Oath of Office

“It would be better for you if you left us alone,” the younger Russian said, flicking his hand. He had a ridiculous bowl cut and an ill-fitting suit that made him look like a runaway child who had climbed out the window of his nursery.

Dealing with Russians was tricky business — especially the brutish ones — and what Russian did not have a little brute in his DNA? These two cretins would certainly have a difficult time with subtlety, so da Rocha decided to get straight to the yolk of the egg.

“Hugo Gaspard is dead.”

The Russians looked at each other. Bowl Cut’s tongue darted out, tasting the air.

“Who is this Gaspard to us?”

Da Rocha shrugged, ignoring the sidestep. “I am here to take his place. With, I might add, much better terms than anything Gaspard could have provided… God rest his soulless black heart. I can provide you with all the hardware he could, plus—”

Long Lip gave a curt nod and then dropped a wad of cash on the table for their unfinished meal. “If you will not leave, then we will.”

Da Rocha suddenly brightened. “I have military contacts who can vouch for my bona fides, if that makes a difference.”

Long Lip pushed away from the table. “Mr. da Rocha,” he said. “We will be in touch if we are interested. Any attempt by you to make contact with us would be a grave error on your part.”

“Very well,” da Rocha said and sighed. “I had hoped you might be more reasonable.”

“I mean what I say,” Long Lip said. “Do not contact us again.”

Da Rocha picked up a breadstick from the table and dipped it in the nearest bowl of half-eaten pasta. “Oh.” He chuckled, speaking around a mouthful of food. “Make no mistake. The next time we meet, you will beg to hear about my terms.”

* * *

Da Rocha gave the Russians a moment to leave, not wanting to press them too much for the time being. He’d had nothing to eat, but left twenty euros on the table anyway, buying a little goodwill from the waiter who’d watched him sit down with the Russians.

He had to force himself not to hum as he made his way inside and then quickly down the stairs to street level. A silver Porsche 911 R drove down from Encarnação, directly past the Guarda Nacional depot, and pulled to a stop along the curb. He opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, leaning across to kiss the blond woman behind the wheel. She wore large sunglasses and a sheer white wrap over a two-piece swimsuit. A brunette wig lay draped across the console between them.

Lucile Fournier shifted into second gear, keeping the roaring 4.0-liter engine caged as she drove north through town on 124–1. “The Russians did not accept your proposal?”

“They did not,” da Rocha said. “But I am not really surprised. They do not know us. It is only a matter of time. Soon I will be the only one left who has the connections they need.”

“If I do my job,” she said.

“Precisely.” Da Rocha stuffed the wig behind his seat. “Speaking of that, it went well, my darling?”

“Easy,” she said, pretending to spit. “Hugo Gaspard was a very nasty man.”

Da Rocha raised a brow. He reached across the Porsche’s black leather interior to caress the back of her neck. “And if they are not all such nasty men? Will it be so easy then?”

“It will, my love.” She shrugged, shifting into fourth when she reached the edge of town. The 911’s engine growled. “I am a very nasty woman.”

“Indeed you are,” da Rocha said, his hand dropping to her bare knee. “In so many wonderful ways.”

Lucile gave the top of her head an absentminded scratch, the itch no doubt brought on by covering her blond locks with the mesh of the brunette wig. “What do you think it is?”

“What what is?” Da Rocha thrummed his fingers on her thigh.

“Arrête!” She pushed his hand away. “None of that until you concentrate. I am talking about the job, this thing the Russians want.”

“I honestly do not know,” da Rocha said. “It is enough that Hugo Gaspard believed it would set him up for life. The Russians must be trying to move something that will bring an incredible amount of profit.”

* * *

Killing Colonel Mikhailov had not been easy, but even that was preferable to this interminable waiting. Cherenko was a pilot, and a damned good one. He was meant to be in the air, not lying on a bunk in Oman under a clattering swamp cooler. Babysitting was not the work of a pilot. He could have gone swimming, but these people probably flushed their toilets into the sea. He’d never been fond of the ocean, preferring air currents to even the bluest of water. And this water was brown, a dusky, foamy mess like wet concrete that made it impossible to tell from a distance where the sand ended and the sea began. When the wind blew hard, it picked up enough sand that air and earth and water all seemed to combine into a single ugly element. In an airplane, he could have gotten above such nastiness.