Oath of Office

48

Clark’s safe house was on a wooded farm outside Montijo, Portugal, across the Tagus River from Lisbon. He made a call to a friend in the Agency to square the use of the facility, cashing in on a little of the mysterious nature of his reputation. He wasn’t active anymore, not on the books anyway. But it was not at all uncommon for active case officers to use trusted retired case officers as instructors or for certain jobs for which they had a particular acumen. The kind of expertise that might be required at a rural farmhouse had Clark’s name written all over it.

It was not a long drive from Alpalhão by American standards, just over a hundred miles, and they made it in two hours. Chavez was behind the wheel, with Clark riding in the backseat with a sedate da Rocha. Midas and Adara followed. At first blush, it seemed the arms dealer was distraught over the death of Lucile Fournier, but the more he sobbed, the more it became clear that he would miss her skills far more than he would miss any relationship.

Before meeting Ding Chavez, Clark had frequently worked alone — the pointiest bit at the tip of the spear. But no matter how alone he was, there were always people on whom he depended. People he cared for and who cared for him. He would have died a long time ago if not for Sandy — just burned to a charred crinkle and floated away on the wind. He’d never admit it, but Ding was more like a brother than a son-in-law. If anyone had told Clark he’d be content to have his daughter marry a former gangbanger from East L.A., he’d have put a boot in their ass. But this particular former gangbanger spoke multiple languages, held a couple of advanced degrees, and, more important, busted his ass to do the right thing, all day, every day.

In some small way Clark felt sorry for da Rocha. Guys like him didn’t have friends. He had employees, and he had contacts. Lucile Fournier had been neither trusted companion nor comrade-in-arms. She’d been a tool in his hands, a means to an end. This asshole was all about himself — which made the people in his orbit all about themselves. In the end, it made Clark’s job all the easier. People fighting for a cause were more difficult to turn. They had to be broken down, and even then, the most zealous might never break, they just came to terms. But if a man’s primary goal was money, then money or the idea that they would lose the money they already had would turn them.

Clark let da Rocha stew in his own juices during the drive, asking no questions and ignoring him when he tried to start a conversation. By the time they reached the safe house, the man was ready to vomit information.

Da Rocha’s hands were flex-cuffed in front, one restraint around each wrist. A third restraint connected these two cuffs to a chain that was secured around his waist with a padlock, enabling him to raise food or a cup to his lips if he hunched over. Clark shoved him onto a dusty, overstuffed couch that would be hard to get out of without the full use of his hands, and then pulled a dining room chair up close so they were knee-to-knee.

“I gotta tell you,” Clark said. “I expected your house to be bigger.”

Da Rocha looked up at him, squinting a little, as the room was dim.

“What?”

Clark continued. “I mean, you travel around Europe, wheeling and dealing in illegal weapons, and you’re living in a couple-hundred-thousand-euro villa with a handful of bodyguards who might as well have laid down and died for all the good they did you.”

Clark stopped and gave time for the silence to close in.

At length he said, “I’m just saying I thought a man like you would have a fortress. Dealing with Russian GRU is dangerous business.”

“They were not GRU,” da Rocha scoffed.

“Sure they were,” Clark said. “I could smell it on them.”

“Are… Are you… CIA?”

“Sadly for you,” Clark said, “I am not. We have the same interests, to be sure, but I’m not bound by Agency rules.”

Da Rocha sniffed, then turned to wipe his nose against his shoulder, like a bird preening its wing. He looked up suddenly. “And what if I tell you everything I know?”

Clark shrugged. “I honestly can’t say what’s going to happen after this.”

“I assure you, I have information you will want.”

“We have your computer,” Clark said. “Maybe that is enough.”

“But that is only part of it,” da Rocha said. “By the time you figure it out, it will be too late.”

Clark kept his face passive. This guy was trying to bait him.

“I need certain assurances,” da Rocha said.

“Specifically?”

“My freedom.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Depends.”

“My money?”

“Your accounts don’t reflect any money.”

“You could help me get it back from the Russians.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Clark said. “How about you tell me what you know and you might not end up in a very small cell under the Colorado desert for the rest of your life.”

