Oath of Office

Da Rocha patted the man’s arm, as if checking on a friend.

“What have you done?” the Russian with the long upper lip said. Da Rocha had correctly identified him as the leader.

“A demonstration,” da Rocha said. “The newest in shellfish toxin. Not all armaments need to include facial recognition or advanced GPS — though I certainly have that as well if you want it.”

Both Russians glanced nervously up and down the street, wanting to put distance between themselves and the dead Spaniard but unsure of what would come next.

“Shellfish toxin?” the Russian with the odd haircut asked. “How would you even know he is allergic?”

Lucile laughed out loud. “Monsieur, everyone is allergic to this shellfish toxin.”

“Amazing,” da Rocha said, “how quickly it worked. Wouldn’t you say?” He dropped a business card on the table in front of the Russians. “We both know that you are in the market for someone with certain skills and contacts. I assure you, a business arrangement with me would not disappoint you.” He patted the dead Spaniard on the shoulder. “As you can see, I am very resourceful.”

* * *

Clark had to concentrate to keep from jumping to his feet. “Everyone stay put,” he said. “The guy in the beret was just hit. Anyone hear a shot?”

No one had.

“This was something else,” Jack said. “Poison, maybe.”

“Ricin?” Midas mused.

“A little too quick for that,” Clark said. “She jabbed him with something, though. The Russians are moving now. Da Rocha and the woman are coming toward you, Adara. See if you can figure out where they are staying. But be alert.”

“Ballsy,” Ding said. “That makes two that we know of who she’s killed in front of a large and hostile audience.”

“Yeah,” Clark said. “Like I said. Everyone keep your heads on a swivel.”

He nodded at Ryan, who left a couple of euros on the table to pay for their beers. The Russians walked east on Calle Adriano, toward their hotel, leaving the dead local and the bullfighting arena behind. For the time being, at least, they seemed to have lost their taste for blood.

23

Dovzhenko sprang out of the bed, hopping on one foot as he put on his slacks. He was already buttoning his shirt before he realized Maryam wasn’t moving.

“What are you doing?” He slipped the Vostok watch over his wrist, shoving his feet into his shoes. His socks went into his pockets. There was no time to put them on. “Get up! We have to go.”

A lock of dark hair fell across an agate-colored eye. “You are the fire of my heart,” she said. “But if they find us together, we are both dead. They will only interrogate me.”

“No!” Dovzhenko grabbed her arm, dragging her across the sheets. She didn’t struggle, but she didn’t help, either. It was like dragging a dead woman. He felt like crying. “They would not dare harm a Russian intelligence officer. We are allies.”

Her eyes were half closed, sleepy, trancelike. “You could tell them I was your prisoner. Perhaps you could go a little easier on my feet with the truncheon…”

“Why are you doing this?” A sob caught hard in his throat. “Please come with me.”

“Where?” She tore the pendant off her neck and handed it to him. “Please go. You must escape so I can see you again, even if I am in a cell.”

“I won’t leave you.”

She sighed. “My love, if you do not, we will both be killed. Our only chance is for you to go. Now.”

Dovzhenko stuffed the silver necklace in his pocket and then, exasperated, kissed her hard before sliding open the rear window.

“I’ll be right back.”

He switched off his radio and vaulted over the rail, letting his body extend fully so he could drop to the next balcony below. He repeated the process twice more on the second- and first-floor balconies, dropping the last few feet to land among a hedge of thorny shrubs. Tires squealed around the corner as a vehicle turned quickly off 2nd Street and came to a stop in the parking lot out front.

Dovzhenko ran south without looking back, cutting between dark apartment buildings and vaulting several fences to put some distance between him and Sassani’s men. Two minutes later, he turned to the east through a neighborhood of large single-family homes, toward his parked car. Motion lights came on in nearly every yard, blinding him. He narrowly avoided tripping headlong into a backyard pond. He reached his car in less than five minutes, hands on his knees, wheezing for air. He really needed to stop smoking. His hand darted to the pocket of his slacks.

His lighter!

He checked his jacket, feeling like he might pass out at the cold realization that he’d left the lighter at the apartment. Sassani would surely recognize the Azerbaijani crest.

The clatter of gunfire tore at the night.

Dovzhenko choked back a scream. Jumping behind the wheel, he started the little Tiba and threw it into gear, pointing it toward Maryam — and the gunfire. He willed the gutless car to go faster. He had to get inside and retrieve the lighter before Sassani found it. If he could not, then he would at least have the pleasure of shooting the son of a bitch in the face before they arrested him.