Oath of Office

“Mullahs and other community leaders,” Ysabel said. “They are paid by the government to march in counterpoint to these student-led demonstrations. A bunch of old men in white turbans as opposed to a bunch of youth in all manner of clothing. The Basij militia volunteers who aren’t busy cracking the heads Nima mentioned will march with them.”

“How did you know there would be a counterprotest?” Ryan asked. “Did the radio mention that, too?”

Ysabel shook her head. “There is always a counterprotest. The government makes certain of that.” She covered a yawn, then pointed at the sign alongside the road. “The hospital is three kilometers away. Tell me again all that you know about this man Yazdani.”

* * *

Ryan got in the front passenger seat while they waited for Ysabel to finish her work inside Akbar Children’s Hospital. They parked the truck inconspicuously among the buildings of the nearby university. It was the first chance he and Dovzhenko had had to talk out of her presence when they weren’t busy in hot pursuit.

“You did well back there,” Jack said, his forebrain telling him he should try and break the ice. He was exhausted to the point where his skin hurt, irritable, and in no mood to be social. Still, whatever his credentials, this Russian spy had helped save Ysabel, and for that, Ryan owed him.

“As did you,” Dovzhenko said. “You do not appear to be a… How should I say this? A garden-variety case officer for CIA.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said. “I guess. Look, you’re eventually going to be debriefed by people well above my pay grade, but just so we’re clear, you only know Ysabel because of a mutual friend.”

Dovzhenko nodded. “There is no need to worry about my intentions toward Ms. Kashani. I was friends with a friend of hers. Our relationship goes no further than that.”

Jack looked at him, thinking. He didn’t say it, but those were the exact circumstances under which he and Ysabel had met — and become lovers. He hated to admit it, but the easy way she and Dovzhenko communicated with each other — absent screwed-up more recent events — seriously bugged him. Knock it off, Jack, he said to himself. You stopped pursuing her. Let her do her thing now, whatever it is, and with whoever she wants to.

“I’m not worried,” Jack said. Then, for some inexplicable reason, he shot any possibility he had with Ysabel in the foot. “Dude, you’re the one who should worry. You’ve as much as said you were in love with her best friend, and then, when she was killed, you tossed your own safety to the wind, and went out of your way to save Ysabel’s life.”

Dovzhenko closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “But you, you came without question when she called for help. Your ear was nearly torn off. Do not forget, you saved her from a kidnapping… two kidnappings.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Forgive me for saying it this way, but you’re heartbroken. I can’t compete with that.”

“Be honest,” Dovzhenko said. “Are you really trying to?”

Ryan surprised himself with the answer — and how quickly he gave it. “No,” he said. “No, I guess I’m not.” He could almost hear John Clark’s baritone voice. You’re finally growing up, kid. Ryan banged his head softly against the side window, suddenly feeling like he’d shucked a tremendous load, despite the rest of the situation. “I just want her to be happy. Happy and safe.”

“Happiness does not come from safety,” Dovzhenko said.

“You got that right,” Jack said, nearly jumping out of his skin when Ysabel knocked on the window.

“I got the address,” she said, when he opened the door. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder so Jack would give back her seat. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” they said in unison.

* * *

The New York Times had once described the White House Situation Room as a low-tech dungeon. The five-thousand-square-foot complex across from the Navy mess had seen considerable renovation since then. Coaxial cables and cathode ray tubes were replaced with Ethernet, secure routers, and flat-screen monitors, bringing it well into the twenty-first century, but it was still a dungeon as far as Jack Ryan was concerned. It was too maudlin to say aloud, but the decisions made over this conference table were rarely good ones. More often than not, people died — sometimes a lot of people.

The mood today mirrored his own — tense, agitated, spoiling for a fight — and no matter how hard Ryan tried, he couldn’t seem to tamp it back. Most of the NSC assumed he was on edge because of the immediate danger of Iran having nuclear weapons. That was certainly a large part of it. They were aware American operatives inside Iran were about to try and turn an agent, but only Mary Pat knew of Jack Junior’s involvement.