Oath of Office

It was often difficult to find enough food or medicine in Afghanistan, but years of war had made weapons another story. Dovzhenko had no doubt he’d be able to find a gun. Maybe even from the Taliban. Guerilla fighters generally preferred rifles, but they would have everything, from ancient Chinese grenades to Claymore mines if the price was right. And there would be some pistols — maybe an American Beretta, but even an old Tokarev would do.

Dovzhenko closed his eyes. He was too exhausted to think clearly, but in too much emotional agony to sleep. He sniffed away tears and steeled himself by thumbing through the notebook. His throat tightened, until he could hardly breathe, at the sight of Maryam’s precise handwriting — like an architect’s or perhaps a teacher’s. He traced Ysabel Kashani’s mobile number with the tip of his finger. A note written directly below it in flowing Persian said something like secondary contact. Her mother? Dovzhenko slammed the little book closed and bounced it nervously on his knee. Ysabel would not be difficult to find. Sassani would simply identify her family and then go ask them where she was on some false pretense. He could say he needed to talk to her about anything. She was not hiding. She had done nothing wrong, so she had nothing to fear. One of Sassani’s female troops would do it, so as not to arouse suspicion, saying she was an old friend.

The overhead speaker clicked, then crackled with a barely understandable call from the gate agent for early boarding. If he was going to warn Kashani’s secondary contact, it would have to be soon. Lost in thought, he nearly dropped the phone when it began to buzz in his hand.

It was Sassani.

Dovzhenko snapped a greeting, wanting to appear normal. “It is late.”

“It is indeed,” the IRGC thug said. “A busy night for us both, no?”

“True enough,” Dovzhenko said. He looked up and down the concourse, suddenly feeling a thousand eyes crawling over him. He glanced down at his chest, half expecting to see the dot of a red laser from a weapon sight.

“Where are you?” Sassani asked. “I had hoped to get your assistance with something.”

This was a first.

There was a better-than-average chance Sassani was standing in his apartment right then, so Dovzhenko went with a less verifiable lie.

“I went for a drive.”

Across the concourse, the gate agent lifted the mic to his lips to make another boarding call. Dovzhenko lowered the phone and hit the mute button an instant before the speaker boomed.

“Too bad,” Sassani said, still unaware. “I am on my way to the dead whore’s autopsy. This would seem a good opportunity for me to gain from your scientific experience.”

Maryam’s autopsy. The concourse closed in around him. Dovzhenko found it impossible to speak.

“Are you still there?” Sassani asked.

Dovzhenko took the phone off mute.

“I am sorry.” He summoned his last ounce of concentration in order to conceal his feelings. “The mobile signal cut out. An opportunity for what?”

“Your knowledge and experience,” Sassani said flippantly. “But we are fine without you. I only thought to extend the invitation. In case you are interested. The hospital is off Valiasr Street in the event you decide to change your mind. I find autopsies to be extremely revealing.”

“I am exhausted,” Dovzhenko managed to say.

“Next time, then,” Sassani said. “Sleep well, Comrade Erik.”

Dovzhenko ended the call. The IRGC didn’t need him talking to track his phone, but it would certainly make things easier.

Dovzhenko punched in the number for Ysabel Kashani’s emergency contact as he slogged toward the gate, wondering if Sassani would have the authority to turn a plane around once it was in the air.

A female voice answered on the third ring.

“Balay,” she answered, mumbling, woken from a sound sleep.

Dovzhenko spoke passable Farsi, but his Russian accent was evident, making it sound especially gruff.

“Ysabel Kashani?”

The voice softened. “Ysabel is not here.”

“Where is she?” Dovzhenko demanded, hoping to incense the woman at this late hour with his forceful tone. “I must speak with her at once.”

The woman whispered a few frantic words to someone beside her now, hoarse, strained, just as Dovzhenko had hoped. “He wants to talk to Ysabel.”

A male voice came on the line. “What is the meaning of this? Who are you, calling my home at this hour?”

“Who I am is none of your concern,” Dovzhenko said. “Where is Ysabel?”

The man hung up. With any luck, the call had spooked him enough to keep his mouth shut about the whereabouts of his daughter or niece or whatever Ysabel Kashani was to him — at least until Dovzhenko could get to her and warn her.

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