Oath of Office

21

Later, much later, Dovzhenko lay with one hand behind his head, the other tracing the small bumps of Maryam’s spine. She sat hunched forward, arms hugging the tangle of sheets that was pulled over her knees. Shoulders bare, she was beautifully exposed down to the twin dimples at the small of her back. An engraved pendant was suspended on a silver chain against her breasts. Usually one for quiet banter, she was silent now, which meant she had something important on her mind. Dovzhenko continued to run his fingers along her skin, and gave her time to think.

At length, she leaned against the headboard and lifted the necklace over her head. She held up the pendant, letting it swing to and fro as if to hypnotize him. “Do you know what this is?”

“A flower,” he said, giving a little shrug. He let his hand slide down her side to touch her knee.

“It is an inverted tulip,” she said. “A lily, actually, that grows on the mountains above us. We call it ashk-e-Maryam—Maryam’s tears.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I tell you this because I want you to know me.”

Dovzhenko sat up beside her and put a finger to her lips. “I know enough to be happy.”

“You Russians,” she said. “You are so fond of fairy tales that you shy away from real life.”

“I am being honest,” Dovzhenko said. “I know you well enough.”

“No,” she said, pulling away. “You do not. But I know you… what you do.” She rolled to reach for her cigarettes on the side table, flicked open the metal case, and then held out a trembling palm.

He gave her his lighter and then sat back again, eyeing her.

“Okay, then,” he said. “What do I do?”

“Do you think I am stupid?” She picked a fleck of tobacco from her lip and blew a cloud of smoke at his face, clicking the lighter open and shut, open and shut. “Any Russian who stays in Iran for as long as you have is either a scientist or a spy.” She gave him a wan smile. “And you are not quite boring enough to be a scientist.”

“Maryam—” Dovzhenko began to trace a circle on the hollow of her hip. “I am merely an adviser to your government science programs. I am telling you the—”

Her words came softly, like the chirp of a distant bird, but they silenced Dovzhenko all the same. “You would be a beautiful man if you did not lie.”

She suddenly slipped down among the sheets, more on them than in them, on her side now, cigarette held in a cocked hand, over her shoulder, as she looked directly into his eyes. “Oh, fire of my heart, you have a pistol in your jacket, along with a small radio, and a leather truncheon. That does not seem typical for an adviser, even in Iran.”

Dovzhenko stared at her, stunned.

“So what now?”

Maryam’s breast brushed against his arm as she fell away. She put the cigarette to her lips and stared at the ceiling.

“It is better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie,” she said.

Dovzhenko groaned. “True enough.”

Her head fell sideways against the pillow, looking at him. “Then here is the slap.”

“Maryam—”

“What do you know of me?”

“You are a kind soul,” he whispered. “You work with drug addicts—”

She put a finger to his lips. “Stop it. Be honest with me, if that is even possible for a man in your job. Where were you tonight, immediately before you came here to the apartment?”

“The executions,” he whispered.

She nodded thoughtfully, eyelids trembling as she took another drag on the cigarette. “I thought as much,” she whispered. “They were friends of mine, you know. Those boys.” Tears welled in her eyes. Looking up at the ceiling, she threw an arm across her forehead. “You must arrest me now — take me to the Evin dungeons to string me up and perform your interrogations.”

“Merely knowing someone is not a crime,” Dovzhenko said, aware that as a practical matter, this was not the case in Iran or Russia.

“I am a part of it,” she whispered into the crook of her arm. “All of it… involved enough in the planning of this movement to get myself hanged. For a while, it seemed as though freedoms might win out, but with the help of their IRGC attack dogs, the Guardian Council will always win… no matter what we do. I am so tired, my love. Those monsters murdered my friends, and for what? For doing what thousands of others are doing. So go ahead and report me, arrest me… Better yet, shoot me now. I am beyond caring.”

Dovzhenko swung his feet off the bed and walked naked to the chair where he’d draped his leather jacket. He retrieved the radio and clicked it on. Static and chatter came over the speaker, Sassani and his operatives out working the streets, hunting.

