Tom Clancy Oath of Office

by Marc Cameron

  Her words came softly, like the chirp of a distant bird, but they silenced Dovzhenko all the same. “You would be a beautiful man if you did not lie.”

  She suddenly slipped down among the sheets, more on them than in them, on her side now, cigarette held in a cocked hand, over her shoulder, as she looked directly into his eyes. “Oh, fire of my heart, you have a pistol in your jacket, along with a small radio, and a leather truncheon. That does not seem typical for an adviser, even in Iran.”

  Dovzhenko stared at her, stunned.

  “So what now?”

  Maryam’s breast brushed against his arm as she fell away. She put the cigarette to her lips and stared at the ceiling.

  “It is better to be slapped with the truth than kissed with a lie,” she said.

  Dovzhenko groaned. “True enough.”

  Her head fell sideways against the pillow, looking at him. “Then here is the slap.”

  “Maryam—”

  “What do you know of me?”

  “You are a kind soul,” he whispered. “You work with drug addicts—”

  She put a finger to his lips. “Stop it. Be honest with me, if that is even possible for a man in your job. Where were you tonight, immediately before you came here to the apartment?”

  “The executions,” he whispered.

  She nodded thoughtfully, eyelids trembling as she took another drag on the cigarette. “I thought as much,” she whispered. “They were friends of mine, you know. Those boys.” Tears welled in her eyes. Looking up at the ceiling, she threw an arm across her forehead. “You must arrest me now—take me to the Evin dungeons to string me up and perform your interrogations.”

  “Merely knowing someone is not a crime,” Dovzhenko said, aware that as a practical matter, this was not the case in Iran or Russia.

  “I am a part of it,” she whispered into the crook of her arm. “All of it . . . involved enough in the planning of this movement to get myself hanged. For a while, it seemed as though freedoms might win out, but with the help of their IRGC attack dogs, the Guardian Council will always win . . . no matter what we do. I am so tired, my love. Those monsters murdered my friends, and for what? For doing what thousands of others are doing. So go ahead and report me, arrest me . . . Better yet, shoot me now. I am beyond caring.”

  Dovzhenko swung his feet off the bed and walked naked to the chair where he’d draped his leather jacket. He retrieved the radio and clicked it on. Static and chatter came over the speaker, Sassani and his operatives out working the streets, hunting.

  “Sepah!” Maryam gasped, using the colloquial name for the IRGC. Her face drew tight, as if she’d not been quite sure how deeply he was involved with Iranian authorities until now.

  He pushed the radio toward her. “Take it,” he said. “You may turn yourself in if you wish, but I would never give you over to those animals.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed and collapsed against her pillows, sobbing.

  He nestled in close to her. “I am truly sorry for your friends.”

  “Did you . . . ?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am not an interrogator.” He did not mention that he had been there to see almost every bloody, bone-crunching second of it. She was too fragile—for now at least. Some slaps of truth were too brutal. “How did you know them?”

  “I told you.” She sighed. “I am part of it. You have all the evidence you need to hang me. If I am wrong about you and you turn me in, then I will die of a broken heart before a noose can touch my throat.”

  “I would never.” He was surprised at how the truth sounded so like the lies of his past.

  “It does not matter,” she said. “These young people are exceptionally brave, but they need guidance, someone to lead them.”

  “Like Reza Kazem?” Dovzhenko said.

  She rolled her eyes. “Reza Kazem. He speaks the right words, but there is more wind than substance. Something is off with that one, I will tell you that much.”

  “You have met him?”

  She turned to the side table and retrieved her mobile, stretching beautifully, causing Dovzhenko to catch his breath when the sheet fell away. She rolled over beside him, mobile phone in both hands, and then entered a password with her thumbs, following that with a longer code to bring up her photos.

  He nodded at the screen. “You are aware that government agencies have ways around these passwords.”

  She shrugged and pushed the phone toward him. “I told you. I am too tired to care.”

