Oath of Office

Hamid smoothed the point of his long beard. “The generator is fixed,” he said. “They must have damaged it to draw me outside.” He motioned for Ysabel to step out of the way. It was clear that she was the employer, but he was in charge of her safety.

He focused on Dovzhenko now. “What is your business?” the man asked in Dari, eyes squinting from the gritty wind that now swirled around the storeroom. Dovzhenko got to his feet and squinted back, but didn’t answer.

“What do you want?” Hamid asked again, in English this time.

“I am here to see Ms. Kashani.”

Hamid cocked his head to the side. “You are Ruski?”

“I am,” Dovzhenko said, staying with English. He raised his hands.

“You should go now.”

Dovzhenko took a deep breath. “I cannot do that.”

Sand and dust roared outside behind the Afghan, giving him an otherworldly look.

Ysabel spoke now. “He has my friend’s notebook.” She glared at Dovzhenko with narrow eyes, black as liquid tar. “How did you get it?”

When he told her Maryam’s story, Ysabel Kashani fell to her knees and wept.

35

The couch in Major Sassani’s office was more comfortable than his bed at home, chiefly because he did not have a nagging woman sharing the other half of it. His wife, Friya, had once been beautiful, if never kind. Now she was neither. Her father was a general in the Corps, which meant Sassani had to keep her reasonably satisfied. But even the general knew his daughter was a shrew. So long as Sassani did not get caught doing anything that would bring dishonor on the family, and thus the general’s good name, there was no need to go overboard with kindness or, for that matter, to speak to her at all. She, of course, reciprocated, so Sassani often found himself sleeping on the couch in his office these days.

Sassani had driven to Dovzhenko’s apartment after his visit to the morgue and talked to the man he had stationed there. The Russian had yet to return, but he would come home to roost soon enough. Sassani toyed with the idea of accusing the SVR man directly, imagining the delicious flash of fear, the babbling reply of the guilty. Dovzhenko looked down on him, considered him an animal for using techniques that the Russians could no longer stomach. The man’s utter contempt for the way Sassani did business was plain in his eyes.

Sassani woke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of people already at work in the bullpen outside his office. His men knew he kept odd hours, and unless the general was going to pay them a visit, they let him sleep until he woke up naturally. Six hours was about as long as he could take on the couch. He stretched, and then rolled to the floor for thirty push-ups. He cheated on the last eight, but the curtains to his office were drawn, so it did not matter. Halfhearted push-ups were better than no push-ups at all.

He opened the curtains and then took a few moments to face east and pray. The piety of a good leader clearly demonstrated, Sassani sat behind his desk to plan his day.

He wanted desperately to spend every moment following leads in connection to Maryam Farhad, and, by extension, the Russian. She was — or had been — up to her slender little neck in this treachery against the regime. He wanted to track down her friend, the one who’d loaned her the apartment. He looked at his notebook. Ysabel Kashani, that was it. But he knew better than to focus too much of his effort on a single case.

This Reza Kazem was a snake and charlatan, wooing tens of thousands with his wickedness. For some reason, the Ayatollah did not want him taken into custody quite yet. It made some degree of sense to use the man as bait to see who committed open rebellion for his cause. Sassani did not say it, but he wondered how many would rebel if Kazem simply disappeared. There were plenty of traitors to deal with. The list of demonstrators identified at the most recent hangings numbered in the hundreds and would only grow as security footage was reviewed. He and his men would begin working on that after lunch, after they’d done complete and careful backgrounds on each known individual. Depending on their family connections and the circles in which they ran, some would be interviewed and given strong warnings to bring their behavior in line with the regime. Others, who had no influential fathers or uncles within their dowreh circles, would be used as examples to the others. There were, after all, at least three empty hooks on the ceiling of Evin Prison.

Sassani had just removed the small shaving kit from his desk drawer when his phone rang.

He snatched up the handset. “Balay.”

“Major.” It was a female voice.

“Dr. Nuri,” Sassani said. “I expected your call some time ago.”

“Rubbish,” Nuri said. “I told you it would be at least twelve hours, and it has been far less than that.”

“Managing expectations,” Sassani said. “A wise move on your part.”

“Nothing of the sort. Do you wish the preliminary results via e-mail or fax?”

“E-mail is fine.” He looked at his watch. “Tell me what you found.”