghanistan at one time or another. And now you sit here arguing among yourselves as if I am not even present.” Hamid shrugged. “The history of my country in microcosm.”

“I’m not invading anybody,” Ryan said. “I was invited.”

“How could you, Jack?” Ysabel said, ignoring her bodyguard. “You, my father, you were both supposed to be these enlightened men. How could you presume to make such decisions for me?”

“I almost got you killed,” Jack said.

“You give yourself too much credit,” Ysabel said. “I—”

Hamid cut her off. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he said, though it was clear from his tone that he was not. “But there are three motorbikes moving up behind us at a high rate of speed.”

Ryan, Caruso, and the Russian twisted in their seats to get a look behind them. The thick cloud of orange dust boiling up behind the van made it almost impossible to see anything.

“Are they armed?” Jack asked.

Hamid gave a grunting nod. “Everyone is armed. This is opium country. The Taliban are active not far to the south. Smugglers and bandits are as common as fleas here.”

“That’s odd,” Jack said. “That a bodyguard would take us through an area thick with opium smugglers.”

Hamid laughed, the way someone would laugh at a sophomoric child. “You are in Afghanistan. There are only two types of areas — unsafe and very unsafe.”

“Have you got any guns in the van?” Caruso asked.

Ysabel leaned forward and pulled an Uzi from under her seat. She passed it to Jack, keeping the muzzle down.

Hamid glanced in the rearview. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

Jack scoffed. “I do.”

“I only ask,” Hamid said, “because they fire from an open bolt, and I have seen more than a few Americans shoot holes in the floor believing the weapon is safe, when it is actually ready to fire.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. “I’m familiar with how to work an Uzi.”

“I don’t want to come across as a whiner,” Caruso said, leaning across Jack and between the front bucket seats. “But do you have a gun for me?”

Ysabel passed him a Beretta 92 but kept a Kalashnikov pointed down between her knees. She looked at Dovzhenko. “I am sorry, but that’s all we have.”

The Russian held up a hand. “It is fine,” he said. “If things get bad, I will take one of theirs, whichever becomes available first.”

“They are about to pass us,” Hamid said, eyes glued to his side mirror. “They have not unslung their rifles.”

One of the motorcycles roared by, throwing up a rooster tail of dust but ignoring the van altogether.

The second bike passed, following the first. An AK-47 rifle was slung diagonally across the rider’s back.

The road narrowed some, curving sharply to the north as it followed the meandering course of the Hari River. The third bike kept to the rear, biding his time while his two friends drew farther and farther away. The river straightened, as did the road, and the bike moved up immediately, slowing a hair as he came abeam with the driver’s door.

Ryan heard a faint clunk, as if they’d kicked up a rock. The motorcycle rolled on the throttle and sped ahead.

“Sticky bomb!” Hamid said, throwing open the door in an attempt to rid the van of the magnetic device.

It was no use.

The blast lifted the front of the vehicle completely off the ground. One moment Hamid was there, behind the steering wheel, the next his seat was empty, torn to rags. The van lurched violently, the right wheel falling into the ditch that ran along the road and then rolling on its side as it slid along the gravel with a horrific squeal of metal on stone.

With no seat directly in front of him, Jack was thrown forward during the wreck, landing on top of Ysabel in a tangle of arms and legs and machine guns. Both of them were pressed against the shattered window that was now the bottom of the van and wedged between the dash and the bucket seat. Feet pointing skyward, Jack’s weight was on his shoulders and he essentially lay on his back in Ysabel’s lap.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She groaned. “I will be when you get off my ribs.”

“Give me the gun!” Dovzhenko barked from the backseat. He’d slid the van door open above him, revealing a bright patch of dusty sky.

Jack passed the Uzi without argument. He wasn’t using it at the moment.

“Dom!” he shouted. “You good?”

Dust and smoke poured into the van.

“Dom!” Jack said again.

Nothing.