Oath of Office

“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 idea 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.”

* * *

“It’s a difficult call,” Ryan concluded. “I get that. We all do. And there will be danger involved. But there’s no way this turns out any way but bad without your help.”

Ryan wasn’t a counterintelligence officer. He knew the basics — from books Clark had assigned him — but the act of turning someone to act as an agent for the United States was two parts art and one part science. It took time, time they did not have. This pitch had come off more heavy-handed than he’d intended, but that couldn’t be helped. He had to be bald about what they needed and hope Ysabel could pull cleanup, appealing to Yazdani’s sense of right and wrong, convincing… reminding him that he was helping the Iranian people, rather than betraying them.

Yazdani’s head suddenly snapped up as he looked at the door.

“What is it?” Dovzhenko asked.

“There is a loose board in the hallway,” the engineer said. “That is how I heard you coming before you knocked.”

Ryan got to his feet. “Are you expecting company?”

The engineer shook his head. “You are the first visitors I have had in weeks. Did you leave someone outside to keep watch?”

Dovzhenko pulled the engineer to the side at the same moment the door crashed inward, kicked open by a heavy boot.

There had been no handguns to liberate from the Taliban and they’d left the rifles in the car, leaving them unarmed.

“Hello, Comrade Erik,” a sneering Iranian man said, his own gun in both hands, pointed at Dovzhenko.

“Sassani!” the Russian spat.

A second man came through the door, a suppressed pistol raised, ready to fire.

The first man started to say something else, but Ysabel flew at him in a rage, batting his pistol aside, screaming, clawing at his face.