Tom Clancy Oath of Office

by Marc Cameron

  “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.”

  49

  Jack caught Dovzhenko’s eye, glancing quickly at the two Afghans who stood over him. The Russian gave a slight, he hoped imperceptible, nod. Both men had been around the block enough to know they’d need to make a move soon or not at all. In his bravado, Omar had released them from their bonds so they could eat. Jack’s bloody face and the entire group’s generally hammered look certainly made it seem like five guys with rifles were plenty to tamp back any aggressive action. They would be tied again when the meal was over. Jack was certain of that.

  There was a chance there were more guards in the house, but no one had been summoned during the meal or the procedure to reattach Ryan’s ear. Men like Omar were big summoners, calling servants for this or that to help them feel important. He clearly got few visitors, and this was the rare opportunity for him to put on a show for the foreign devils. Jack felt reasonably sure they were looking at the whole cadre.

  The five visible guards were posted around the low table, surely hungry themselves and grumbling inside about why the prisoners got to eat at all, let alone first. Jack could see the two nearest Dovzhenko as well as one on the far side of Omar and Ysabel. The Russian had eyes on the two behind Jack.

  Jack gave Ysabel another nod. She blinked and then extended three fingers. She folded one, then the second—a count down. As she folded the third finger, she began to gag. She fell to the side, clutching her throat with one hand while she pulled the hem of her skirt up with the other, exposing her calf and then her thigh.

  Every man there looked down, entrapped for an instant by their accidental exposure to Ysabel’s smooth olive flesh. Ryan spun, throwing his shoulder into the knee of the guard nearest him. Ligaments tore and the leg gave way, bringing the man and his Kalashnikov down. Ryan snatched the rifle, still attached to the wounded man by a sling around his neck, and flicked the lever down one notch south of safe to full auto, firing as he rolled. Three rounds slammed into the remaining guard who towered above him, dropping the man before he could bring up his own rifle. The first man attempted to pull away now. Ryan adjusted fire, turning the muzzle of the gun inward, shattering the man’s shinbone with two rounds. The guard yowled in pain, grabbing at what was left of his leg. Ryan swatted the arm out of the way and pulled the sling over the screaming man’s head. More shots popped over h
is shoulder. He hoped they were being fired by Dovzhenko. Ryan turned in time to see a third guard bringing a rifle up to aim at his chest. Dovzhenko put a single round in the side of the man’s head.

  The last guard down, both men turned to find Ysabel had jumped on top of a writhing Omar Khan. She stabbed him over and over in the neck and face with a greasy lamb shank, screaming and sobbing with each thudding blow. Like most meat in the Middle East, the lamb carcass had been hacked into portions with an ax, leaving a jagged bone that provided a sloppy if serviceable weapon.

  Strings of black blood flew through the night air each time Ysabel drew back the lamb shank, spattering her face and chest. Omar ceased to struggle, eyes locked open, but Ysabel continued her assault until Jack reached out to put a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s me,” he said. “We got them. We’re good.”

  Ryan felt his own legs begin to buckle. He took Ysabel by the shoulders and helped her off a lifeless Omar, and the two of them slumped to the cushions together. Rifle bullets at close range tended to rupture skulls like melons. Limbs were left hanging on by thin pieces of tissue, if at all. The carpets and cushions were soaked in blood and gore. Jack tried to cover Ysabel’s eyes, but she pulled away.

  “It is much too late for that,” she said.

  Two more shots popped from inside the house. The Russian came out a moment later carrying a rifle.

  “The cook,” Dovzhenko said matter-of-factly. “Thought he might try his luck with a butcher knife.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Any idea where we are?”

  “We came west,” Dovzhenko said. “We had perhaps two hours until dark when we were taken—and it was dark by the time we arrived here.”

  Jack grabbed the satellite phone off Omar’s body, taking a moment to search for and find the key ring they’d taken. A flashlight might come in handy in the not-too-distant future.

  Ysabel found the headscarf Omar had given her on the ground and used it to dab the blood from her face. “A two-hour drive west from the attack would put us over the Iranian border.”

  Dovzhenko shook his head. “Eastern Iran is plenty lawless but still receives far more patrols than western Afghanistan. We must have turned off one way or another.”

  Ysabel got to her feet with an exhausted groan and tiptoed over the pools of blood to step off the veranda so she could look up at the night sky.

  “Hey,” Jack said, moving up beside her. “What about the vipers?”

  Ysabel rolled her eyes. “That poor little gerbil crawled out from under this porch. I doubt it was sharing its home with a snake.” She turned to Dovzhenko. “Would you turn off the lights?”

  He did, and then joined them at the edge of the concrete pad.

  An incredible carpet of stars appeared as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. Ysabel pointed beyond the dying fire with her open hand. “That faint triangle is the zodiacal light.”

  “Sounds like the name of a cult,” Jack said.

  Ysabel elbowed him in the ribs. “For one who is so smart, there are so many things that you do not know. The zodiacal light is a reflection on the dust and ice particles within the sun’s path.”

  “Which means that’s roughly west,” Jack said, trying to redeem himself.

  “Exactly,” Ysabel said.

  “Zodiacal light,” Dovzhenko mused. “Didn’t Muhammad use that to determine the timing of the five daily prayers?”

  “Full marks,” Ysabel said. “Finally a man who studies something besides guns.”

  “Hey,” Jack said. “You called me, remember. If that’s west, then we were heading north for most of the time after I woke up. You think we’re north of Herat?”

  “We crossed some mountains,” Dovzhenko said. “I felt the truck climbing.”

