Oath of Office

Ryan talked to Yazdani for a moment, then came back on the line, deliberately avoiding the use of the engineer’s cryptonym, SD/FLINT, in front of him. “Our guy here says he can slow the backup system from coming online for a half-hour or so, basically by turning off the alarms that would alert staff when the radar goes down.”

“We’ll need to coordinate,” Clark said. “I’ll make a call, get marching orders regarding the malware, and specifics on your man’s exfil and the medical requirements you’ve already briefed me on. Check with me in half an hour.”

“In the meantime,” Biery said, “get a pen and I’ll give you the directions on how to execute the worm.”

* * *

The morning national security briefing was just drawing to a close when John Clark’s call was pushed through to Mary Pat Foley — though no meeting on national security ever actually finished — and the secretaries of state and defense, as well as the director of national security, the deputy national security adviser, and the chief of staff, were in their customary spots in the Oval.

“I’m not crazy about a military incursion into Iran,” Scott Adler said.

Burgess harrumphed. “I say it’s long overdue. I’ll need to get my people working on rescue contingencies in the unlikely event one of our planes gets shot down.”

“That’s the least of our worries,” Foley said, looking directly at Ryan.

“I agree,” the President said. “Let’s look at what we know. Russia sold or gifted at least two nuclear missiles to elements in Iran that appear to be linked to Reza Kazem and his so-called Persian Spring movement. We know Kazem had a meeting with our spy and erstwhile assassin Elizaveta Bobkova, and then later with General Alov of the GRU.”

“Good catch on her, by the way,” van Damm said. “Chadwick’s death would have been bad.”

“Especially for Chadwick,” Foley offered.

“There’s that,” van Damm said. “But it would have been bad for the country. The tyrant dies, his rule has ended. The martyr dies, her rule begins.”

Ryan took a drink of his coffee. “Taking liberties with your Kierkegaard, are you?”

“Maybe I am,” van Damm said. “It’s true.” He looked down at his notes, ready to move on. “Why would Kazem want a nuke?”

“Maybe his hands aren’t quite as clean as he makes them out to be,” Ryan said. “It never made sense that Russia was sitting down at the table with him. It’s in their best interest to prop up the mullahs.”

“So Russia and the Ayatollah use Kazem as a proxy to strike at us and still remain blameless,” Foley said. “There’s a certain ham-fisted elegance to it that reeks of both regimes.”

“That’s my guess,” Ryan said.

“That still doesn’t give us a target,” Burgess said.

“No,” Ryan said. “It does not.”

“I’m not a rocket scientist,” Adler said, “but do you think this FLINT might be mistaken in his assessment on the trajectory?”

“That’s possible,” Ryan said.

Burgess spoke next. “There’s a high degree of probability that our Patriots could shoot down both Gorgons when they enter terminal phase, but the likelihood goes up exponentially if we know what the target is and can plan in advance. I suggest we have an expert talk to FLINT, Mr. President, someone who knows the specific questions that need to be asked.”

“That’s wise,” Ryan said, his subconscious mind working in the background on something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“I wonder,” Mary Pat said, tapping a fountain pen on her notepad. “Both China and Russia have been working on antisatellite lasers since my days in Moscow. We know China has the tech to shoot down a satellite. Russia has been testing its Nudol missile for that very purpose. It’s possible one of them shared what they know with Tehran.”

That’s it, Ryan thought. That’s what his subconscious had been stewing over.

* * *

Dovzhenko and Jack moved Sassani’s body along with the other dead IRGC officer into the bathroom so they wouldn’t be in full view if someone happened to stop in on Yazdani. For a time, Jack worried that the engineer might be distressed at having to look at the man he’d killed, but that didn’t appear to be the problem. Yazdani was a man past distress, beyond tears, numbed by death and illness.

Ryan had had little more than a couple of hours of sleep in the past forty-eight. At least two of his ribs were probably cracked. One of his molars was chipped and each beat of his pulse sent a wave of molten fire through his torn ear. His body desperately needed to rest and heal. But his mind hated these in-between moments. It gave him too much time to think. Like a fool, he’d built up a different end to this story when Ysabel had called.

“So,” he pressed Yazdani, “tell me again about this firing solution.”

“For the third time,” the engineer said, “neither missile is aimed at anything on earth. I suppose it is possible that they are launching satellites into low earth orbit — but they have not removed the warheads as far as I know.”