Oath of Office

“Your unknown subject is likely Azeri—”

“That is useless.” Sassani’s hopes fell. “A quarter of this city is Azeri.”

“If you would let me finish,” Nuri said. “The man you are looking for is likely of mixed heritage. Azeri and Slavic — Eastern European.”

“A Russian?”

“DNA can give you ethnicity, not nationality.”

“But he could be Russian?”

“Yes, he could.” Nuri groaned. “That is what I said. Slavic. If you have a DNA sample from someone in particular, I can run it and do a comparison. Hair, saliva, something like that would work.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, forgetting for the time being that he hated her.

He replaced the handset and then picked it up again, ordering the man posted at Dovzhenko’s apartment to break in and get a sample of anything with his DNA on it and then run it to the morgue.

The major was smiling when he slid a green file folder to the center of his desk and printed YSABEL KASHANI in block letters on the tab. Her social media accounts showed her to be in London. He’d have one of his men stationed there check it out. Next he completed the appropriate form for a full background and immediate pickup order. He toyed with the idea of calling Dovzhenko’s superiors at the Russian embassy but then decided against it. The last thing he wanted was for the Russians to whisk their spy back to Moscow. Dovzhenko deserved more than some administrative punishment, so much more.

Sassani would make certain he was the one to give it to him.

36

Vadek Cherenko excused himself to retrieve something from his room and told his men to oversee the transfer of a dozen wooden crates from the nose door of the Antonov 124 to the waiting Ilyushin-76. The Omani base commander believed they were smuggling antiquities, so it was important that he saw antiquities moving from plane to plane. The missiles would be easily identified, so they were simply left in place, and then the entire airplane turned over to the crew that had arrived on the Ilyushin.

Cherenko could have flown the new plane, but told his superiors he would be more comfortable with another pilot who was more familiar with that particular airframe. He’d known from the moment he’d been ordered to kill Colonel Mikhailov that this operation could have no loose ends. There was someone out there — probably having arrived on the Ilyushin, that had orders to take care of him. It was the way of these things. Kill enough people until you reached a killer who knew nothing of the original operation. Only those who had no idea why they were killing might be safe.

But Cherenko would take himself out of this equation. He crammed the last of his clothing into a small duffel, listening to the whine of the Antonov’s engines, feeling the vibration in the thin walls as the plane turned out onto the taxiway. The Ilyushin would follow it out, but Cherenko would not be on it.

The second half of his payment would be deposited in his account once the Antonov was airborne with the missiles and the command-control units. Greed, they thought — whoever they were — would keep him in place until they could silence him as well. But Cherenko was only half as greedy as they believed him to be. It was relatively easy to leave behind five hundred thousand dollars since he’d get a bullet in the ear if he stuck around to see it. He’d already moved the first half of his payment to a new account, unknown to the cretins in GRU. He’d amassed a substantial nest egg, and with it, the first half-million gave him plenty to go into semiretirement in Thailand. He’d pick up a few flying jobs and be set for life.

The others were on their own, but they knew the risks. Yuri Zherdev, his communications officer from the Antonov, the one who’d actually put the bullet in Colonel Mikhailov’s neck, was in the most danger. He was young, cocky, with little experience as to the duplicitous ways of men. Cherenko had thought to warn him but decided against it.

“Comrade Major.”

Cherenko froze at the sudden voice behind him. He’d not even heard the door open.

He turned.

“Oh, it’s you, Yuri,” he said, relaxing a notch when he saw his communications officer. “Did our prize get off all right?”

“It did,” Zherdev said. “Bound for Iran.”

“We cannot be certain of that,” Cherenko chided. “Russia can have no part in giving nuclear missiles to the Ayatollahs.”

“And still,” Zherdev said, “that is exactly what we do.”

Cherenko zipped the duffel closed, shaking his head. “Have a care, comrade. Do not repeat that to anyone but me. Now please tell the others I’ll be right along. I need to make a quick phone call.”

“Will you?”

Cherenko raised a wary brow. “Will I what?”

“Be right along?” the younger man said. “It seems as though you have already moved your funds to another account.”

“How do you know this?”

Zherdev sighed. “It does not matter.” He took a silenced pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Cherenko’s chest.

“Wait!” Cherenko’s hands flew up in front of him. “They will kill us all to keep this secret. You know this. None of us is safe.”