Oath of Office

Clark continued. “I mean, you travel around Europe, wheeling and dealing in illegal weapons, and you’re living in a couple-hundred-thousand-euro villa with a handful of bodyguards who might as well have laid down and died for all the good they did you.”

Clark stopped and gave time for the silence to close in.

At length he said, “I’m just saying I thought a man like you would have a fortress. Dealing with Russian GRU is dangerous business.”

“They were not GRU,” da Rocha scoffed.

“Sure they were,” Clark said. “I could smell it on them.”

“Are… Are you… CIA?”

“Sadly for you,” Clark said, “I am not. We have the same interests, to be sure, but I’m not bound by Agency rules.”

Da Rocha sniffed, then turned to wipe his nose against his shoulder, like a bird preening its wing. He looked up suddenly. “And what if I tell you everything I know?”

Clark shrugged. “I honestly can’t say what’s going to happen after this.”

“I assure you, I have information you will want.”

“We have your computer,” Clark said. “Maybe that is enough.”

“But that is only part of it,” da Rocha said. “By the time you figure it out, it will be too late.”

Clark kept his face passive. This guy was trying to bait him.

“I need certain assurances,” da Rocha said.

“Specifically?”

“My freedom.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”

“My money?”

“Your accounts don’t reflect any money.”

“You could help me get it back from the Russians.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Clark said. “How about you tell me what you know and you might not end up in a very small cell under the Colorado desert for the rest of your life.”

“So you are with the U.S. government,” da Rocha said smugly.

“Nope,” Clark said. “I just believe in doing my civic duty. How about you think about what’s really important to you.” He stood, then threw the guy a bone. “You seem like a pretty smart man.”

“Missiles,” da Rocha said.

“I know that already,” Clark said. “You’re an arms dealer. That’s what you deal in.”

“Not the kind of missiles you think,” da Rocha said.

Clark sat down but said nothing. More often than not, silence was the best tool for extracting answers.

“I have no proof,” da Rocha said. He sighed, relieved to be telling his story. “But I believe as you do that those men were officers with the GRU. I had heard, through the grapevine, so to speak, that they needed someone for a very large deal. I… I suppose you could say I courted them — as any businessman would.”

“Taking out the competition,” Clark said.

“In a word. If they were GRU, then the Russian government used me as a go-between to do business with Iran.”

In the corner of the room, Ding Chavez sat up a little straighter.

“Russia makes no secret of the fact it supplies weapons to Iran,” Clark said.

“Nuclear weapons?” Da Rocha leaned back, sinking into the soft cushions. “The Russians I dealt with obviously want the world to think the weapons came from a third party. I would imagine they have already concocted a story about them being stolen. They promised future business, but I see now that was a lie to keep me compliant until they killed me.”

“You’re certain the missiles are nuclear?”

“Certain enough,” da Rocha said. “Two 51T6 ABMs — you call them Gorgons — and their launch controllers. My people took possession of them in Oman and transported them to Iran.”

“Where?”

“These missiles are very portable,” da Rocha said. “They have nowhere near the range to reach the United States. But it is not too much of a leap to guess Iran might use them against any number of American bases. They could strike Israel from western Iran.”

“Where are they?” Clark asked again.

Da Rocha swallowed. “I must have assurances.”

Clark gave a slow nod. “Okay,” he said. “I assure you that if you don’t tell me where you dropped these weapons in the next fifteen seconds I will cut off your feet. After fifteen seconds, even if you start to talk, you will lose at least one.”

“Sir, I…”

“Eight seconds.”

“All right, all right.”

“That’s not an answer,” Clark said. “Four seconds.”

Da Rocha spilled the information. “But they are not there,” he said, starting to sob again. “I am sure they have been moved.”

Clark snapped his fingers. “The names and contacts of your people. The ones who delivered the missiles to Iran.”

Da Rocha wiped his nose on his shoulder again, becoming more animated. He swallowed hard. “I will give them to you, but considering what the Russian bastards had in store for me, I feel certain my men are already dea—”

Ding’s phone rang. He stood when he answered it, listened for a moment, and began to pace. Clark could hear only half the conversation, but it was clear from Ding’s tone that it was bad.

Ding motioned for Clark to come to him out of earshot. Midas and Adara moved closer, guarding da Rocha.

“What’s up?” Clark asked.

“It’s Dom,” Ding said. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”

Clark felt as if he’d just taken a sledgehammer to the gut. “Jack?”