  Dovzhenko needed a cigarette, but he wanted to look at the phone first—not for evidence, but because he was curious. On his back, he held the phone above his face, shoulder to shoulder with Maryam while he scrolled through the photos one by one. Smiling students, a bouquet of spring flowers, more flowers. The fifth photo made Dovzhenko sit up straight against the headboard. He zoomed in to get a better look, and then turned to stare down at Maryam.

  “What?” she said, incredulous. “I already said I knew them. Are you suddenly angry with—”

  He put a hand on her arm, tenderly, he hoped. It only frightened her, and she jerked away.

  “This man.” Dovzhenko turned the screen so she could look at the photograph. “Have you seen him before?”

  She shrugged. “Kazem? I have. Several times.”

  “Not Kazem,” Dovzhenko said. “The other one. The one standing behind Javad.”

  She shook her head. “Erik, you scare me . . .”

  “This man is Vitaly Alov, a general officer of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, the GRU, Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate.”

  “You Russians are everywhere,” she said. “I did not pay any attention to him when I took the photo.”

  “May I get a copy of this?”

  “Of course,” Maryam said. “But that does not seem wise. Will that not leave a digital trail, linking you to my account?”

  He turned to smile at her. “Very good,” he said. “I do not plan to send it to myself directly. I will post it on a dummy auction account on eBay, untraceable to me or anyone connected to me. I will be able to access it without downloading it and leaving any tracks.”

  “That sounds much more spylike,” Maryam said. She sat up beside him now, leaning in so her arms intertwined around his elbow, lips buzzing against his shoulder. “Is this General Alov your boss?”

  He shook his head, working Maryam’s phone to post the photograph of Alov and Kazem. “No. I am SVR. The GRU is a different entity altogether.” He tapped the phone against his palm. “I cannot understand why a Russian officer would meet with the leader of your protest movement. Officially, my government backs the—”

  On the table beside the bed, Dovzhenko’s radio suddenly crackled with static, causing both of them to jump with a start. Parviz Sassani’s toxic voice spilled over the airwaves.

  Dovzhenko had a passable understanding of Farsi, but Maryam translated anyway.

  “. . . Units three and four, come in from the north on Prioozan. We will approach from the south, blocking any escape . . . Third floor, number . . .”

  She looked up at Dovzhenko and they both mouthed the same words.

  “They are coming here.”

  22

  “She’s fifteen yards out,” Clark said into the radio. “Blond hair, shorter than Adara’s. White knee-length shorts, black T-shirt. She’s getting plenty of attention.”

  “She’s wearing sandals,” Jack noted. “Looks like she’s not planning to run.”

  “Okay,” Clark said, lips just inches from his beer. Passersby would think he was talking to Ryan. “I have da Rocha now. He’s coming in from the other direction. No weapons that I can see so far. Ding, Midas, start to drift his way in case they split up when we go inside the plaza. I’d like to keep eyes on da Rocha. Adara, Dom, you t
wo ease this way but hang behind a little. I haven’t seen any Russian countersurveillance yet, but they’re out there. I’m sure of it.”

  Jack tapped the table to get Clark’s attention. “Fournier’s carrying something.”

  * * *

  —

  “My friends,” da Rocha said, striding purposefully up to the seated Russians. He kept his hands in the open so as not to alarm anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. “What a small world it is, meeting you twice in one week.”

  Both Russians pushed away from the table and stood, as did the Spaniard.

  Da Rocha’s mouth fell open in mock astonishment. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is this Don Felipe Montes?” He took a half-step toward the street, forcing the Spaniard to turn into the sun to look at him.

  Montes gave the Russians a wary glance. “This man is a friend of yours?”

  “A mere acquaintance,” da Rocha said, still driving the conversation. “And a hopeful business partner, to be sure.” He turned to glance at Lucile, who’d stopped a few steps behind the Spaniard. “In any case. I will not bother you any longer. I am only here by chance. It seems as though my taxi dropped me off in the wrong location. Is the bull arena somewhere nearby?”

