Oath of Office

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.”

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.