“So you are with the U.S. government,” da Rocha said smugly.

“Nope,” Clark said. “I just believe in doing my civic duty. How about you think about what’s really important to you.” He stood, then threw the guy a bone. “You seem like a pretty smart man.”

“Missiles,” da Rocha said.

“I know that already,” Clark said. “You’re an arms dealer. That’s what you deal in.”

“Not the kind of missiles you think,” da Rocha said.

Clark sat down but said nothing. More often than not, silence was the best tool for extracting answers.

“I have no proof,” da Rocha said. He sighed, relieved to be telling his story. “But I believe as you do that those men were officers with the GRU. I had heard, through the grapevine, so to speak, that they needed someone for a very large deal. I… I suppose you could say I courted them — as any businessman would.”

“Taking out the competition,” Clark said.

“In a word. If they were GRU, then the Russian government used me as a go-between to do business with Iran.”

In the corner of the room, Ding Chavez sat up a little straighter.

“Russia makes no secret of the fact it supplies weapons to Iran,” Clark said.

“Nuclear weapons?” Da Rocha leaned back, sinking into the soft cushions. “The Russians I dealt with obviously want the world to think the weapons came from a third party. I would imagine they have already concocted a story about them being stolen. They promised future business, but I see now that was a lie to keep me compliant until they killed me.”

“You’re certain the missiles are nuclear?”

“Certain enough,” da Rocha said. “Two 51T6 ABMs — you call them Gorgons — and their launch controllers. My people took possession of them in Oman and transported them to Iran.”

“Where?”

“These missiles are very portable,” da Rocha said. “They have nowhere near the range to reach the United States. But it is not too much of a leap to guess Iran might use them against any number of American bases. They could strike Israel from western Iran.”

“Where are they?” Clark asked again.

Da Rocha swallowed. “I must have assurances.”

Clark gave a slow nod. “Okay,” he said. “I assure you that if you don’t tell me where you dropped these weapons in the next fifteen seconds I will cut off your feet. After fifteen seconds, even if you start to talk, you will lose at least one.”

“Sir, I…”

“Eight seconds.”

“All right, all right.”

“That’s not an answer,” Clark said. “Four seconds.”

Da Rocha spilled the information. “But they are not there,” he said, starting to sob again. “I am sure they have been moved.”

Clark snapped his fingers. “The names and contacts of your people. The ones who delivered the missiles to Iran.”

Da Rocha wiped his nose on his shoulder again, becoming more animated. He swallowed hard. “I will give them to you, but considering what the Russian bastards had in store for me, I feel certain my men are already dea—”

Ding’s phone rang. He stood when he answered it, listened for a moment, and began to pace. Clark could hear only half the conversation, but it was clear from Ding’s tone that it was bad.

Ding motioned for Clark to come to him out of earshot. Midas and Adara moved closer, guarding da Rocha.

“What’s up?” Clark asked.

“It’s Dom,” Ding said. “He’s hurt pretty bad.”

Clark felt as if he’d just taken a sledgehammer to the gut. “Jack?”

Ding shook his head. “Missing. Dom counted five guys, probably Taliban, but possibly ISIS. They hit the van with a sticky from the back of a motorcycle. Our guys were on the way to a safe house. Dom says Ryan was ambulatory when he was taken.”

Clark looked across the room at Adara. She couldn’t hear the content of the whispered conversation, but the frown on her face said she knew it was about her boyfriend. To her credit, she stood her post beside da Rocha.

“And Dom’s injuries?” Clark said.

“Sounds bad,” Chavez said. “Third-degree burns, broken ribs, ruptured eardrum. An Afghan pistachio farmer found him wandering on the side of the road a couple of hours ago and took him to the NATO base outside Herat. It only has a small hospital, so they’re arranging transport to Ramstein.”

Clark closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. “Get all the information you can. It’s a shitty deal, but I need to let someone know about the possibility of nuclear missiles in Iran. When I’m done with that, I have to get word to the President that his son has been kidnapped.”