Tom Clancy Oath of Office

by Marc Cameron

  “I meant the reputation for being a cowboy.”

  Foley’s eyes sparkled with a grin. “I know. I just like to see you blush. My point is, having a superspy for a mother could not have made for an easy childhood. Just like here, intelligence work in Russia is a family business. Not too much of a leap to think mommy pushed him that direction.”

  “His father?”

  “An academic,” Foley said.

  “One of those,” Ryan said, an academic himself.

  “Anyway, if he was pushed into a career he didn’t want, it would explain his motivation for turning.”

  “Or it could mean he’s an extremely sophisticated operative, setting a trap that will blow up in our face.”

  “Maybe,” Foley said. “But they’ve been in Iran awhile now. I think it would have blown already if it was going to.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Ryan said.

  “Foley took a sip of her coffee. “Your son’s a smart guy, Jack. No one pushed him into this business. He’s got the genes for it, and the drive.”

  She sighed, closing her eyes for a moment as if deep in thought.

  “What?” Ryan asked.

  “Doesn’t this remind you of the old days, when we were getting Colonel Mikhail Semyonovich Filitov out of the Kremlin?”

  “They don’t make them like CARDINAL anymore,” Ryan said.

  “I was thinking about that,” Foley said. “Maybe they do.”

  56

  Reza Kazem set the technical manual on the ground, weighting the pages down with a stone against the wind, and looked over the hood of the nearby missile transport vehicle at the approaching Bell 206. Kazem smiled serenely, not because he was happy to see the helicopter, but because he needed the practice.

  Ayatollah Ghorbani could not help himself. Though he would stay in the rear of the aircraft, out of sight to the dozens of men working on the missile launcher and transport/erector vehicles, his presence was still a distraction of monumental proportions.

  Kazem found Ghorbani to be a necessary evil, a means to an end. The cleric put on a pious face, issuing fatwa after fatwa, extolling the virtues of Iranian manufacturing while decreeing all things Western an abomination before Allah. He instructed his officers in the IRGC to utilize only Iranian-made helicopters such as the Shahed, while he trusted his own safety to nothing other than his personal Jet Ranger.

  It was these little things that made Reza Kazem hate the man, but hate him he did.

  He patted the sidewall of the huge tire on the missile transport truck as he watched the helicopter land at the edge of the rocky clearing a hundred meters away. No, it would not be long at all. He whistled over the two men he’d chosen to drive the gargantuan vehicle. They’d been eating soup from foam cups that they dropped on the ground immediately when he summoned them.

  “You have the coordinates?” he asked once they’d scurried to him. Neither was yet thirty years old, the crystal surety of youth unmarred by the skepticism of age and experience.

  “We do,” they said in earnest unison.

  Kazem wondered what these earnest young dissidents would have thought had they known that the leader of the Council of Guardians, a man second only to the Supreme Leader himself, was on board the approaching helicopter.

  “Take a squad of the others and move this truck to the caves,” he said. “Wait there until tonight, when the American satellite has passed overhead, and then proceed to the coordinates.”

  The two men gave curt nods. “Yes, Agha Kazem,” they said, using the Persian honorific similar to “Mister” in the English-speaking world.

  Ayatollah Ghorbani’s helicopter beat the air, throwing up a cloud of dust and gravel as it settled in. Reza Kazem sniffed, gathering up the patience he’d need to show deference to such a prig. On one side of the clearing, Dr. Sahar Tabrizi, the Iranian-born genius of astrophysics, checked and rechecked one of the two Russian missiles that had become her pet projects.

  A genuine smile spread over Reza Kazem’s lips. Soon he would not need Ghorbani at all.

  * * *

  —

  Major Sassani had kept the information about Nima’s satellite phone call close-hold rather than turn it over to close IRGC detachment. Too much information was lost when it passed between too many ears and mouths. He wanted to pay the girl a personal visit, to hear from her lips where Dovzhenko had gone.

  The 324-kilometer journey from Herat to Mashhad via IRGC Dassault Falcon 20 business jet took less time than the drive from the airport to the neighborhood near the Shrine of the Imam where technicians had vectored Nima’s probable location. Sassani arrived less than three hours from the time he first heard of the young woman’s call with the satellite phone believed to be in the possession of the Russian traitor, Erik Dovzhenko.