  The Spaniard stifled a grin and pointed west. “You are standing in its very shadow, señor.”

  Da Rocha looked across the street and scratched his head. “I expected it to be larger,” he said. “Are you certain? Where would one go inside?”

  Montes rolled his eyes at the Russians, who had yet to say a single word, and then stepped sideways, away from the Russians. He took da Rocha by the shoulder and pointed down a narrow cobblestone pedestrian alley that ran adjacent to the Plaza de Toros.

  “Down there?” da Rocha said.

  “Follow the crowd,” Montes said.

  Da Rocha stepped away, throwing a glance at the Russians as if to say “Watch this.”

  Lucile Fournier walked forward, passing the little crowd by the curb as she touched Don Felipe with her mobile phone.

  The Spaniard gave a little jump, like she’d given him a shock. His jaw moved back and forth as a hand shot to his collar, trying to get more air. Da Rocha sprang to help, assisting the man as he stumbled backward to collapse into his chair. He remained upright, eyes open, arms trailing down beside him. Those seated at nearby tables might have thought the poor man was just winded, or perhaps overcome by the brightness of the sun.

  Da Rocha patted the man’s arm, as if checking on a friend.

  “What have you done?” the Russian with the long upper lip said. Da Rocha had correctly identified him as the leader.

  “A demonstration,” da Rocha said. “The newest in shellfish toxin. Not all armaments need to include facial recognition or advanced GPS—though I certainly have that as well if you want it.”

  Both Russians glanced nervously up and down the street, wanting to put distance between themselves and the dead Spaniard but unsure of what would come next.

  “Shellfish toxin?” the Russian with the odd haircut asked. “How would you even know he is allergic?”

  Lucile laughed out loud. “Monsieur, everyone is allergic to this shellfish toxin.”

  “Amazing,” da Rocha said, “how quickly it worked. Wouldn’t you say?” He dropped a business card on the table in front of the Russians. “We both know that you are in the market for someone with certain skills and contacts. I assure you, a business arrangement with me would not disappoint you.” He patted the dead Spaniard on the shoulder. “As you can see, I am very resourceful.”

  * * *

  —

  Clark had to concentrate to keep from jumping to his feet. “Everyone stay put,” he said. “The guy in the beret was just hit. Anyone hear a shot?”

  No one had.

  “This was something else,” Jack said. “Poison, maybe.”

  “Ricin?” Midas mused.

  “A little too quick for that,” Clark said. “She jabbed him with something, though. The Russians are moving now. Da Rocha and the woman are coming toward you, Adara. See if you can figure out where they are staying. But be alert.”

  “Ballsy,” Ding said. “That makes two that we know of who she’s killed in front of a large and hostile audience.”

  “Yeah,” Clark said. “Like I said. Everyone keep your heads on a swivel.”

  He nodded at Ryan, who left a couple of euros on the table to pay for their beers. The Russians walked east on Calle Adriano, toward their hotel, leaving the dead local and the bullfighting arena behind. For the time being, at least, they seemed to have lost their taste for blood.

  23

  Dovzhenko sprang out of the bed, hopping on one foot as he put on his slacks. He was already buttoning his shirt before he realized Maryam wasn’t moving.

  “What are you doing?” He slipped the Vostok watch over his wrist, shoving his feet into his shoes. His socks went into his pockets. There was no time to put them on. “Get up! We have to go.”

  A lock of dark hair fell across an agate-colored eye. “You are the fire of my heart,” she said. “But if they find us together, we are both dead. They will only interrogate me.”

  “No!” Dovzhenko grabbed her arm, dragging her across the sheets. She didn’t struggle, but she didn’t help, either. It was like dragging a dead woman. He felt like crying. “They would not dare harm a Russian intelligence officer. We are allies.”

