by Marc Cameron
Dovzhenko remembered the dagger and kicked it out of her reach, his hand searching for the wound under his leather jacket.
“You could have killed me,” he said, withdrawing Maryam’s notebook, panting. The tip of the blade had nicked his bottom rib, but the cardboard-and-leather cover had prevented it from reaching his heart. He wasn’t bleeding badly, at least not that he could see.
“My auntie telephoned to say that a Russian was looking for me.” Her English was perfect. Almost, but not quite, British.
“I never told her I was Russian,” Dovzhenko said. “Your auntie has a good ear.” The aggressive phone call had at least put her on guard, if it had almost cost him his life.
“What are you doing with Maryam’s book?”
Dovzhenko closed his eyes. “I am afraid I bring bad news. Maryam—”
The back door creaked open, letting in a howl of wind.
Dovzhenko opened his eyes to find a large Afghan standing on the threshold, the wind whipping the shemagh tied around his neck. The new arrival took a quick scan of the unconscious Afghans on the floor and then shot a glance at Ysabel.
She held up her hand. “I am fine, Hamid.”
His gaze then fell to Dovzhenko.
The Afghan’s hair was cut close to the scalp, but he had a long black beard, groomed to a great scimitar of a point. Smile lines creased his cheeks and eyes—a rarity in a country that had suffered generations of war. His wide leather belt held a pistol and long knife. A Kalashnikov hung from his neck on a three-point sling with the release tab pulled and the rifle pointed directly at Dovzhenko’s chest. The fact that he carried a rifle was not surprising, but a relatively sophisticated tactical sling in a country where many carried their weapons on a length of old carpeting or a piece of rope made Dovzhenko think he might know how to use the thing. He had to be former military, but virtually every fighting-age male had fought on one side or another of one battle or another over the past four decades, so that wasn’t much of a leap.
Hamid smoothed the point of his long beard. “The generator is fixed,” he said. “They must have damaged it to draw me outside.” He motioned for Ysabel to step out of the way. It was clear that she was the employer, but he was in charge of her safety.
He focused on Dovzhenko now. “What is your business?” the man asked in Dari, eyes squinting from the gritty wind that now swirled around the storeroom. Dovzhenko got to his feet and squinted back, but didn’t answer.
“What do you want?” Hamid asked again, in English this time.
“I am here to see Ms. Kashani.”
Hamid cocked his head to the side. “You are Ruski?”
“I am,” Dovzhenko said, staying with English. He raised his hands.
“You should go now.”
Dovzhenko took a deep breath. “I cannot do that.”
Sand and dust roared outside behind the Afghan, giving him an otherworldly look.
Ysabel spoke now. “He has my friend’s notebook.” She glared at Dovzhenko with narrow eyes, black as liquid tar. “How did you get it?”
When he told her Maryam’s story, Ysabel Kashani fell to her knees and wept.
35
The couch in Major Sassani’s office was more comfortable than his bed at home, chiefly because he did not have a nagging woman sharing the other half of it. His wife, Friya, had once been beautiful, if never kind. Now she was neither. Her father was a general in the Corps, which meant Sassani had to keep her reasonably satisfied. But even the general knew his daughter was a shrew. So long as Sassani did not get caught doing anything that would bring dishonor on the family, and thus the general’s good name, there was no need to go overboard with kindness or, for that matter, to speak to her at all. She, of course, reciprocated, so Sassani often found himself sleeping on the couch in his office these days.
Sassani had driven to Dovzhenko’s apartment after his visit to the morgue and talked to the man he had stationed there. The Russian had yet to return, but he would come home to roost soon enough. Sassani toyed with the idea of accusing the SVR man directly, imagining the delicious flash of fear, the babbling reply of the guilty. Dovzhenko looked down on him, considered him an animal for using techniques that the Russians could no longer stomach. The man’s utter contempt for the way Sassani did business was plain in his eyes.
Sassani woke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of people already at work in the bullpen outside his office. His men knew he kept odd hours, and unless the general was going to pay them a visit, they let him sleep until he woke up naturally. Six hours was about as long as he could take on the couch. He stretched, and then rolled to the floor for thirty push-ups. He cheated on the last eight, but the curtains to his office were drawn, so it did not matter. Halfhearted push-ups were better than no push-ups at all.
He opened the curtains and then took a few moments to face east and pray. The piety of a good leader clearly demonstrated, Sassani sat behind his desk to plan his day.
He wanted desperately to spend every moment following leads in connection to Maryam Farhad, and, by extension, the Russian. She was—or had been—up to her slender little neck in this treachery against the regime. He wanted to track down her friend, the one who’d loaned her the apartment. He looked at his notebook. Ysabel Kashani, that was it. But he knew better than to focus too much of his effort on a single case.