  Though the technicians tracking the phone were unable to get a precise location, it was painfully easy to find Nima’s apartment. The first person Sassani asked, a scowling woman wearing a black chador and carrying a plastic shopping bag, pointed to the alley stairs.

  “Har jaa’i,” she sneered. Literally “everywhere,” it was the Persian euphemism for streetwalker or prostitute.

  The woman had on a considerable amount of makeup, leading Sassani to think she might be turning in her competition. He’d met and even employed the services of plenty of whores who wore the chador. Promiscuous dress certainly led to sinful behavior, but a scandalous heart often hid beneath conservative clothing. Sassani laughed inwardly at the thought. His own blushing bride was a perfect example of the impurity that could hide under a chador. He was reasonably sure she’d slept with several men before their marriage—but her virginity meant less to him than the connection to the general made possible by their union.

  Sassani shooed the woman in the chador away and then stood in the alley, studying the painted staircase. He wondered idly how long ago Erik Dovzhenko’s feet had stood on the worn treads, if Ysabel Kashani had been with him.

  The major put a finger to his lips, warning his lieutenant to be quiet as they crept up the stairs.

  The door creaked open when they were nearly at the top. A face peeked out. She was small, looking like a child next to the door, young and pretty in the worn-out way that Sassani preferred. A green cotton headscarf was draped over her head but not tied.

  “I am just leaving,” she said. She attempted to push the door shut, but the lieutenant bounded up and put his foot on the threshold.

  She cursed, threatening to cut off vital parts of the lieutenant’s body if he did not remove his foot.

  Sassani smiled serenely. “Let me speak with her,” he said, stepping up. When her eyes turned toward him, he leaned in as if to explain why they were there, and then punched her hard on the tip of her nose.

  He followed the punch inside the small apartment. It smelled like a whore’s apartment—tea and makeup and stale cigarettes. Sassani found there was something earthy about the odor that deeply appealed to him.

  Prostitutes saw more than their share of physical violence, and were not easily intimidated by it. Sassani had come prepared, and readied a syringe while the lieutenant tied the woman and threw her facedown on the bed. She pressed her broken nose against the sheets, attempting to stop the flow of blood brought on by the punch through the door. The lieutenant put a knee in the small of her back, grabbing her by the hair and yanking sideways.

  Sassani found a vein in the side of her neck, not difficult, since fear and exertion caused them to bulge like purple cables under her olive skin. He injected the contents of the syringe, leaving a dot of blood as he withdrew the needle and stepped away. She thrashed for a few more moments, but the lieutenant kept his knee in place.

  “Erik Dovzhenko,” Sassani whispered. “Is he coming back?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he?”

  Nima broke like a cheap clay pitche
r when the drugs began to take effect, spilling information so fast that Sassani and his assistant had a difficult time keeping up. The mixture of scopolamine and morphine wasn’t exactly a truth serum, but they did induce a state of confused drowsiness that threw the subject off balance, left her feeling out of control—more effective if less rewarding than physical violence.

  In less than ten minutes Sassani knew Dovzhenko and the woman had gone to Akbar Children’s Hospital to find where someone lived. She did not appear to know the name of that person. Rather than continue with the interrogation, the major decided it was better to finish here and go on to the next location. The Russian was close enough to smell now. Sassani would find him—and kill him—tonight.

  Sassani took another vial from his pocket and filled up the syringe.

  “What . . . what . . . are you giving me?” The young woman’s speech was slurred as if she were drunk.

  Sassani cocked his head to one side. “I’m afraid you’ll need to be an example.”

  Tears ran down the young woman’s cheeks, mixing with blood and mucus. “You do not have to worry. I swear it.”

  “Oh, we are beyond worry,” Sassani said. “This would have been so much easier had you only answered my questions before I administered the drug.”

  Nima’s face screwed into a stricken grimace as Sassani injected the contents of the second syringe into the same bulging vein in her neck.

  “But . . . you . . . you never . . . ask me anything . . . until after you drugged me.”

  Sassani sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t?” he said. “Funny. I thought I did.” He patted her on the buttocks, giving his lieutenant a conspiratorial nod. “Oh, well. It is better this way. We have what we need and you are nothing but a corruption.”

  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 id
ea 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.”