  “There is a high ridge that runs north and south just below Herat,” Ysabel said. “I doubt they took us across the Islam Qala Highway. There is not much above it anyway by way of roads, and it would mean greater risk. No, they most likely skirted Herat and stayed south of the Islam Qala. The Hari River valley is a sort of greenbelt. I imagine we’re somewhere along that. I’ll be able to tell more once it gets light.”

  “That’s pretty damn impressive,” Jack said. “You’re like some Iranian Daniel Boone.”

  The adrenaline of the fight gave way to the knowledge that they needed to put some distance between themselves and this carnage before Omar’s business partners decided to show up. But first Ryan had to make a call.

  Omar’s computer was in the front of his house, in a small office with tapestries of Persian poetry on starkly white walls. A simple wooden desk faced a window overlooking the tree-lined approach to the estate—beautiful and practical.

  “He’s a smuggler,” Jack said, “so he’ll take precautions with his communications. Satellite phones are too easy to intercept.”

  “Perhaps he pays many bribes,” Dovzhenko said.

  Jack picked up a white plastic box about the size of two decks of playing cards.

  Dovzhenko nodded. “A Thuraya Wi-Fi hotspot.”

  Ryan connected Omar’s sat phone to the device.

  Dovzhenko said, “You know a call from this device can be easily tracked.”

  “The signal can,” Ryan said. “But I’m betting this guy’s got a method to make it more difficult for anyone to get the content.”

  He hit the space bar on the open laptop and got the password prompt, and then slid open the lap drawer on the desk. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. Omar was a proud man—haughty enough to want to show off even to his captives. A Khan—he thought of himself as an emir, a king, surrounded by a phalanx of armed guards, secure from intrusion, when in reality he was a dope-smuggling thug who couldn’t remember his password.

  Ryan stepped aside to let Ysabel decipher the Persian script on a worn spiral notebook and log in.

  “He’ll be using a virtual private network,” Ryan said.

  Ysabel glanced up at him. “You think?” She referred to the list of passwords in the drawer. Her fingers clicked on the keyboard. “He’s got all the passwords written here for his VPN and a VoIP.”

  “The quality of the voice call will be poor,” Dovzhenko said. “And, as I said before, the satellite signal will still be visible.”

  Jack nodded. Apps like Flying Fish or any number of government hardware options could be used to sniff out radio or the poorly encrypted GPS signals from a sat phone. He’d done it many times himself.

  “True enough,” Jack said.

  “I will gather three rifles,” Dovzhenko said.

  “And I’ll find us some keys to a vehicle that’s not a Bongo truck,” Ysabel said.

  Jack tapped a telephone number into the computer. “Okay. I’ll make my phone call and get us a ticket somewhere a little less intense. We’ll be on the road before anyone has a chance to track the signal.”

  Dovzhenko went out back while Ysabel disappeared down the hallway toward the front of the house.

  * * *

  —

  Fifty-five kilometers to the east, across the braided streams of the Hari River on the outskirts of the village of Jebrael, Parviz Sassani wiped the blood from his hands with a damp cloth he’d taken from the dead woman’s kitchen. The IRGC man with him crouched beside the bodies of the woman’s teenage boys, looking for evidence in the eldest one’s pockets. The little girl was much too young to have anything of value.

  By the time IRGC contacts in London learned that Ysabel Kashani was not there, Sassani had already determined that she worked for the UNODC in Afghanistan. A search of flight manifests departing Tehran revealed Erik Dovzhenko had fled shortly after the raid on Maryam Farhad’s apartment. Sassani chuckled softly. The traitor had been at the airport during their phone conversation. IRGC contacts in Dubai and Kabul helped trace the Russian to Herat.

&nbs
p; A quick flight over via IRGC aircraft and a few questions around the UNODC office led Sassani to Fatima Husseini, a frequent volunteer and staunch defender of Kashani and her program. According to neighbors in Jebrael, the Husseini woman had walked several kilometers just to warn her friend of possible trouble with smugglers. Two of those smugglers were later found in Kashani’s office, one dead, the other brain-addled. It was an event big enough to cause a stir even in a war-torn part of the world like Afghanistan.

  Fatima Husseini had been no help at all, gnashing her teeth and refusing to betray her friend until Sassani had been forced to threaten the lives of her children. Only then did she tell him of the smugglers, and the man who she was sure employed them—an opium smuggler named Omar Khan. Fatima had no idea where Khan lived, but his brain-addled man was still in the hospital, he would know.

  They were close now. Fatima had told him as much before she died. Sassani tossed the bloody rag onto the floor and motioned for his lieutenant to come with him. If anyone knew the whereabouts of Ysabel Kashani, it would be Omar Khan.

  50

  Clark stood across the room, breaking the news about Jack to Gerry Hendley when Ding’s cell phone began to buzz. The voice on the other end made Chavez feel like all his blood drained into his legs.

  “We thought you were dead,” he said, and then snapped his fingers to get Clark’s attention.

  Clark held up a hand to tell him to wait.

  “It’s Jack,” Ding said, getting an immediate response.

  “I’m going to call you right back,” Clark said into his phone. “Sounds like we have a call from Junior . . . Yeah. I’ll get you a sitrep as soon as I find out what’s going on.”

  Chavez put Ryan on speaker and the two men went into a back bedroom, out of da Rocha’s earshot.

  “Speak to me, kid,” Clark said. “You all right?”

  “We’re all alive and free,” Ryan said, his voice disembodied, slightly garbled. “But it was touch and go for a while there.” He paused, sounding like he was getting choked up. “Listen . . . I have bad news.”