Oath of Office

Sassani gestured with the unlit cigarette. “What of the phone trackers and computer software your government has promised us? Our technology is fine, but yours is much more precise. I should not have to remind you that we are in a time of national crisis.”

“Very soon,” Dovzhenko said. He fished the lighter from his own pocket and opened it with a flick. It was a gift from his maternal grandfather, gold, with the eight-pointed star and flame of the Azerbaijani crest.

A cloud of smoke enveloped Sassani’s face as he puffed the cigarette to life. He held it to the side, considering Dovzhenko for a long moment. “The precision of your technology would be extremely useful in ferreting out the traitors.”

“As I said, very soon.” Dovzhenko nodded to the prisoners. “Surely these three have given you viable information by now.”

Sassani shrugged. “I suppose. But they are weak.” The Iranian wheeled and walked toward the heavy man, who was now strapped to the board, touching the coal of the cigarette to the arch of the man’s bare foot. Sassani stepped away from the thrashing and croaked screams.

Bloody spittle drooled from the corners of the man’s lips, down his cheek, to pool on the filthy concrete floor by his ear. Sassani hovered over him.

“I ask you again,” the IRGC thug said. “Where is Reza Kazem?”

The prisoner groaned. “I do not—”

Sassani pushed the cigarette into the man’s eyelid, bringing more screams and futile attempts to escape the pain.

“Tell! Me! Where!”

The prisoner coughed, wincing.

“I do not—”

Sassani lifted his hand to apply the cigarette again.

“Isfahan!” the prisoner screamed, pulling away, way, attempting to shrink into the concrete. Anything to avoid another injury to his eye. “He is in Isfahan.” He began to sob. “I swear it. Isfahan.”

The smile drained from Sassani’s face when he realized his cigarette had gone out.

A callow guard wearing a green uniform and baseball cap walked in and stood to the left of the door beside the metal lockers, taking in the sights. Unknown to Dovzhenko, this one was young, incapable of growing more than a sprout of facial hair. If the torture room bothered him, he was smart enough to keep that to himself.

Sassani stood and raised a wary brow, as if he’d been caught doing something vile by a younger brother. “What is it?”

The young man braced against the wall. “The court has handed down the sentence,” he said. He offered up a folder, which Sassani snatched away.

He read it over, giving a slow nod of approval. “Public hanging.”

The IRGC thug nearest the boy, Javad, spoke up. “This one has cheated the hangman.” He gave the lifeless body a shove, causing it to swing in a greater arc.

Sassani scoffed. “See,” he said to Dovzhenko. “As I told you. Weak. But he will hang with his fellow traitors, nonetheless, by way of example.”

Sassani took the cigarettes out of his slacks and put a fresh one in his mouth. His venomous smile made Dovzhenko sick to his stomach. “May I trouble you for another light?”

Dovzhenko looked on passively as he lit the Iranian’s cigarette. There was something at play here. Something Dovzhenko could not quite put his finger on.

Reza Kazem was a troublemaker to be sure, the face of the tens of thousands of students and other dissatisfied Iranians who took to the streets in greater number every day across the entire country. It was natural for Sassani to want to know his whereabouts — but he wasn’t hard to find.

9

President Jack Ryan’s eyes flicked open at 5:27 a.m., just before his customary alarm. He was exhausted, and could have used the extra two minutes and forty-one seconds of sleep, but Cathy was home. Beside him. Right now. Awake. Conflicting schedules and high-profile jobs made grabbing a few moments together all but impossible. Times like this could not be taken for granted. He fluffed his pillow — they had great pillows at the White House — and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand when he turned off the alarm, before rolling over to face his wife of nearly forty years. She needed glasses as badly as he did, but had yet to put hers on, which was good because it tempered her view of his aging face and bleary-eyed bedhead. Nestling in closer, he caught the scent of mouthwash and Dioressence perfume. Supremely good signs indeed.

Egyptian cotton sheet pulled up to her chin, blond hair fanned across her pillow, Cathy Ryan fluttered long lashes. She began to sing as soon as Jack turned over, in a voice somewhere between Betty Boop and Marilyn Monroe.

“…Happy Birthday, Mr. President…”

Ryan chuckled, kissing her on the nose when she finished the song. “You know it’s not my birthday, right?”