Tom Clancy Oath of Office

by Marc Cameron

  Ryan leaned forward against the bench seat, resting his chin on the back of his hands. He told himself it was to stretch, but in reality, he just wanted to be as close as possible to Ysabel.

  She’d removed the headscarf and now looked like the young woman that he’d once known. The years had aged her, but not in a bad way. If anything, she was more beautiful than before—especially in the eyes. The flippancy of her youth was gone, replaced with a mysterious gravity that made her difficult to read. “Thicker sauce,” his mother would say. Life had a way of cooking you down. Jack thought of how they’d first met—right here in Iran, with her screaming up in that little sports car. He turned his head sideways, still leaning on his hands, his eyes playing sleepily over the tiny scars on her jawline and neck. It was difficult for him to distinguish his guilt from the fatigue that pressed him down.

  Ysabel suddenly spoke, breaking the silence, causing both men to start.

  “Does no one besides me have an issue with what we’re doing?”

  Dovzhenko looked across the front seat at her, then back at the road.

  “It’s dangerous,” Jack said, “I’ll admit. But I don’t see a way to find the missiles without crossing the b—”

  She cut him off. “I’m not talking about crossing the border. We are about to bargain with the life of a child. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “It does,” he said. “But we didn’t give him this disease. We’re offering to help him if his father helps us.”

  “I don’t like it,” Ysabel said. “We choose to do what we do. This man, Yazdani, has no choice. If he wants to save his son he must commit treason against his country.”

  Dovzhenko gave a little shrug. “You could say he was helping his country. Nuclear weapons will only bring retaliation against the people. Yes, we are forcing his hand, but for a greater good. And the boy will get help.”

  “I know all this,” Ysabel said. “But I still hate the tactic. We are predators, preying on this man’s misery. If he does not help us, his son dies.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said. “But we won’t be the ones to kill him.”

  “No,” Ysabel said. “His father’s decision will.”

  “Hopefully,” Jack said, “his father will decide correctly. It’s a shitty business, Ysabel. But this is the way it works.”

  Ysabel turned suddenly to glare over her shoulder, her face illuminated in the green glow of the Toyota’s dash lights.

  “You should sleep,” she said.

  “I tried,” Ryan said. “Can’t.”

  “Then at least lean back,” she snapped. “You are crowding me.”

  Ryan recoiled at the flash of emotion. He’d expected something like this when he first saw her in the airport, but not now, not after what they’d just been through.

  “Are you okay?”

  She twisted farther in the seat, shaking her head in disgust. “Just so you know, that is not a question women like to be asked. Ever.”

  Dovzhenko stared ahead, eyes fixed on the road.

  “We’ve all been through a lot,” Ryan said, his voice softer. He hoped it sounded less condescending. “In case you didn’t notice. I honestly thought you might have discovered some new injury now that we’ve had time for the adrenaline to wear off.”

  “I am fine,” Ysabel said.

  “You?” Ryan asked the Russian.

  “No problems here,” Dovzhenko said without looking back.

  Ysabel took several breaths, composing herself. “I . . . I nearly died, Jack . . . I mean—and you just stopped calling. Dropped off the face of the earth.”

  Ryan tried to think of a rebuttal, but there wasn’t one, not a good one, anyway. Finally, he said, “I know.”

  The sun pinked the eastern horizon by the time they were just a few miles out of Mashhad. It was a city of almost three million people and traffic began to pick up. Headlights from the vehicles behind them threw Ysabel’s face into shadows.

  “I thought we had something,” she said. “You and I.”

  “Your father made it pretty clear—”

  “You’re a grown man, Jack,” she snapped. “Stop trying to put this off on my father. I know exactly what happened. I think you merely decided it was time to flip the pillow.”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” Ryan said.

  “Flip the pillow,” she said again. “You wanted something cooler, the other side of the pillow, different from anything I had to offer.”

  “That’s rich,” Ryan scoffed. “Your father surrounded you with SAS bodyguards and told me in no uncertain terms you were better off without me.”

  “I’ve seen you fight,” Ysabel said. “You could handle a couple of SAS bodyguards.”

  Ryan fell back in his seat. The Toyota suddenly didn’t feel like nearly enough real estate for him and this angry woman.

  Dovzhenko drove on, the thump of traffic and Ysabel’s breathing the only sounds.

  Ryan gave a long sigh. “Things are about to get kind of dicey,” he said. “You and I should probably clear the air of . . . whatever this is . . .”

  “Or we could drive in silence,” Dovzhenko said. “That would be fine as well.”

  Mashhad loomed in front of them. Ysabel stared out her window.

  Jack was a fixer, like his dad. He felt sure that most any problem could be made better if properly hashed out. But Ysabel wasn’t up for hashing anything this morning. And he was too exhausted to push it—without saying something he knew he would regret. He focused on Dovzhenko instead.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  Dovzhenko’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. “Go ahead.”

  “You were free and clear,” Jack said. “You could have walked into the embassy in Dubai, or any other country, for that matter. Why come all the way to Afghanistan and then risk your life returning with us to Iran?”

  “Guilt,” Dovzhenko said simply. “It is the best compulsion of all, stronger even than revenge.”

