Oath of Office

57

Atash Yazdani answered the door on the first chime, as if he’d been expecting them. He was a slightly built man, with narrow shoulders, stooped by the weight of his son’s illness. He’d not always been so slight. His slacks were bunched behind two new holes that had been punched in a tattered leather belt as he’d lost weight. A collarless white dress shirt hung off his body, the sleeves rolled up over bony forearms. A quintessential engineer, he had a cheap ballpoint pen and three mechanical pencils in his breast pocket. The forelock of his dark hair was pulled upward to a mussed point, as if he’d been clutching it in thought while bent over a desk or table in his tiny apartment.

Dovzhenko had a pang of conscience when he saw the man’s bloodshot eyes.

He’d lost his wife to ovarian cancer, his son was gravely ill. Now they would offer salvation if he would only betray his country.

“May I help you?” the man asked, preoccupied — probably with the vagaries of life itself.

Dovzhenko smiled, hoping the guilt didn’t show.

“My friends and I have news that might help your son.”

One hand on the door, the other on the frame, Yazdani leaned half out into the hallway, looking to see who Dovzhenko meant by “friends.” Ysabel gave a polite bob of her scarf-covered head. The American smiled but kept his mouth shut as they’d planned.

“My son?” Yazdani said. “What do you know of my son?” Hope flashed momentarily in the man’s eyes but faded quickly, too overwhelmed with defeat to stay long.

“May we discuss it inside?”

Yazdani stood and stared for so long Dovzhenko was afraid the American might say something, if only to fill the void. Then the engineer suddenly opened the door and motioned them inside.

The interior of the small apartment was as shabby and sad as the harried engineer’s countenance. Ryan and Ysabel took seats on the tattered sofa, and Dovzhenko, who was to make the initial pitch, took the faded Queen Anne next to the wobbly dining room chair where Yazdani would sit. As per Persian custom, the host brought out tea and a plate of cake, along with a sharp knife to cut it. He apologized that he did not have more to offer.

“Now,” he said, forgoing any tea himself, “please tell me what it is you could do to help my son.” He turned toward Ryan. “You are American?”

Ryan nodded, one eye on the cake knife. “What made you guess that?”

Yazdani scoffed. “You have not yet spoken, so I knew you had something you wanted to hide. If you’d been Russian like him, that would not have mattered. Am I wrong?”

“You are not,” Ryan said.

“How did you injure your head?”

“A car wreck in Afghanistan,” Ryan said.

“I see,” Yazdani mused, clearly trying to make sense of these sudden arrivals. “You know much of my son’s disease. Are you a doctor, then?”

“I am not,” Ryan said.

“None of us are physicians,” Dovzhenko said. “We are diplomats who believe we have come upon a way to help your son.” He took a sip of tea, letting the man stew on that a bit.

“Diplomats? How would Russian and American diplomats know of the troubles of one Iranian boy?” He glared at Ysabel. “What does this have to do with you?”

“I am a part of it,” she said. “But I am not the one who first knew of your child.” Her honesty came through loud and clear on her words, obviously impressing Yazdani.

Dovzhenko set the teacup down on a side table. “I am truly sorry about your son. He has cystic fibrosis, does he not?”

“That is so.”

“The F508del mutation, to be exact.”

“You know a great deal,” Yazdani said.

Now Ryan spoke. “That particular mutation responds to a drug called tezacaftor.”

Yazdani threw back his head like he was in pain. “What good does this information do my Ibrahim? I earn seventeen million rial each month — roughly three hundred and fiftyAmerican dollars. This drug you speak of costs three hundred thousand dollars a year — and that does not even matter, because we could never get it here anyway.”

The room fell silent for a time. Everyone sipped tea to be polite, but the cake went untouched.

At length, Yazdani leaned forward, bony elbows on bony knees. “It is obvious that you want something from me,” he said. “A quid pro quo in order to help my son. What is it?”

