Oath of Office

They carried long knives and assorted versions of the venerable Russian Kalashnikov, some with folding stocks, some with blond wooden furniture, others with a plastic that reflected distorted images of their nervous faces. Guns were not easy to come by, and target practice drew unwanted attention even out of town. Their kit, it seemed, had been cobbled together by someone who looked at a magazine photograph of the gear an insurgent should have. A few of the items, like the coil of para cord dangling from one’s belt, were generally superfluous. Others, like the three metal carabiners clipped to Raheem’s load-bearing vest, looked ridiculous and posed a real danger to the mission. Still, Kazem left the men to their own devices when it came to gear. The blood of a revolutionary coursed through the veins of every Iranian — even, or especially, those who had grown tired of life since the last one.

Kazem had wanted bad weather. Officials tended not to bother with too much of anything that required them to get out of their vehicles in this kind of rain. The storage facility outside Tehran was a plum assignment, absent the frequent skirmishes farther south in Baluchistan. The hiss of rain and skittering rockslides dampened any noise of approach, but even now, the sound of laughter spilled from the tin guard shack inside the gate.

“This makes no sense,” Raheem said from Kazem’s left. The mosquitolike whine in his voice made it difficult to be sure if his cheeks were wet with rain or tears. “I only count four guards.”

“Do you wish there were more, brother?” Kazem asked, locking eyes with the other man.

“No… I…” Raheem looked away as if to shake off a trance. “Something is not right. Our information said there would be at least eight on duty and as many as ten.”

“Thanks be to Allah that there are so few, then,” Kazem said. “It makes our job all the easier.”

Kazem looked at the other men, all fresh and eager, but, more important, they had to fall under his spell. Raheem, who always grew nervous before a rally or event, had shown a strong heart in the past. Too much independence was problematic.

The likelihood of success was directly tied to the plan’s brazenness — and to the fact that Kazem had more than a little help from the inside.

“Do you think the fence is electrified?” Raheem asked.

The man to his right scoffed. His lips were only a few centimeters above the water and he came close to blowing bubbles when he spoke. Basir was older than the others, with six years in the Army. He was the only one of the group, including Kazem, who had military experience. Incredibly strong, he had powerful forearms and a thick neck from hours of pahlevani, an ancient Persian sport that was a mixture of grappling, weightlifting, and dance. “Why would they bother electrifying the fence?” he said. “There is nothing here to steal except trucks and uniforms.”

“And yet here we are to steal the uniforms,” Raheem muttered. He moved his rifle aside and reached to wipe the rain out of his face, oblivious to the fact that his weapon was now submerged in muddy water.

Kazem and Basir exchanged glances. This man should go in first.

Kazem said, “Few people would want to take a uniform that would get them thrown in Evin.”

“And yet we do,” Raheem said. “So others might as well. Which is why they might have electrified the fence. Perhaps others have thought of how easy it would be to approach a storage facility of this type. Perhaps they have gun emplacements hidden along the perimeter.”

“Or perhaps they have dragons, brother.” Kazem chuckled, patience washing away with the rain. He put a night-vision monocular to his eye and played it up and down the fence line. Dozens of vehicles of all shapes and sizes, some white, most green or desert tan, were lined up in neat rows under camouflage tarpaulins rigged between metal scaffolding so as to make them less visible to passing surveillance satellites.

Raheem’s whisper became frantic, and the water around him buzzed from his trembling. “I am merely saying we should take our time. The soldiers will eventually see us.”

“And so they shall,” Kazem said. “But we must be bold, decisive in our movements. Even now, our brothers pay dearly in the basements of Evin Prison. Do not forget that.”

This brought solemn nods and whispered prayers from the sodden men.

“Very well,” Kazem said, making one final sweep with the night-vision device. “It is time—”

He paused, focusing on two sentries trudging along the inside of the fence beyond the warehouse. Their heads were bowed against the rain, the glow of a cigarette visible under each man’s hood. “It seems as though you were correct, Raheem,” Kazem said, passing the monocular to the left. “They do have enough sense to deploy sentries.”

Raheem’s vindicated smile bled from his face at Kazem’s next remark.