  Ryan looked at the back of Ysabel’s head and understood exactly what he meant.

  * * *

  —

  Erik Dovzhenko’s friend lived in a cramped apartment in one of the many poor neighborhoods in Iran’s second-largest city. Shops selling large chunks of skewered lamb, called shishlik, catered to a constant flow of Shia pilgrims who made their way to the Imam Reza shrine a few blocks to the northeast. First the shrine, then the shishlik, the saying went.

  Dovzhenko carried a duffel containing the rifles, unwilling to leave them in the truck. Ryan took care of the smaller leather briefcase with the laptop, Thuraya hotspot, and satellite phone. They had no other luggage.

  Rickety wooden stairs ran up the rear of the apartment building from the deserted alley. The treads were painted black, but were well worn from constant use. It didn’t take long for Jack to realize this wasn’t just a fire escape. Dovzhenko stopped at the base and looked up at the barred window beside the door.

  “Life has not been kind to my friend,” he said. “But she will put on a happy face.”

  “I understand,” Ysabel said.

  Dovzhenko looked directly at Ysabel. “I hope you will not judge her too harshly,” he said. “I will apologize in advance for her stories.”

  Ysabel gave a little shrug. “Is she . . . ?”

  “A prostitute?” Dovzhenko nodded. “She was between the proverbial rock and the hard spot. Her husband divorced her and she—”

  Ysabel raised her hand. “I am not equipped to judge other women. Especially not in Iran. The same clerics who would stone her to death for what she does are only too happy to be her pimps so long as she keeps the money coming in. I might have made similar choices had I not been born into a wealthy family.”

  Jack started to disagree but stopped himself.

  A young woma
n with mussed hair opened the door, alerted by the squeaking stairs before the group reached the wooden landing on the second floor. The corners of her small mouth perked when she saw Dovzhenko, then she stepped aside, motioning them in before they were seen by too many nosy neighbors. Jack guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She’d been asleep, and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. She wore black yoga pants and a bright yellow peasant blouse that revealed her long neck and collarbone. The interior of the room was heavy with the smell of tea and talcum.

  “Hello, Nima,” the Russian said.

  She kissed Dovzhenko on both cheeks. “You should have told me you were coming. I have nothing to offer you to eat.” She began to putter around the kitchen, putting on the kettle for tea.

  “We need a place to rest,” Dovzhenko said. “We won’t be here long.” He introduced Ysabel and Jack, calling him Joe Peterson, then patted his friend on the shoulder, an extremely forward thing to do in Iran. “And this is my good friend Nima. Her family is from Azerbaijan, as is my mother. In truth, she is a distant cousin.”

  “Iranians treat Azeris like shit,” Nima said. “We have to look after each other. Erik is half Russian, but I look after him anyway.” She eyed Ysabel suspiciously.

  “I love your blouse,” Ysabel said, her sleepy smile breaking the ice immediately.

  Nima tugged on Erik’s arm. “Are you here to crack heads for the protests?”

  Dovzhenko looked sheepishly at Ysabel and Jack. “I do not crack heads.”

  “I am only teasing,” Nima said. “But the head-crackers are there, downtown. That is a fact. And I will be there, too, probably getting my head cracked with everyone else.”

  Dovzhenko frowned. “You should be careful. These people are serious. I understand the Ayatollah is coming to preach at Friday prayers this week.”

  “The Ayatollah.” Nima spat on the floor. “Did you also hear that some mullahs went to the Ayatollah and told them he could be done with the Great Satan once and for all?”

  Dovzhenko rolled his eyes in an unspoken apology.

  Nima continued in passable English, as if she were recounting a news story and not a joke. “‘Oh, Most Beneficent One,’ the mullahs said. ‘We have discerned that in order to drive the Great Satan from our lands, you must sleep with a virgin.’ The Ayatollah thought on this for a moment and then, with his brooding frown proclaimed, ‘I see that I must do this thing for the good of all. But I will only do it on three conditions. First, the chosen virgin must be blind, so she cannot see that it is I when she is brought to my bed. Second, she must be deaf, so she cannot recognize my voice. Third, she must have big breasts.’”

  Dovzhenko gave an embarrassed smile.

  “What?” Nima said. “My walls are thin. I heard you apologize to your friends for my stories, so I told a story. Besides, that one is very popular in Mashhad. Everyone here has heard it before.” She gestured to the small couch and a pile of cushions in the corner. “You are exhausted. Please sit before you fall.”

  “Thank you,” Dovzhenko said. “But I must ask, did you stop smoking?”

  Nima hung her head. “I did not.”

  Dovzhenko looked like he might cry. “Good. Because I will go insane if I do not get a cigarette.”

  Nima reached to the cardboard box she used as a bedside table, and then threw him a pack. “Oh, Erik,” she said, “you are already insane.”

  Jack sat on the edge of the couch, looking around the cramped room. The ornately stamped metal ceiling sagged low, making the room seem smaller than it was. The average Iranian made around two hundred and fifty dollars a month, and prostitutes fared much worse. Nima had very little in the way of material possessions but offered what she did have, giving Ysabel her bed, explaining candidly that she never slept on the sheets on which she worked. Ysabel said she was just happy to lie down anywhere. Ryan made do with the living room floor and was asleep seconds after his head hit the cushion.