Dovzhenko smiled serenely, the pang of conscience returning with a vengeance. “We can guarantee your son will receive the care and medication that he needs, for the rest of his—”

“Yes, yes,” Yazdani said. “I understand what you offer. I want to know what you ask.”

Dovzhenko shot a glance at Ryan. The Americans were offering the deal, so it was natural that he should complete the pitch.

Ryan began. “You work with missile control systems at Mashhad Air Base?”

Yazdani threw up his hands. “I knew it would have something to do with my job. You are not diplomats. You are spies. Saboteurs.”

“We are.” Ysabel nodded at Dovzhenko and then Ryan in turn. “He is Russian, he is American, and I am Iranian. That is the truth. None of us enjoys putting you in this position. But please, for the sake of the people of all our countries, help us so we can help your son.”

Yazdani closed his eyes. His narrow shoulders drew back, a little more erect despite this added burden.

But he did not say no.

Major Parviz Sassani eased the passenger door of his rental car shut so it didn’t make a noise. Dovzhenko had proven to be an adept quarry, so he would take every precaution. Well, the Russian wasn’t truly adept. He’d bested Taliban smugglers, yes, but then he’d allowed some pitiful whore to use his satellite phone, sending up a virtual signal letting Sassani know where to look. The nurse at the children’s hospital had been too terrified not to help. Perhaps she smelled the death on him from the recent interaction with the Nima woman. He’d seen the phenomenon before. His own children sometimes recoiled when he approached them after a particularly grisly day — though they could have no idea what he’d done. He’d have to do a more in-depth study, see if he could use it to his advantage during interrogations.

The nurse hadn’t recognized the photo of Dovzhenko, but as soon as he’d shown her a photo of Ysabel Kashani, she’d been quick to provide the details of this Yazdani fellow.

They were closing in now. Just as the nurse had smelled death on him, Sassani smelled the tension of the fleeing Russian. Yes. Very close.

“Perhaps we should telephone for reinforcements,” the lieutenant said, shoving the keys to the rental into the pocket of his slacks.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sassani said. “We are talking about one woman and a Russian operative whose heart was never in this line of work anyway. If the two of us cannot handle them, we are in the wrong business.”

The lieutenant press-checked the chamber of his SIG Sauer handgun, as was IRGC policy before a raid, and then screwed a suppressor on the end of the threaded barrel. “Shoot on sight, then?”

“I would like to take the time to interrogate him,” Sassani said, then thought better of it. “No. The Russians would only rescue him. Shoot Dovzhenko on sight. We’ll take the girl back to Evin and deal with her there.”

The lieutenant looked down the sight of his weapon before returning it to his belt, the suppressor extending out the bottom of the open scabbard holster. “I have been thinking, Major. Perhaps this man, Yazdani, is some kind of spy.”

Sassani scoffed. “I do not think so. Our Russian friend is a fugitive. He would have run away to Russia, but I imagine General Alov wants him dead as badly as we do. He’s running out of options, and attempting to find refuge with any friend he can.”

“But how could Yazdani be his friend? Dovzhenko did not even know where he lived.”

“He has recently moved to be near the hospital. Beyond that, Dovzhenko knew the man well enough to know he has a sick son and which hospital he is a patient in.” Sassani pulled up a photograph of Atash Yazdani on his phone and held it so the lieutenant could see. “Look at him. He would blow away if he walks out into this wind. He is an engineer of no consequence. We will be doing a service to put him out of his misery.”

“It’s a difficult call,” Ryan concluded. “I get that. We all do. And there will be danger involved. But there’s no way this turns out any way but bad without your help.”

Ryan wasn’t a counterintelligence officer. He knew the basics — from books Clark had assigned him — but the act of turning someone to act as an agent for the United States was two parts art and one part science. It took time, time they did not have. This pitch had come off more heavy-handed than he’d intended, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to be bald about what they needed and hope Ysabel could pull cleanup, appealing to Yazdani’s sense of right and wrong, convincing… reminding him that he was helping the Iranian people, rather than betraying them.

Yazdani’s head suddenly snapped up as he looked at the door.

