by Marc Cameron
“Smugglers are the least of your worries,” Dovzhenko said. “You have to leave, go someplace the IRGC will not know to look.”
Hamid gave another grunt. “I still do not understand what is in this for you.”
Dovzhenko spoke to Ysabel, ignoring the bodyguard. “Sassani will find you here. I am certain of it.”
Ysabel held up a hand to let him know she’d heard enough. “You have to admit how odd it looks that a person who attends torture sessions in Evin Prison, a person who stands shoulder to shoulder with the Revolutionary Guard at public executions, would make the journey to Afghanistan to warn a woman whom he has never met.”
“I told you,” Dovzhenko said. “He will throw me in prison, too. We have a common problem.”
“I have few friends left in government,” Ysabel said. “But I will return to Iran and straighten thi—”
“Please!” Dovzhenko said, stridently enough to bring Hamid up on his toes. Ysabel waved him down, a master telling her attack dog to remain calm—for now.
Dovzhenko continued, his passion unchecked. “You must believe me. We have to leave now.”
Hamid stepped forward. “We do not have to do anything.”
Ysabel said, “I’m guilty of nothing but being Maryam’s friend.”
“But you will confess to much more,” Dovzhenko said. “Sassani will make sure of that.”
“All right,” Ysabel said. “Say I follow you. Where do we go?”
Dovzhenko stood and looked at her, dumbfounded. “Honestly, I am not sure. I cannot go back. That is certain.”
“Because you can be associated with Maryam?”
Dovzhenko nodded.
“I knew Maryam better than anyone. You told me enough of the story that I can read between the lines,” Ysabel said. “They have evidence that you two were . . . together the night she was murdered?”
“They will,” Dovzhenko whispered. “Soon enough.”
Ysabel bowed her head for a moment and then looked heavenward, eyes clenched shut, coming to some painful conclusion. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Listen to me. Maryam spoke to me several times of a mysterious gentleman friend. I have had just such a friend in the past who was, shall we say, in your line of work, so I know something about it. What’s more, I’m smart enough to know that if you are a Russian operative assigned to assist the Revolutionary Guard, your coming here will be viewed by your superiors in Moscow as a gross dereliction of duty, if not treason.”
Dovzhenko closed his eyes. “That is true.”
“So,” Ysabel said. “You are running, too.”
“I am.”
“So you wish to defect to the West?”
“I am so exhausted.”
She gave a musing nod. “I take that to mean yes.”
Ysabel leaned against the wall, lips slightly pursed, eyes narrowed in thought. Stress and sadness caused her face to flush as if she were sunburned, making the pale scars on her face and neck contrast more than usual. Dovzhenko couldn’t help but wonder about the corresponding psychological wounds.
He glanced at the Vostok on his wrist. He’d been here less than ten minutes. She would need a time to process, but they had to move.
Ysabel groaned, seeming to come to some decision. “You risked a lot coming to warn me. I am grateful for that. You cannot go back to Russia, and you certainly cannot return to Iran.”
“He could ask the Italians for asylum,” Hamid said. “They are the ones running NATO forces for now.”
“Whatever I do,” Dovzhenko said, “I would prefer to do it from somewhere else. If only to avoid any of Redbeard’s friends.”
“At last you speak some sense,” Hamid said.
The two men followed Ysabel into the front office, where she retrieved a small daypack.
She draped the scarf over her head in preparation to go outside, and then stopped to stare Dovzhenko directly in the face, as if looking at the back of his skull. “Do you just want to run, or would you turn?”
“Turn?” He knew exactly what she meant but wondered if she did.
“Yes, turn. Flip, defect, provide your specific knowledge of what is going on inside the IRGC and Iranian politics to your counterparts in the West.”
A cold chill washed over Dovzhenko. The woman spoke not as an aid worker trying to stanch the flow of opium from Afghanistan to Iran but as one who was intimately familiar with the ways of intelligence services. The scars suddenly made much more sense.
