Oath of Office

Erik Dovzhenko did a little shopping at the Dubai airport before he headed over to the relatively run-down Terminal 2 so he could catch his Ariana connection to Kabul. He had just over an hour, enough time to grab a few necessities like ibuprofen, Imodium, and Vicks cough drops. Military logisticians, even the notoriously stoic Russian Army, ensured that their soldiers had access to what the Americans referred to as “bullets, beans, and Band-Aids.” But intelligence officers — especially those on the run — had to provide for themselves. In addition to his meager first-aid supplies, Dovzhenko purchased two stainless-steel one-liter water bottles, a blue baseball cap with no logo — which was surprisingly difficult to find — and a flimsy-looking duffel bag in an earthen brown color. It was supposed to be military grade but had far too many straps and loading points that Dovzhenko would eventually have to cut off as soon as he reached a spot outside airport security where he could get a knife. He still wasn’t hungry, but he bought a couple of Snickers bars, knowing he’d eventually need the energy.

He filled the two bottles from a water fountain and made it to the gate just in time to make his connection. The inexpensive Vostok Amphibia on his wrist couldn’t be hocked to bail him out of a tight spot like the fancy dive watches spies wore in the movies, but it was built like a tank, and was acceptably accurate. His diplomatic passport, a pair of sunglasses, two ballpoint pens, and Maryam’s notebook rounded out his entire loadout of gear.

It had always galled him that American currency was so ubiquitous where the ruble was not. But one did what was necessary, and he customarily carried two thousand U.S. dollars divided between his belt and the lining of his leather jacket. He’d change some of it into the local Afghani currency when he arrived at Kabul, but American twenty-dollar bills would speak with a much louder voice.

A young woman with black bangs peeking from beneath a blue hijab greeted him as he boarded. He stowed the duffel in the overhead, keeping the notebook with him, and wedged himself into his impossibly narrow seat. Fortunately, the plane was only about a third full, so everyone had an entire row to themselves. The greasy smell of lamb warming in the galley oven made him wish he’d taken some of the Imodium. He settled himself in as best he could, put on the sunglasses, and pulled the ball cap down low. Exhaustion overtook him, and he was asleep before the landing gear came up — dreaming of Maryam’s face, ghostly pale, one eye open even in death, as if to be certain he’d made it to safety.

34

The Afghan customs official at the Kabul airport was a stumpy, heavyset man who looked as if he could not quite commit to growing a beard. He eyed Dovzhenko’s diplomatic passport suspiciously, then shunted him off to a supervisor. The second man did not appear to like Russians any more than the first, but waved him into the country nonetheless. The airport was small and the layover was quick, just long enough for Dovzhenko’s clothing to soak up the odor of dust and burning garbage that would accompany him for the rest of his time in Afghanistan. He exchanged two hundred U.S. dollars for just under fifteen thousand afghanis — about a third of a month’s pay for the average Afghan man. Half an hour later, he was in the air again, flying over mountains that were the same color as his new duffel.

There was one attendant on the Ariana flight to Herat. Unlike the young woman out of Dubai, this one kept her bangs tucked neatly inside her blue hijab.

* * *

Anguish and fatigue consumed a great many calories, and Dovzhenko was feeling unsteady on his feet by the time he landed in Herat. Pilots in Afghanistan had gotten used to rapid corkscrew descents to keep from getting shot. Even now, when the danger was minimal around Herat Province, landings were white-knuckle, ear-popping affairs.

The warm naan bread and spiced lamb wraps from the stall outside the terminal caused him to salivate, but he opted for one of his candy bars instead. It was a little too early to be breaking into the Imodium. The sugar seemed to go straight to his cells and, though he felt no happier, he could at least walk in a straight line without looking as though he might keel over. He used the renewed energy to scan the outer terminal for danger.

Dovzhenko had spent enough time in dangerous places to know the threats in this place would come from every direction. Former enemies might act like friends one moment and then revert to old habits if some unanswered insult popped into their minds. A clear head was essential to survival now. There could be no more losing himself to his grief.