This Reza Kazem was a snake and charlatan, wooing tens of thousands with his wickedness. For some reason, the Ayatollah did not want him taken into custody quite yet. It made some degree of sense to use the man as bait to see who committed open rebellion for his cause. Sassani did not say it, but he wondered how many would rebel if Kazem simply disappeared. There were plenty of traitors to deal with. The list of demonstrators identified at the most recent hangings numbered in the hundreds and would only grow as security footage was reviewed. He and his men would begin working on that after lunch, after they’d done complete and careful backgrounds on each known individual. Depending on their family connections and the circles in which they ran, some would be interviewed and given strong warnings to bring their behavior in line with the regime. Others, who had no influential fathers or uncles within their dowreh circles, would be used as examples to the others. There were, after all, at least three empty hooks on the ceiling of Evin Prison.
Sassani had just removed the small shaving kit from his desk drawer when his phone rang.
He snatched up the handset. “Balay.”
“Major.” It was a female voice.
“Dr. Nuri,” Sassani said. “I expected your call some time ago.”
“Rubbish,” Nuri said. “I told you it would be at least twelve hours, and it has been far less than that.”
“Managing expectations,” Sassani said. “A wise move on your part.”
“Nothing of the sort. Do you wish the preliminary results via e-mail or fax?”
“E-mail is fine.” He looked at his watch. “Tell me what you found.”
“Your unknown subject is likely Azeri—”
“That is useless.” Sassani’s hopes fell. “A quarter of this city is Azeri.”
“If you would let me finish,” Nuri said. “The man you are looking for is likely of mixed heritage. Azeri and Slavic—Eastern European.”
“A Russian?”
“DNA can give you ethnicity, not nationality.”
“But he could be Russian?”
“Yes, he could.” Nuri groaned. “That is what I said. Slavic. If you have a DNA sample from someone in particular, I can run it and do a comparison. Hair, saliva, something like that would work.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, forgetting for the time being that he hated her.
He replaced the handset and then picked it up again, ordering the man posted at Dovzhenko’s apartment to break in and get a sample of anything with his DNA on it and then run it to the mor
gue.
The major was smiling when he slid a green file folder to the center of his desk and printed YSABEL KASHANI in block letters on the tab. Her social media accounts showed her to be in London. He’d have one of his men stationed there check it out. Next he completed the appropriate form for a full background and immediate pickup order. He toyed with the idea of calling Dovzhenko’s superiors at the Russian embassy but then decided against it. The last thing he wanted was for the Russians to whisk their spy back to Moscow. Dovzhenko deserved more than some administrative punishment, so much more.
Sassani would make certain he was the one to give it to him.
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.
37
Dovzhenko left nothing out, including the torture at Evin Prison and Sassani eventually hanging the dead boy’s body. He described Maryam’s death, going into more detail than he needed to but far less than he still saw when he closed his eyes. He needed her to understand how brutal this man was, to realize that she, too, was in grave danger.
Hamid tied and gagged the two Afghans—though they were still unconscious and it was not likely necessary. Afterward, he stood beside Ysabel with his ri
fle hanging down in front of his chest on the sling, twitchy, ready, eyeing Dovzhenko. It was beyond unusual to see an Afghan male spending time alone with a woman who was not his wife, especially in ultraconservative Herat. But Hamid had the feel of someone who put a higher value on duty than decorum. Ysabel needed protection, so he protected her, fiercely.
The Afghan listened to Dovzhenko’s story with a disgusted grimace and then rolled his eyes, clearly not buying any of it.
“It seems to me that you have made a long journey,” Hamid said, “when a phone call would have sufficed.”
“Ah, but would it have?” Dovzhenko asked. “You do not believe me now. Do you truly believe you would have trusted me over the telephone?”
Ysabel dabbed at her tears with the hijab, wearing it like a shawl now instead of a headscarf. “So you are the one who called my auntie?”
“I am,” Dovzhenko said. “I hoped I could frighten her into being wary when the IRGC made contact.”
Ysabel smoothed the front of her dress with both hands and took a deep breath, composing herself. “One needs no warning to fear the Sepah.” Another tear, certainly not her last, rolled down her cheek.
Redbeard groaned in the corner but remained unconscious.
Dovzhenko nodded toward him. “Smugglers?”
“Yes,” Ysabel said. “You must have passed Fatima on your way in. She traveled seven kilometers on foot just to warn me that some of the local . . . businessmen . . . are unhappy with UNODC attempting to get more poppy fields turned into saffron crocuses.” Ysabel sighed, as if this sort of attack happened frequently.