Dovzhenko spoke deliberately. “As you might imagine, in my line of work it is extremely difficult to know whom I can trust.”
“That is true in any line of work,” Ysabel corrected. “At least in things that matter. I know someone who can help us both. He’s kind of a khar,” she said. “But I’m one hundred percent certain that he is a donkey we can trust. I will call him on the way.”
* * *
—
A hundred meters down the street from the yellow building that served as the UNODC office, a Pashtun man lay on the rooftop of a nondescript mud building, rendered almost invisible by the blowing dust. He wore the loose shalwar kameez. A flat pakol hat was pulled down over his brow, held in place with a gray headscarf against the wind. He had no idea exactly how old he was, but he guessed it was somewhere around fifty. Dark, wind-battered features made him appear well over sixty, but with the muscle and stamina of a man who walked for miles back and forth across the border with Iran, accustomed to much discomfort and heavy lifting. A pair of Soviet-era binoculars pressed against his eyes. He’d not yet made the pilgrimage to Mecca and could not claim the wisdom of the gray so his scabby beard was dyed orange red. He was, however, wise enough to know that this new man visiting the Iranian bitch carried himself like a Russian. Years of infidel occupation laid bare the subtle differences in the way Russians and Americans carried themselves. Russians acted as if they owned the world. The Americans simply owned it.
He watched the Iranian woman’s bodyguard come out and retrieve the old van and drive it up in front of the building, obscuring the view of the door.
The small radio with a whip antenna crackled at the Afghan’s elbow.
“Shall we take them now?”
“Hold,” the Afghan said. He hadn’t survived these decades as a smuggler by rushing into things. They’d come to take the woman, but the Russian added a new dimension. An alternative plan began to form in his mind. It would be lucrative but would take some time to set up. This Russian had somehow bested the two men he’d sent inside to take the woman. He could not be underestimated.
The Iranian woman was a thorn in everybody’s shoe. She stirred up trouble with opium producers, made the other women believe they deserved more than they were already given, and walked around a good deal of the time with her hijab cocked to expose half of her head. She was not just a whore but a meddlesome whore. The Afghan would make double the profit, earning from one side to get rid of her and the others who bought her for their pleasure—or to sell again. His tongue flicked out over dusty lips, thinking of all the money.
The woman and the Russian came out next and the van pulled away.
“They are leaving!” the voice on the radio hissed.
“Follow them,” the Afghan said. “See where they go. We have much to do.”
A motorcycle on the street below coughed to life, followed by another. They both rolled out of the alley farther down the street and rode into the cloud of dust after the taillights of Ysabel Kashani’s van.
38
“What?” Ding Chavez lowered his reading glasses when Jack walked into Clark’s hotel room. “You look like you took a snap kick to the walnuts.”
Ryan made his way to the couch to flop down, only to pop up again and grab a bottle of water from the minibar.
The Russians had gone, so the room at the EME Catedral now served as the command post, allo
wing team members to meet and plan while slowing their op-tempo and rotating surveillance on da Rocha. At present, Adara was taking a nap, while Caruso and Midas were in the lobby of the Alfonso XIII. They’d sing out if da Rocha or Fournier left the hotel.
“Seriously, kid,” Clark asked. “Are you getting sick?”
Ryan exhaled quickly and then took a long drink of water, wiping his mouth with his forearm before blurting, “Ysabel Kashani.”
His eyes had a thousand-yard stare, as if looking through the wall instead of at it, fixed on nothing.
Clark shot a glance at Ding, then back at Ryan. “What about her?”
“She’s in trouble, John.”
“In London?”
Ryan shook his head. “Her Facebook profile shows her in London with a husband and baby, but she’s too smart to post photos of her family online. That was all cover. She’s in Afghanistan, and she’s in trouble.”
* * *
—
“Damn,” Chavez said when Ryan finished recounting Kashani’s phone call. “You believe her?”
“Of course I believe her,” Jack said, incredulous. “She knows what we do. Hell, she saved my life.”
