Oath of Office

33

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.