Oath of Office

Zherdev gave a halfhearted shrug. “I believe I am,” he said.

“You… You, too, have seen things,” Cherenko stammered. “That means even you must be silenced.”

“I do not think so. You are correct about all the others, but you see, my uncle gave me this assignment. I don’t believe his brother — my father in the politburo — would take kindly to him ending me. That’s why I am given the job of ending you.”

Cherenko began to pant, slack-jawed. “I… You…” He could have tried to defend himself, but he was a pilot, not a fighter.

Zherdev motioned with the gun for him to turn around. “I’m sorry that I do not have any vodka to offer you. I am told it makes this part… easier.”

* * *

Urbano da Rocha set the phone on the nightstand next to his bed and rolled over toward Lucile, who lay naked in bed beside him.

“We will soon be back in our own bed, my love,” he said. “Such as it is.”

“Our own bed is fine,” Lucile said. “This is foolishness and you know it.”

“Nothing of the sort,” da Rocha scoffed. “I sell weapons to factions and governments — sometimes both sides of the same conflict. That is how it is done, my dear. If I start deciding who and who not to sell to, then I would very quickly find myself out of business.”

“But this cargo is nuclear,” Lucile said. “There is grave danger in that sort of business.”

Da Rocha traced the angle of her collarbone with the tip of his finger. “You’ve never worried about danger before. Forgive me, but you kill one with relative ease. Killing a thousand is little different.”

“Ah,” Lucile said. “But what if we are the ones being killed? It is different then, is it not?”

Da Rocha gave a contemplative nod. “The Russians need us. I believe they are setting up a pipeline to Iran, using us as a cutout so they will have deniability. You heard them. They are trying us out for future business.”

Lucile turned, coming up on one elbow. “How do you know this? I think they told you that to keep us in line. You heard them. They fully expect this route to be burned.”

“They do,” da Rocha said. “And the fact that they told us is a measure of good faith. This route will burn, but we will establish others. The world is a very big place. If Russia wishes to provide Iran with nuclear weapons, they will need a pipeline. Two missiles will only invite retaliation by the West. Even the cretins in Tehran know that.”

Lucile fell onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling, her chest heaving. “It is madness.”

“Necessary madness,” da Rocha said. “As we have demonstrated so clearly to the Russians, there is always someone waiting in the wings to fill a void. Had we not provided transport, someone else would have. I see no reason why we should not be the ones to benefit. Don’t you see, my love? The profit from this will allow us to undercut our competition on other deals, leaving me the last man standing.”

“That sounds like a lonely place,” Lucile said.

Da Rocha caressed a lock of her hair but gave up trying to convince her of anything. She was deadly and beautiful — but she had no head for business.

37

Dovzhenko left nothing out, including the torture at Evin Prison and Sassani eventually hanging the dead boy’s body. He described Maryam’s death, going into more detail than he needed to but far less than he still saw when he closed his eyes. He needed her to understand how brutal this man was, to realize that she, too, was in grave danger.

Hamid tied and gagged the two Afghans — though they were still unconscious and it was not likely necessary. Afterward, he stood beside Ysabel with his rifle hanging down in front of his chest on the sling, twitchy, ready, eyeing Dovzhenko. It was beyond unusual to see an Afghan male spending time alone with a woman who was not his wife, especially in ultraconservative Herat. But Hamid had the feel of someone who put a higher value on duty than decorum. Ysabel needed protection, so he protected her, fiercely.

The Afghan listened to Dovzhenko’s story with a disgusted grimace and then rolled his eyes, clearly not buying any of it.

“It seems to me that you have made a long journey,” Hamid said, “when a phone call would have sufficed.”

“Ah, but would it have?” Dovzhenko asked. “You do not believe me now. Do you truly believe you would have trusted me over the telephone?”

Ysabel dabbed at her tears with the hijab, wearing it like a shawl now instead of a headscarf. “So you are the one who called my auntie?”

“I am,” Dovzhenko said. “I hoped I could frighten her into being wary when the IRGC made contact.”

Ysabel smoothed the front of her dress with both hands and took a deep breath, composing herself. “One needs no warning to fear the Sepah.” Another tear, certainly not her last, rolled down her cheek.

Redbeard groaned in the corner but remained unconscious.

Dovzhenko nodded toward him. “Smugglers?”