“‘Believe’ was the wrong choice of word, ’mano,” Chavez said. “What I meant was, is she sure this guy is a Russian spook?”
“If anyone would know, it would be her,” Jack said. “She was writing opinion papers on Russia for the university when we were . . . when I met her.”
Clark rubbed his chin in thought. “If this Russian wants to turn, he should just go to the embassy in Kabul. The Agency has plenty of competent case officers there who can deal with him.”
“It sounds like he has some trust issues,” Ryan said. “He trusts her and she trusts me. She’s hoping I’ll handle it personally.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Chavez said. “That’s too classic. We don’t let oppo choose who their handler is going to be. Besides, CIA would get more than a little pissy if we jump into the middle of their bailiwick.”
“We’re already in the middle of it, Ding,” Ryan said, pleading his case. “She called me.”
Chavez scoffed, mimicking the tone of an answering machine. “Beep. If this call is in reference to a defection, please hang up and dial 1-800-CIA or go to your nearest U.S. embassy.”
Ryan waved him off and turned to Clark. “John, this Russian has been inside Iran for months. He could be a treasure trove of information. You know as well as I do how hard it is to work assets in that country.”
Clark looked at Ding. “Can you give us a minute?”
Chavez shrugged, staring for a long moment at Ryan. “I’ll go check on the others while you talk some sense into numbnuts.”
“I should have known better when I first saw her Facebook page,” Jack said, as soon as Chavez was gone and the door shut.
“So,” Clark said. “She’s not married?”
Several months before, Jack had taken a peek at Ysabel’s Facebook page to find a photo of her with a man and a baby, looking happily married and living in London. He now kicked himself for taking anything on social media at face value.
“No husband,” he said, “and no baby. She couldn’t talk about it much on the phone, but it makes sense. Hell, everyone I know in this business has a fake profile on social media. I was using one when I looked at hers. Listen—”
“No,” Clark said. “Do yourself a favor and you listen before you run off half cocked. I know you feel like you owe this girl for putting her in harm’s way.”
“They beat the hell out of her, John. Broke her neck trying to get to me. She healed, but that’s a little more than ‘harm’s way,’ don’t you think?”
“My point,” Clark said, his voice even, “is that you feel responsible for things that were out of your control. The government of Iran has done some serious backsliding in the freedom department since you were over there last. The mullahs are clinging to power tighter than ever, fighting for the very existence of their regime with everything they’ve got. No one knows who’s aligned with who anymore. It’s not much of a leap to make the case that someone who felt he owed Kashani, who’d been her lover, no less, might be blind to the possibility of a trap.”
Jack was silent for nearly a full minute, studying his feet. The tension of the moment caused him to breathe as if he’d just sprinted up a flight of stairs. At length, he looked up, jaw set with a realization he didn’t like. “I can’t argue with you.”
“Good,” Clark said. “Because if you had, I wouldn’t have let you go.”
Jack’s mouth fell open. “You’re going to authorize it?”
“Jack,” Clark said and sighed. “The mere fact that you came in here and informed me of the call before you just hopped on a plane is light-years ahead of where you were when you and Ysabel were together. I don’t like splitting the team, but for all we know, da Rocha could sit here in Seville for another month. You said yourself, this Russian could have a shitload of intel.”
“So you don’t think it’s a trap?”
“You’re positive it was Ysabel on the phone?”
“I thought of that,” Jack said. “She knew things only Ysabel would know.” He closed his eyes. “Personal things.”
“Okay, then,” Clark said. “I’ve met Ysabel Kashani. Pretty sure she’d die before she knowingly lured you into a trap. But notice how I said knowingly there. Just because she’s clean doesn’t mean the Russian is. I’ll need to run my idea by Gerry and let the DNI know through channels to make sure we deconflict with anything they’ve got going on, but they’ll agree with my assessment.”
“Which is?”
“That you should take your ass to Herat. The thing is, Ysabel might even be a better source than the Russian. She seemed like a smart girl to me. If she’s calling you, then she’s doing it for a reason.”
