Oath of Office

“This man.” Dovzhenko turned the screen so she could look at the photograph. “Have you seen him before?”

She shrugged. “Kazem? I have. Several times.”

“Not Kazem,” Dovzhenko said. “The other one. The one standing behind Javad.”

She shook her head. “Erik, you scare me…”

“This man is Vitaly Alov, a general officer of the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel’noye Upravleniye, the GRU, Russia’s Main Intelligence Directorate.”

“You Russians are everywhere,” she said. “I did not pay any attention to him when I took the photo.”

“May I get a copy of this?”

“Of course,” Maryam said. “But that does not seem wise. Will that not leave a digital trail, linking you to my account?”

He turned to smile at her. “Very good,” he said. “I do not plan to send it to myself directly. I will post it on a dummy auction account on eBay, untraceable to me or anyone connected to me. I will be able to access it without downloading it and leaving any tracks.”

“That sounds much more spylike,” Maryam said. She sat up beside him now, leaning in so her arms intertwined around his elbow, lips buzzing against his shoulder. “Is this General Alov your boss?”

He shook his head, working Maryam’s phone to post the photograph of Alov and Kazem. “No. I am SVR. The GRU is a different entity altogether.” He tapped the phone against his palm. “I cannot understand why a Russian officer would meet with the leader of your protest movement. Officially, my government backs the—”

On the table beside the bed, Dovzhenko’s radio suddenly crackled with static, causing both of them to jump with a start. Parviz Sassani’s toxic voice spilled over the airwaves.

Dovzhenko had a passable understanding of Farsi, but Maryam translated anyway.

“…Units three and four, come in from the north on Prioozan. We will approach from the south, blocking any escape… Third floor, number…”

She looked up at Dovzhenko and they both mouthed the same words.

“They are coming here.”

22

“She’s fifteen yards out,” Clark said into the radio. “Blond hair, shorter than Adara’s. White knee-length shorts, black T-shirt. She’s getting plenty of attention.”

“She’s wearing sandals,” Jack noted. “Looks like she’s not planning to run.”

“Okay,” Clark said, lips just inches from his beer. Passersby would think he was talking to Ryan. “I have da Rocha now. He’s coming in from the other direction. No weapons that I can see so far. Ding, Midas, start to drift his way in case they split up when we go inside the plaza. I’d like to keep eyes on da Rocha. Adara, Dom, you two ease this way but hang behind a little. I haven’t seen any Russian countersurveillance yet, but they’re out there. I’m sure of it.”

Jack tapped the table to get Clark’s attention. “Fournier’s carrying something.”

* * *

“My friends,” da Rocha said, striding purposefully up to the seated Russians. He kept his hands in the open so as not to alarm anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. “What a small world it is, meeting you twice in one week.”

Both Russians pushed away from the table and stood, as did the Spaniard.

Da Rocha’s mouth fell open in mock astonishment. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is this Don Felipe Montes?” He took a half-step toward the street, forcing the Spaniard to turn into the sun to look at him.

Montes gave the Russians a wary glance. “This man is a friend of yours?”

“A mere acquaintance,” da Rocha said, still driving the conversation. “And a hopeful business partner, to be sure.” He turned to glance at Lucile, who’d stopped a few steps behind the Spaniard. “In any case. I will not bother you any longer. I am only here by chance. It seems as though my taxi dropped me off in the wrong location. Is the bull arena somewhere nearby?”

The Spaniard stifled a grin and pointed west. “You are standing in its very shadow, señor.”

Da Rocha looked across the street and scratched his head. “I expected it to be larger,” he said. “Are you certain? Where would one go inside?”

Montes rolled his eyes at the Russians, who had yet to say a single word, and then stepped sideways, away from the Russians. He took da Rocha by the shoulder and pointed down a narrow cobblestone pedestrian alley that ran adjacent to the Plaza de Toros.

“Down there?” da Rocha said.

“Follow the crowd,” Montes said.

Da Rocha stepped away, throwing a glance at the Russians as if to say “Watch this.”

Lucile Fournier walked forward, passing the little crowd by the curb as she touched Don Felipe with her mobile phone.

The Spaniard gave a little jump, like she’d given him a shock. His jaw moved back and forth as a hand shot to his collar, trying to get more air. Da Rocha sprang to help, assisting the man as he stumbled backward to collapse into his chair. He remained upright, eyes open, arms trailing down beside him. Those seated at nearby tables might have thought the poor man was just winded, or perhaps overcome by the brightness of the sun.