  Her eyes were half closed, sleepy, trancelike. “You could tell them I was your prisoner. Perhaps you could go a little easier on my feet with the truncheon . . .”

  “Why are you doing this?” A sob caught hard in his throat. “Please come with me.”

  “Where?” She tore the pendant off her neck and handed it to him. “Please go. You must escape so I can see you again, even if I am in a cell.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  She sighed. “My love, if you do not, we will both be killed. Our only chance is for you to go. Now.”

  Dovzhenko stuffed the silver necklace in his pocket and then, exasperated, kissed her hard before sliding open the rear window.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He switched off his radio and vaulted over the rail, letting his body extend fully so he could drop to the next balcony below. He repeated the process twice more on the second- and first-floor balconies, dropping the last few feet to land among a hedge of thorny shrubs. Tires squealed around the corner as a vehicle turned quickly off 2nd Street and came to a stop in the parking lot out front.

  Dovzhenko ran south without looking back, cutting between dark apartment buildings and vaulting several fences to put some distance between him and Sassani’s men. Two minutes later, he turned to the east through a neighborhood of large single-family homes, toward his parked car. Motion lights came on in nearly every yard, blinding him. He narrowly avoided tripping headlong into a backyard pond. He reached his car in less than five minutes, hands on his knees, wheezing for air. He really needed to stop smoking. His hand darted to the pocket of his slacks.

  His lighter!

  He checked his jacket, feeling like he might pass out at the cold realization that he’d left the lighter at the apartment. Sassani would surely recognize the Azerbaijani crest.

  The clatter of gunfire tore at the night.

  Dovzhenko choked back a scream. Jumping behind the wheel, he started the little Tiba and threw it into gear, pointing it toward Maryam—and the gunfire. He willed the gutless car to go faster. He had to get inside and retrieve the lighter before Sassani found it. If he could not, then he would at least have the pleasure of shooting the son of a bitch in the face before they arrested him.

  * * *

  —

  Dovzhenko parked and jumped out of the Tiba, sprinting up three flights of stairs.

  A young IRGC thug stopped him at the apartment door. “What are you d
oing here?” It was the same one he’d given the binoculars to, a foolish gesture that only made him look odd—and in the intelligence world, odd was very much akin to guilty.

  “I received a tip,” Dovzhenko said, forcing his breath to slow. “I could ask the same question.”

  “We have also received a tip.” Sassani strode around the corner, sleeves of his collarless gray shirt rolled up, a tight pair of black leather gloves stretched over his hands.

  Dovzhenko shouldered his way past the door guard, biting his tongue when he saw Maryam’s arm trailing off the bed. A rivulet of blood ran from the crook of her elbow to drip from the tips of her fingers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from giving himself away.

  “I am confused, comrade,” Sassani said, head cocked to the side. “Why did you not call us?”

  “It was merely a tip,” Dovzhenko said. “I am as surprised to see you as you are me.” He moved around the room, touching as much as he could without looking too obvious. His fingerprints were everywhere. The sunken divot from where he’d sat on the couch to smoke was still in the cushion. He glanced at the ashtray—and thought of the cigarette butt in his pocket. He and Maryam had made love twice—and she’d never gotten out of bed. He was all over this place.

  Sassani looked him up and down for a long moment, like a dog looks at a piece of meat it cannot quite reach.

  “She resisted?” Dovzhenko heard himself ask, the words hollow, distant though from his own mouth. It was only then that he noticed one of Sassani’s men holding a bandage to his arm.

  “The bitch shot me,” the man said.

  Bravo, Dovzhenko thought. He’d not known Maryam even had a gun. He moved into the bedroom as if he owned the place—a skill at which Russians were particularly adept. Intelligence training had taught him to swallow his emotions, to lie with his eyes in order to make his words believable. Seeing Maryam’s bullet-riddled body was impossibly difficult, but he dug deep and somehow mustered the wherewithal to appear appropriately shocked at the scene, without breaking down completely.