“What is it?” Dovzhenko asked.

“There is a loose board in the hallway,” the engineer said. “That is how I heard you coming before you knocked.”

Ryan got to his feet. “Are you expecting company?”

The engineer shook his head. “You are the first visitors I have had in weeks. Did you leave someone outside to keep watch?”

Dovzhenko pulled the engineer to the side at the same moment the door crashed inward, kicked open by a heavy boot.

There had been no handguns to liberate from the Taliban and they’d left the rifles in the car, leaving them unarmed.

“Hello, Comrade Erik,” a sneering Iranian man said, his own gun in both hands, pointed at Dovzhenko.

“Sassani!” the Russian spat.

A second man came through the door, a suppressed pistol raised, ready to fire.

The first man started to say something else, but Ysabel flew at him in a rage, batting his pistol aside, screaming, clawing at his face.

Jack made good use of the distraction and closed the distance to the second Iranian, parrying the pistol away with his left arm while he swung upward with his right to plant a staggering hammer fist to the man’s unprotected groin.

The extra inches of suppressor on the muzzle of the handgun made it slightly more difficult to maneuver effectively. Jack exploited the lag in speed, trapping the gun in both hands and driving the other man backward against the wall with the point of his elbow. Stunned, the man swung with his left, attempting to hit Jack in the head when he should have tried to secure his gun. One of the blows, robbed of its full power, impacted Jack’s injured ear, bringing a wave of nausea.

Ryan growled, clearing his head. With the handgun pinned to the wall, he drove a knee over and over into the man’s groin and thigh at the same time, throwing elbows at his throat. The Iranian slid down to protect his groin, then used the wall as a brace as he used the force of his legs to push upward, trying to shake Ryan’s grip. The pistol barked, suppressed but not nearly silent, sending a round dangerously close to Ryan’s face.

Invigorated by the near miss, Ryan followed the upward transition of movement, twisting his own center at the same time he stepped inward, impacting the man’s armpit with the point of his shoulder, spinning toward the gun. The man peeled off the wall as Ryan followed him through the turn, throwing him violently on his back while retaining his two-handed grip on the pistol. He was vaguely aware of the fight going on behind him. He’d heard furniture break, Ysabel’s cry as she fell, and Dovzhenko’s frenzied yowl as he attacked Sassani. There had been no other shots, and Ryan had his own hands full.

The Iranian turned out to be a better on the ground than he was standing up. Straddling the man in the mount position, Ryan slammed the gun hand against the floor, sending another shot into the far baseboard. The Iranian bucked his hips upward and to the side attempting a throw. With both hands occupied against the pistol, Ryan had to post, bringing forward a foot and planting it to the side of the Iranian’s body to keep from tumbling over. Instead of returning to the mount, Ryan retained his grip on the gun and continued in the direction of his posted leg, pushing off and around over the top of the Iranian’s head, lifting and turning, bringing the arm and the pistol around with him as he went. Ligaments tore, tiny carpal bones snapped. The Iranian’s finger convulsed on the trigger again, this round tearing downward through his gut at near-pointblank range. Ryan pressed his advantage, his own finger finding the trigger now and sending two more rounds into the wide-eyed man’s belly before wresting the pistol away.

He heard another yowl and spun to find Dovzhenko seated on the ground, bleeding from the nose. Ysabel, too, was on the ground, on all fours, dazed, her scarf gone, trying to get back in the fight. Major Sassani had sunk to his knees, the knife from the cake sticking from the side of his neck. Blood arced from the wound in time with his pulse, painting Yazdani, who stood over him. The IRGC man croaked, unable to speak from the blade that bisected his voice box. He toppled forward a moment later, the arc of blood slowing to a trickle as his life ebbed away.

The other Iranian coughed behind Ryan, causing him to turn with the suppressed SIG. The wounded man shrank backward, shielding his face from another shot. He writhed on the carpet, eyes clenched in excruciating pain.

Dovzhenko helped Ysabel to her feet. She tended to a shaken Yazdani while the Russian stood beside Jack.