“Sepah!” Maryam gasped, using the colloquial name for the IRGC. Her face drew tight, as if she’d not been quite sure how deeply he was involved with Iranian authorities until now.

He pushed the radio toward her. “Take it,” he said. “You may turn yourself in if you wish, but I would never give you over to those animals.”

She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed and collapsed against her pillows, sobbing.

He nestled in close to her. “I am truly sorry for your friends.”

“Did you…?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am not an interrogator.” He did not mention that he had been there to see almost every bloody, bone-crunching second of it. She was too fragile — for now at least. Some slaps of truth were too brutal. “How did you know them?”

“I told you.” She sighed. “I am part of it. You have all the evidence you need to hang me. If I am wrong about you and you turn me in, then I will die of a broken heart before a noose can touch my throat.”

“I would never.” He was surprised at how the truth sounded so like the lies of his past.

“It does not matter,” she said. “These young people are exceptionally brave, but they need guidance, someone to lead them.”

“Like Reza Kazem?” Dovzhenko said.

She rolled her eyes. “Reza Kazem. He speaks the right words, but there is more wind than substance. Something is off with that one, I will tell you that much.”

“You have met him?”

She turned to the side table and retrieved her mobile, stretching beautifully, causing Dovzhenko to catch his breath when the sheet fell away. She rolled over beside him, mobile phone in both hands, and then entered a password with her thumbs, following that with a longer code to bring up her photos.

He nodded at the screen. “You are aware that government agencies have ways around these passwords.”

She shrugged and pushed the phone toward him. “I told you. I am too tired to care.”

Dovzhenko needed a cigarette, but he wanted to look at the phone first — not for evidence, but because he was curious. On his back, he held the phone above his face, shoulder to shoulder with Maryam while he scrolled through the photos one by one. Smiling students, a bouquet of spring flowers, more flowers. The fifth photo made Dovzhenko sit up straight against the headboard. He zoomed in to get a better look, and then turned to stare down at Maryam.

“What?” she said, incredulous. “I already said I knew them. Are you suddenly angry with—”

He put a hand on her arm, tenderly, he hoped. It only frightened her, and she jerked away.

“This man.” Dovzhenko turned the screen so she could look at the photograph. “Have you seen him before?”

She shrugged. “Kazem? I have. Several times.”

“Not Kazem,” Dovzhenko said. “The other one. The one standing behind Javad.”

She shook her head. “Erik, you scare me…”

“This man is Vitaly Alov, a general officer of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, the GRU, Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate.”

“You Russians are everywhere,” she said. “I did not pay any attention to him when I took the photo.”

“May I get a copy of this?”

“Of course,” Maryam said. “But that does not seem wise. Will that not leave a digital trail, linking you to my account?”

He turned to smile at her. “Very good,” he said. “I do not plan to send it to myself directly. I will post it on a dummy auction account on eBay, untraceable to me or anyone connected to me. I will be able to access it without downloading it and leaving any tracks.”

“That sounds much more spylike,” Maryam said. She sat up beside him now, leaning in so her arms intertwined around his elbow, lips buzzing against his shoulder. “Is this General Alov your boss?”

He shook his head, working Maryam’s phone to post the photograph of Alov and Kazem. “No. I am SVR. The GRU is a different entity altogether.” He tapped the phone against his palm. “I cannot understand why a Russian officer would meet with the leader of your protest movement. Officially, my government backs the—”

On the table beside the bed, Dovzhenko’s radio suddenly crackled with static, causing both of them to jump with a start. Parviz Sassani’s toxic voice spilled over the airwaves.

Dovzhenko had a passable understanding of Farsi, but Maryam translated anyway.

“…Units three and four, come in from the north on Prioozan. We will approach from the south, blocking any escape… Third floor, number…”

She looked up at Dovzhenko and they both mouthed the same words.

“They are coming here.”