Oath of Office

Dovzhenko’s eyes flicked to the mirror again. “Go ahead.”

“You were free and clear,” Jack said. “You could have walked into the embassy in Dubai, or any other country, for that matter. Why come all the way to Afghanistan and then risk your life returning with us to Iran?”

“Guilt,” Dovzhenko said simply. “It is the best compulsion of all, stronger even than revenge.”

Ryan looked at the back of Ysabel’s head and understood exactly what he meant.

* * *

Erik Dovzhenko’s friend lived in a cramped apartment in one of the many poor neighborhoods in Iran’s second-largest city. Shops selling large chunks of skewered lamb, called shishlik, catered to a constant flow of Shia pilgrims who made their way to the Imam Reza shrine a few blocks to the northeast. First the shrine, then the shishlik, the saying went.

Dovzhenko carried a duffel containing the rifles, unwilling to leave them in the truck. Ryan took care of the smaller leather briefcase with the laptop, Thuraya hotspot, and satellite phone. They had no other luggage.

Rickety wooden stairs ran up the rear of the apartment building from the deserted alley. The treads were painted black, but were well worn from constant use. It didn’t take long for Jack to realize this wasn’t just a fire escape. Dovzhenko stopped at the base and looked up at the barred window beside the door.

“Life has not been kind to my friend,” he said. “But she will put on a happy face.”

“I understand,” Ysabel said.

Dovzhenko looked directly at Ysabel. “I hope you will not judge her too harshly,” he said. “I will apologize in advance for her stories.”

Ysabel gave a little shrug. “Is she…?”

“A prostitute?” Dovzhenko nodded. “She was between the proverbial rock and the hard spot. Her husband divorced her and she—”

Ysabel raised her hand. “I am not equipped to judge other women. Especially not in Iran. The same clerics who would stone her to death for what she does are only too happy to be her pimps so long as she keeps the money coming in. I might have made similar choices had I not been born into a wealthy family.”

Jack started to disagree but stopped himself.

A young woman with mussed hair opened the door, alerted by the squeaking stairs before the group reached the wooden landing on the second floor. The corners of her small mouth perked when she saw Dovzhenko, then she stepped aside, motioning them in before they were seen by too many nosy neighbors. Jack guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She’d been asleep, and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. She wore black yoga pants and a bright yellow peasant blouse that revealed her long neck and collarbone. The interior of the room was heavy with the smell of tea and talcum.

“Hello, Nima,” the Russian said.

She kissed Dovzhenko on both cheeks. “You should have told me you were coming. I have nothing to offer you to eat.” She began to putter around the kitchen, putting on the kettle for tea.

“We need a place to rest,” Dovzhenko said. “We won’t be here long.” He introduced Ysabel and Jack, calling him Joe Peterson, then patted his friend on the shoulder, an extremely forward thing to do in Iran. “And this is my good friend Nima. Her family is from Azerbaijan, as is my mother. In truth, she is a distant cousin.”

“Iranians treat Azeris like shit,” Nima said. “We have to look after each other. Erik is half Russian, but I look after him anyway.” She eyed Ysabel suspiciously.

“I love your blouse,” Ysabel said, her sleepy smile breaking the ice immediately.

Nima tugged on Erik’s arm. “Are you here to crack heads for the protests?”

Dovzhenko looked sheepishly at Ysabel and Jack. “I do not crack heads.”

“I am only teasing,” Nima said. “But the head-crackers are there, downtown. That is a fact. And I will be there, too, probably getting my head cracked with everyone else.”

Dovzhenko frowned. “You should be careful. These people are serious. I understand the Ayatollah is coming to preach at Friday prayers this week.”

“The Ayatollah.” Nima spat on the floor. “Did you also hear that some mullahs went to the Ayatollah and told them he could be done with the Great Satan once and for all?”

Dovzhenko rolled his eyes in an unspoken apology.

Nima continued in passable English, as if she were recounting a news story and not a joke. “‘Oh, Most Beneficent One,’ the mullahs said. ‘We have discerned that in order to drive the Great Satan from our lands, you must sleep with a virgin.’ The Ayatollah thought on this for a moment and then, with his brooding frown proclaimed, ‘I see that I must do this thing for the good of all. But I will only do it on three conditions. First, the chosen virgin must be blind, so she cannot see that it is I when she is brought to my bed. Second, she must be deaf, so she cannot recognize my voice. Third, she must have big breasts.’”

Dovzhenko gave an embarrassed smile.