  In the small kitchen area across the room, Nima Hasanova quietly readied tea. She never had guests and wanted desperately for them to stay for a while when they woke up. Erik was snoring softly, an arm across his face. He was involved in something dangerous. It was written all over his face. Was it not her duty to protect him? But what could she do, a fallen woman. She laughed at that. Fallen woman. Women in Iran had to stand up before they had any room to fall. She eyed the leather case at his feet. Whatever Erik was up to, the answer must lie inside.

  54

  The engineer who’d been explaining the process to Reza Kazem smiled, seemingly grateful for the opportunity to be near him, and then excused himself to return to his duties. But for the buzz of activity around the missiles and transport trucks this hidden spot in the desert would have been a calm, almost religious place. Both men wore the green uniform and cap of the IRGC, part of what Kazem and his men had stolen from the storage depot north of Tehran. The remote location west of Mashhad hid their activity from the actual military, but the official uniforms would slow any police patrols who happened to approach. It was a big enough lie that few men would have the stones to challenge him directly. No one would want to step on the toes of an official action. Even another IRGC unit would want to check with higher authority before taking any action. Kazem had a small army of his own, nearly a hundred men, all of whom believed themselves patriots, revolutionaries against the revolution, hoping for a new Iran.

  Kazem planned to give them one. Just not quite what they expected.

  He was a physicist, so he understood the dynamics, if not the minutia of what they were doing. He had the woman for that. She was in her late fifties and carried herself with the arrogance of a man in charge, showing little deference to even Kazem. He didn’t care. They needed each other—and mutual need brought a different kind of respect.

  She was across the valley floor now, in the lee of a tall escarpment that shielded the trucks from the incessant wind. Wearing pants, her head uncovered, she shouted into her radio, holding it directly in front of her but away from her face—as if she did not quite understand how radios worked. That was the thing about geniuses, Kazem thought, the shine that came in one facet of their lives left other parts lacking. Dr. Tabrizi was among the most gifted mathematicians and aeronautical physicists in the world. She’d come within a mathematical breath of the correct solution for the Poincaré conjecture when she was an undergraduate at the University of Tehran, and might have solved it had the revolution not shunted women to the side of almost everything. She could, with nothing but pencil and paper, make the needed calculations to thread a needle with an antiballistic missile. And still, a simple mobile telephone baffled her. She could draw accurate pictures of radio waves and explain the science to them, but the buttons and knobs on the radio itself remained an uncrackable mystery.

  The men on the crane and missile transport trucks leaned out the windows of their respective cabs, looking for relief from the verbal barrage of this crazy scientist. Kazem did not worry. One truck was already loaded, they only had to repeat the procedure.

  Everything was coming together. Both launch tubes would be on the trucks before Ayatollah Ghorbani arrived. The tubes themselves had been relatively simple to acquire. Other missiles in Iran required launch tubes, and the manufacturing process was already in place. Orders and designs from the correct government department made it happen. The massive sixteen-wheel MZKT-79221 were also a straightforward purchase. Ubiquitous in the Red Square military parades of the Soviet Union, these huge missile transport trucks were now manufactured in Belarus under the Volat brand. As with much of anything worthwhile, the importation of these vehicles violated UN sanctions—but stripped of their sixteen wheels and broken down to the smallest components possible, they were much easier to ship illicitly than the Gorgons themselves. It took only a team of mechanics to reassemble the trucks, not a rocket scientist.

  Kazem tamped back his excitement. Slowly but s
urely, this was all working out. He wished Ghorbani would have waited another day. But one did not argue with the likes of Ayatollah Ghorbani. Second only to the Grand Ayatollah himself, Ghorbani acted as his eyes and ears—and his contact with Reza Kazem. After all, the leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran could not be seen with the man the entire world thought wanted to bring it down.

  * * *

  —

  The harsh chime of Sassani’s mobile phone wormed its way into his dreamless sleep. The mattress in his Herat hotel room was too soft, but it was more comfortable than the couch in his office.

  “It is up and running, Major,” the voice said when he answered. “I apologize for waking you, but I thought you would want to know at once.”

  Sassani sniffed and then looked around the room, blinking away the memories of the day before. “What is up and running?”

  “The satellite phone you ordered me to monitor.”

  Sassani sat up a little straighter at that. “At this very moment?”

  “Yes,” the technician said. “And we have audio. The caller is an Azeri woman, speaking to, we believe, her mother. The caller’s name is Nima.”

  “Origination?” Sassani snapped. He was on his feet now, pacing at the foot of his hotel bed.

  “She is calling from Mashhad, Major.”

  “Mashhad?” Sassani stopped in his tracks. “She is calling from inside Iran?”

  “Yes, Major. It is difficult to pinpoint an exact address, but we are reasonably certain the phone is being used not far from the Shrine of the Imam at this very moment.”

  “Bracket in,” Sassani said. “I want as close a location as you are able to give me.”