Oath of Office

Atash Yazdani answered the door on the first chime, as if he’d been expecting them. He was a slightly built man, with narrow shoulders, stooped by the weight of his son’s illness. He’d not always been so slight. His slacks were bunched behind two new holes that had been punched in a tattered leather belt as he’d lost weight. A collarless white dress shirt hung off his body, the sleeves rolled up over bony forearms. A quintessential engineer, he had a cheap ballpoint pen and three mechanical pencils in his breast pocket. The forelock of his dark hair was pulled upward to a mussed point, as if he’d been clutching it in thought while bent over a desk or table in his tiny apartment.

Dovzhenko had a pang of conscience when he saw the man’s bloodshot eyes.

He’d lost his wife to ovarian cancer, his son was gravely ill. Now they would offer salvation if he would only betray his country.

“May I help you?” the man asked, preoccupied — probably with the vagaries of life itself.

Dovzhenko smiled, hoping the guilt didn’t show.

“My friends and I have news that might help your son.”

One hand on the door, the other on the frame, Yazdani leaned half out into the hallway, looking to see who Dovzhenko meant by “friends.” Ysabel gave a polite bob of her scarf-covered head. The American smiled but kept his mouth shut as they’d planned.

“My son?” Yazdani said. “What do you know of my son?” Hope flashed momentarily in the man’s eyes but faded quickly, too overwhelmed with defeat to stay long.

“May we discuss it inside?”

Yazdani stood and stared for so long Dovzhenko was afraid the American might say something, if only to fill the void. Then the engineer suddenly opened the door and motioned them inside.

The interior of the small apartment was as shabby and sad as the harried engineer’s countenance. Ryan and Ysabel took seats on the tattered sofa, and Dovzhenko, who was to make the initial pitch, took the faded Queen Anne next to the wobbly dining room chair where Yazdani would sit. As per Persian custom, the host brought out tea and a plate of cake, along with a sharp knife to cut it. He apologized that he did not have more to offer.

“Now,” he said, forgoing any tea himself, “please tell me what it is you could do to help my son.” He turned toward Ryan. “You are American?”

Ryan nodded, one eye on the cake knife. “What made you guess that?”

Yazdani scoffed. “You have not yet spoken, so I knew you had something you wanted to hide. If you’d been Russian like him, that would not have mattered. Am I wrong?”

“You are not,” Ryan said.

“How did you injure your head?”

“A car wreck in Afghanistan,” Ryan said.

“I see,” Yazdani mused, clearly trying to make sense of these sudden arrivals. “You know much of my son’s disease. Are you a doctor, then?”

“I am not,” Ryan said.

“None of us are physicians,” Dovzhenko said. “We are diplomats who believe we have come upon a way to help your son.” He took a sip of tea, letting the man stew on that a bit.

“Diplomats? How would Russian and American diplomats know of the troubles of one Iranian boy?” He glared at Ysabel. “What does this have to do with you?”

“I am a part of it,” she said. “But I am not the one who first knew of your child.” Her honesty came through loud and clear on her words, obviously impressing Yazdani.

Dovzhenko set the teacup down on a side table. “I am truly sorry about your son. He has cystic fibrosis, does he not?”

“That is so.”

“The F508del mutation, to be exact.”

“You know a great deal,” Yazdani said.

Now Ryan spoke. “That particular mutation responds to a drug called tezacaftor.”

Yazdani threw back his head like he was in pain. “What good does this information do my Ibrahim? I earn seventeen million rial each month — roughly three hundred and fiftyAmerican dollars. This drug you speak of costs three hundred thousand dollars a year — and that does not even matter, because we could never get it here anyway.”

The room fell silent for a time. Everyone sipped tea to be polite, but the cake went untouched.

At length, Yazdani leaned forward, bony elbows on bony knees. “It is obvious that you want something from me,” he said. “A quid pro quo in order to help my son. What is it?”

Dovzhenko smiled serenely, the pang of conscience returning with a vengeance. “We can guarantee your son will receive the care and medication that he needs, for the rest of his—”

“Yes, yes,” Yazdani said. “I understand what you offer. I want to know what you ask.”

Dovzhenko shot a glance at Ryan. The Americans were offering the deal, so it was natural that he should complete the pitch.

Ryan began. “You work with missile control systems at Mashhad Air Base?”

Yazdani threw up his hands. “I knew it would have something to do with my job. You are not diplomats. You are spies. Saboteurs.”