Oath of Office

“Why waste a nuclear missile in space?” Dovzhenko mused, his face scrunched, working through the problem. “Why not Israel or some U.S. base in Afghanistan?”

“You got me,” Ryan said. “If they’re trying to shoot down a satellite, we’ll still retaliate.”

Ysabel touched Dovzhenko on the arm. “You know that photograph you got from Maryam of those condemned students with General Alov?”

The Russian nodded.

“Let’s have a look at it,” Ysabel said. “I think there’s something we’ve been missing.”

59

Reza Kazem looked away, stifling a smile when Ayatollah Ghorbani had to grab his beard with both hands to keep the rotor from blowing it across his face. The cleric glared at Kazem as he climbed aboard the Jet Ranger, as if the physics of wind and helicopters were all his fault.

The tour around the missile site had been a quick one, with Kazem answering questions when he could and deferring to those with more expertise when he could not. General Alov of the Russian GRU followed along with his hands clasped behind his back, his face set in a smug scowl, as if he already knew all the answers but could not be bothered to voice them. Apparently satisfied, if not actually happy, Ghorbani had turned toward the helicopter without so much as a word. The Mashhad protests were going late into the evening, and he’d made it clear on his arrival that he wished to look at them from the air.

The Bell Jet Ranger lifted off with the pilot and four passengers — Ayatollah Ghorbani, General Alov, Kazem, and his trusted lieutenant, Basir. The pilot had served in the military with Basir and, though Ghorbani was unaware of the fact, was part of Kazem’s inner circle.

Kazem and Basir faced aft, while the Russian and Ghorbani were seated facing forward, with the cleric knee-to-knee with Kazem.

The Bell 206 had a top speed of 120 knots, and Ghorbani, his scowling brow the very picture of impatience, insisted the pilot wring out every last knot. They flew in low, two hundred feet over the crowds that had massed in the open area where Navvab Safavi Expressway passed under the Imam Reza shrine. A skirmish line of police and Basij militia against a knot of protesters along Kawthar wall, both sides attempting to use the arched entryways as temporary redoubts. Men and women of all ages had taken to the streets, but the protesters were, by far, youth in their teens and twenties, sick of the present situation. These same young men and women who were often shown on the worldwide media shouting “Death to America!” just as often chanted “Death to Repression!” or “Death to Unemployment!”

The Basij militia — many of them the same age as the student protesters — were particularly brutal in their tactics, answering hurled insults with batons and bullets. Ghorbani took a macabre interest in the action and directed the pilot to move closer to the areas with the most violent confrontations.

“How many do you think?” Ghorbani mused over the intercom, his black turban pressed against the Plexiglas as he peered down at the melee. The cloth headdress necessitated that he wear his earphones wrapped around behind his neck rather than over the top like the rest of those on the helicopter.

“No more than four or five hundred,” Reza said. It was common practice for Ghorbani’s advisers to downplay the size of a demonstration — or anything negative for that matter.

“Nonsense,” the cleric said. “There are at least two thousand people down there. All of them are angry because they feel they have lost control.”

General Alov raised an eyebrow at the insight but said nothing.

“That is true,” Reza said.

Ghorbani’s head snapped around. “I know what is true and what is not. The government of Iran is ordained of Allah. That truth is absolute. We would put the two thousand presently below us to the sword to protect it — even ten times two thousand if need be.” He returned the forehead of his turban to the Plexiglas, gazing downward. “That will not be necessary. The Americans will muster immediately after the first missile hits Bagram — but they will be unsure of who to blame. A stolen Russian missile launched by Iranian dissidents will create enough tension they will not counterstrike with nuclear weapons. They will, however, be very likely to attack a few facilities with conventional weapons. President Ryan will suspect us, no doubt,” Ghorbani said. “But absent any definitive proof, the targets will be for show more than anything. And if there is anything our people hate more than misunderstood policies of their own government, it is the interference of the United States. President Ryan’s show of force will only give the Iranian people a common enemy.”

Kazem bowed, as one should when he is subservient — but this was the last time.

“I have seen enough,” the cleric said, prompting the pilot to turn toward the missile site. Ghorbani was customarily cold, but his voice now grew even more icy. “I could not help but notice, Reza, that you have Sahar Tabrizi on your staff.”