Oath of Office

“Merde!” she spat when she saw the plastic.

Gregor stepped aside and gave a sinister chuckle.

“Relax,” the Russian with the long upper lip said from inside the room. “Is not what you think. Is makeshift bubble, not kill house. That is, unless you decide you no longer wish to work with us — in which case, we can repurpose our antisurveillance material… if we need to, say, dispose of your bodies.”

“No,” da Rocha said, hoping his face looked far more nonchalant than he felt. “That will not be necessary. My fervent hope is to work with you. I have, after all, been chasing after you like some sort of lovesick teenager. Have I not?” A series of deep, purposeful breaths began to slow his heart rate from the sudden shock. For a moment, he’d been certain he was about to have his brains blown all over a sheet of plastic. He’d used the technique himself, to protect his own carpet and furnishings from the blood of an unfaithful mistress.

The idea of a bubble was ingenious, really. Many secure intelligence facilities, including the American CIA’s newest headquarters building in Virginia, were constructed on the same principle, a building within a building. Music or white noise could be played in the dead space between the two layers, making surveillance with laser or microwave devices next to impossible and rendering even the most sophisticated wall-or appliance-mounted electronic bugs ineffective.

All the furniture had been pushed to the walls, outside the sheeting, the queen-size bed tipped against the inner wall, creating a secure box of plastic, absent anything but four throw pillows. The light coming through the plastic was diffused and flat, giving the sterile “room” a surreal, otherworldly feel. The three Russians in their dark sport coats, with da Rocha and Lucile standing naked as Adam and Eve, would have been laughable but for the severity of the Russians’ faces.

The Russian with the long upper lip handed each of them a white terry-cloth robe. “Please,” he said. “You may call me Vladimir.”

Da Rocha shrugged on his robe, which was a little too snug in the shoulders, tying the knot in front. Lucile put on hers but left it open in front, her breasts parting it like hands through a theater curtain.

“Please sit,” Vladimir said, gesturing to the pillows on the floor with an open hand. “To begin, I have to say that your ability to neutralize your rivals at will… is impressive, if uncalled for. We have done our research on you, Mr. da Rocha. It seems as though you may be able to be of service to my employers. I must impress on you the sensitivity of what we discuss… and the danger of violating our trust.”

“I understand,” da Rocha said without hesitation. “I’d hoped the route I took to gain your attention might prove I am serious, and certainly no friend of the authorities.”

“Perhaps,” the Russian said. “But the authority of a higher bidder, more money, if you will, often causes lines of trust to blur.”

“I hope our business arrangement will continue far into the future,” da Rocha said. He caught the hint of an eye roll in Gregor. It was a micro-expression that would have gotten the man shot if he’d been da Rocha’s employee, but he ignored it for the time being. The long-lipped man called Vladimir was the decision-maker in this group, so da Rocha focused all attention on him. “I value trust as well. You have no worries in that regard.”

“Outstanding,” Vladimir said. “Shall we cut right to the meat of the matter?”

Da Rocha’s shoulders relaxed a notch, while at the same time, his guts churned at being so close to securing the deal. “I would appreciate that.”

The Russian’s head bobbed up and down several times, as if he were just now choosing his words. “Very well. I represent a group of businessmen who wish to move a sensitive product to a group of people in a… shall we say, politically volatile region of the world.”

“I have routes in place for such movement,” da Rocha said. “Some are better than others, depending on the end point.”

“Iran,” Vladimir said, eyes focused intently on da Rocha, studying his reaction.

“That will be no problem,” da Rocha said. “I know of several covert airstrips in western Iran where the IRGC allows certain types of cargo to come in so long as they are paid a tidy—”

“The Revolutionary Guard — or anyone in the Iranian regime — cannot be a party to this.”

“They will not be,” da Rocha said. “We pay them to leave us alone.”

Vladimir shook his head. “This is large cargo. A sea route would be better.”

“Also possible,” da Rocha said, undeterred. “Where is the cargo now?”

Vladimir gave him another long look. “Muscat,” he said.

“Okay.” Da Rocha pictured the Gulf of Oman in his mind. No matter their cargo, smugglers were experts in languages and geography. “The trip from Muscat to Bandar-e-Jask is eminently possible, less than two hundred fifty kilometers, I believe. But I have access to large transport aircraft. I could have, say, an Ilyushin 76 in Muscat in a matter of hours with no problem.”