“You won’t regret this, John,” Ryan said.
“Oh,” Clark said, “I’m pretty sure I will. You probably will, too. I’ve learned a couple of things over the course of my time in government service. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, and anything more sophisticated than a can opener is liable to break when you need it most. Simple things like this hardly ever work out like expected. Anyway, this won’t be some Herat holiday, so I’m not sending you over there alone. Ysabel knows Caruso, so he won’t spook her. He’ll be your backup. I want you traveling under your alias diplo passport. Too many people in Afghanistan are familiar with your family. Now go pack. It’s about time you had a little change of scenery—if only to take your mind off Lisanne.”
“Lisanne?” Jack said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Knock it off,” Clark said. “I’m an old spy. I get paid to notice the subtle things. Now go on. I have some calls to make. You’ll probably have to fly through Dubai out of Madrid, so see what flights you can find. If you’re going, I want you out of here fast. Go tell Sherman to push Dom off his post so he can come see me.”
“Crap,” Ryan said. “This already isn’t working out like I thought. Waking up Adara scares me more than going to Afghanistan.”
* * *
—
Jack wasn’t privy to the calls among Clark, Gerry Hendley, and Mary Pat Foley. All he knew was that Clark gave him the thumbs-up to travel. Foley liked to keep as much separation from her office and The Campus as possible, but sometimes they had to talk in order to prevent the team from running headlong into an operation that they knew nothing about. Deconfliction was, after all, one of the main purposes of the ODNI.
Caruso and Ryan made the one-hour Iberia flight from Seville to Madrid, then had a few hours to stock up on snacks before they boarded an Emirates flight to Dubai. They traveled under black diplomatic passports, obviating the need for visas in most countries. Caruso used his own name, but for obvious reasons, Ryan went by an alias. It was standard proced
ure to pick a legend with the same first name, adding a layer of safety if someone recognized you and called out. Given Ryan’s family connections, he decided to go a different route, choosing the name Joseph “Joe” Peterson. “Jack” was just too obvious.
Their connection in Dubai would give the two operatives enough time to navigate the airport and eat something that wasn’t warmed up on an airplane microwave. Emirates was a pretty cushy airline, but the Hendley G5 had spoiled them. Commercial travel also put a crimp in their normal loadout of gear. Both men traveled with only a small backpack that they carried on. No weapons, no gear other than their clothing, some emergency food bars, and a satellite phone. Both wore good boots and light jackets. The desert could get chilly at night—and the jackets doubled as extra pillows in their cheap seats.
Ryan had never been on an Emirates aircraft that didn’t have a new-car smell to it. The planes were plush, well appointed, and dripping with customer service. Unfortunately, the cavernous A380 was almost full. Jack and Dom had to settle for two economy seats in the rear, jammed against a bulkhead so they didn’t recline all the way.
“Sorry about this,” Jack said as Dom slid across and situated himself next to the window.
“No worries.” The lines around his eyes said he was none too thrilled. “You know me, cousin. I’m always game to help you save the girl.”
Jack chuckled at that, picturing the fire in Ysabel’s eyes. “Yeah, well, this girl’s kind of a badass.”
Caruso yawned. “Even a badass needs to be rescued once in a while.” He rolled his jacket and shoved it between his head and the window, eyelids already drooping. “Adara and I have an agreement. Sometimes I save her, sometimes she saves me.”
39
Ding Chavez had the eyeball. He was having a hard time figuring out if da Rocha and his creepy killer girlfriend were inexperienced or if they just believed they were invincible. Da Rocha kept checking his watch, which was weird, but not overly so. Whatever the deal was, neither of them seemed to be looking for a tail. They’d come out of the hotel a little over a half-hour before, dressed for a casual evening. Fournier wore a loose light jacket over a dark T-shirt, perfect for hiding whatever kind of pistol she’d have under there. Da Rocha, wearing slacks and a long-sleeve paisley dress shirt, carried a leather messenger bag slung diagonally across his body.