Oath of Office

Jack’s part in all this was still a ticklish issue, so it was decided that CIA case officer Adam Yao, who’d worked with Ryan before, would make initial contact with Erik Dovzhenko, debrief him, get a feel for his veracity, and then put him on the FLUTTER before accepting him into the fold as double agent GP/VICAR.

Russia had provided nuclear missiles to Iran from the beginning, but as far as they knew, Dovzhenko was unaware of anything beyond the plot by Reza Kazem and General Alov to shoot down an American satellite. Ayatollah Ghorbani corroborated his report, with the stories of his daring rescue from the insane dissident who had murdered General Alov and kept him captive. Dovzhenko was a heroic, if plodding, SVR operative just doing his job. He’d pursued other dissidents into Afghanistan, where he’d lost them among the Taliban. Rather than returning directly to the embassy in Tehran, he was to fly back to Moscow along with his new friend, Ysabel Kashani.

They’d arrived in Dubai eight hours earlier than Dovzhenko had told his supervisors, and, after a lengthy surveillance detection run, met Yao in a suite at the Crowne Plaza Dubai. The CIA case officer stood in the corner of the room, chatting with Dovzhenko, making small talk — and observations on his new, though battle-tested recruit.

Jack and Ysabel stood in the front alcove by the door to give the two men a little more privacy.

Ysabel had changed from her headscarf and smock into jeans and a blue silk blouse that perfectly accented her olive skin.

She scuffed the tile floor with the tip of a white tennis shoe. “You okay?” she asked.

Jack nodded, meaning it, but feeling a little down just the same.

“I was pretty hard on you,” she said.

“So,” Ryan said, attempting to change the subject. “You’re going to work in Russia.”

She nodded. “For a while. That’s my expertise.”

“Dovzhenko is a good dude,” Ryan said. “Brave. Solid.”

“He is.” Ysabel looked up. “But we’re not…”

“I know,” Ryan said. “I’m just saying he’s a good dude, that’s all. And if you were… you know… that would be okay.”

“Listen,” Ysabel said. “Do you know the story of the Bibi Khanum Mosque in Samarkand?”

Ryan chuckled. “Can’t say that I do.”

“Well,” Ysabel said, “Tamerlane hired a Persian architect to design and build a mosque for his favorite wife, Bibi Khanum. It is said that this architect and Bibi Khanum fell so deeply in love that when the Persian kissed her, it burned her cheek, leaving the imprint of his lips.”

Ryan raised a brow. “Okay.”

“What I’m saying, Jack”—Ysabel waved a hand low in front of her lap—“is don’t look for someone who only sets you on fire here. Find someone who burns your cheek with a simple kiss.”

Dovzhenko walked up before Ryan could respond.

“Hope I am not interrupting,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “My case officer had to make a few calls.”

“Not at all,” Ryan said. “I was just on my way out. The fewer people that see me with you, the better.”

“Understood,” Dovzhenko said.

Ysabel leaned in, kissing Ryan on the cheek and then giving a little shrug. “See,” she said. “No burn there, my friend.”

Dovzhenko looked sideways at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“It was an honor,” Ryan said.

“The honor was mine,” Dovzhenko said. “Two weeks ago, we may have tried to kill each other, and now…”

“You’re sure about this?” Ryan asked. “SVR counterintelligence line is going to work overtime trying to trip you up the moment you get off the plane.”

Dovzhenko glanced quickly to the left and right, and then leaned in with a secret. “We should probably not mention this to your friend, but if there is one thing I learned from my mother, it is how to beat a polygraph.”

Dovzhenko smiled and shook Ryan’s hand, drawing him close and patting him on the back in a brotherhood hug. “I feel like our paths will cross again, my friend.”

“Seriously,” Ryan said. “Maybe you should let us check this out through our channels before you return to Moscow. It may not be safe.”

“Ah, Jack Ryan, Jr.,” Dovzhenko said with a wry smile. “You know better than I, happiness does not come from safety.”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A little more than thirty years ago, Tom Clancy was a Maryland insurance broker with a passion for naval history. Years before, he had been an English major at Baltimore's Loyola College and had always dreamed of writing a novel. His first effort, The Hunt for Red October, sold briskly as a result of rave reviews, then catapulted onto the New York Times bestseller list after President Reagan pronounced it "the perfect yarn." From that day forward, Clancy established himself as an undisputed master at blending exceptional realism and authenticity, intricate plotting, and razor-sharp suspense. He passed away in October 2013.