“Hospital,” the Iranian whispered. “Please.”

Dovzhenko knelt. “Lieutenant Gul,” he said. He looked at the wounds, then shook his head. “I am afraid there is no time. I will pass on a message to your wife.”

“Thank you,” Gul said. He coughed again. Pink blood foamed at the corners of his lips now, indicating at least one of the shots had nicked a lung. Ryan guessed another had hit the liver.

“Why?” Dovzhenko asked. “Why was Sassani after Maryam? What was so special about the three students? And why me, for that matter?”

“Alov… ordered it…”

Dovzhenko’s mouth fell open. “General Alov of the GRU?”

Gul nodded weakly. “I am so cold.” His voice was like the air escaping a punctured ball.

Yazdani brought a small throw blanket from the couch and draped it over the young man, situating it with trembling fingers.

“Why?” Dovzhenko asked again. “Why Maryam?”

“She saw them… together. Like the students.”

Dovzhenko groaned. He thought it strange when he’d seen the picture, but it didn’t seem enough to kill over. “Alov and Reza Kazem?”

Gul shook his head. “Not Alov.” His lips and teeth were bathed in pink blood. “I… I… the woman…”

The man was drifting now, forcing Dovzhenko to lean forward to hear his words.

Gul’s eyelids fluttered. “My son… he is only little boy…” The coughing came again, more ragged now. He looked up at Dovzhenko, eyes wide, back arched, racked with pain. “Please…”

He collapsed against the rug. Still.

Jack looked at Ysabel, then Dovzhenko, assessing them for wounds. He scooped up the suppressed SIG and popped the magazine. Five rounds left. He did a quick peek into the hallway, miraculously saw no one, and then pushed the door closed. The jamb was splintered on the inside, but he hoped the damage wouldn’t be too noticeable from the exterior. Blood covered Yazdani’s hands and chest. He’d been the one to stab Major Sassani in the neck with the cake knife.

“Thank you,” Ryan said.

The engineer sniffed, regaining his composure. “Your thanks are unnecessary. If you are dead, you will be unable to help my son. That is all that matters to me.”

“So you’ll help us?” Ryan asked.

“I will,” Yazdani said.

“I’m a little worried about all the noise,” Dovzhenko said. “If your neighbors call the police, we are in trouble.”

“Do not worry,” Yazdani said. “I am an unhappy man. My neighbors are accustomed to hearing me cry and throw things.”

Ysabel ran a hand over the bullet holes in the floor and door-frame. “Fortunately none of them went all the way through.”

“We’re interested in two missiles in particular,” Ryan said.

“I thought as much,” Yazdani said. “Russian 51T6s.”

“Exactly,” Ryan said. “We need to know where they are.”

“First,” Yazdani said, “how will we get my son to the United States?”

“It should be straightforward to get you both across the border to Herat,” Ryan said. “From there, you’ll travel by military transport to the United States.”

The engineer pondered this. “I feel as though I should wait to help you until my son is out.”

“That won’t work,” Ryan said. “There are too many variables. We’re not even sure who is in charge of this conspiracy. Too much of a chance they’ll fire the missiles. We need to figure out their target.”

“How will I know you will keep your end of the bargain?”

Ysabel bit her bottom lip, gathering her thoughts. “All we can offer is our word,” she began. “But these men saved my life… twice.”

“I have no choice, do I?”

“I am sorry,” Dovzhenko said. “You do not.”

Yazdani’s stooped shoulders slumped even more. “They’ve moved the missiles west of Mashhad,” he said. “They are on mobile launchers manufactured in Iran, but I wouldn’t worry about the targets. I saw the firing solutions.”

Ryan waited, but Yazdani just looked at him, waiting to be prodded over the edge — as if he had not quite committed treason until this moment.

“Okay?” Ryan finally said.

“You will think me foolish,” Yazdani said. “But the firing solutions I saw aim the missiles at space. These solid fuel rockets are not powerful enough, but it is as if they are planning to launch a satellite.”