Oath of Office

A hundred meters down the street from the yellow building that served as the UNODC office, a Pashtun man lay on the rooftop of a nondescript mud building, rendered almost invisible by the blowing dust. He wore the loose shalwar kameez. A flat pakol hat was pulled down over his brow, held in place with a gray headscarf against the wind. He had no idea exactly how old he was, but he guessed it was somewhere around fifty. Dark, wind-battered features made him appear well over sixty, but with the muscle and stamina of a man who walked for miles back and forth across the border with Iran, accustomed to much discomfort and heavy lifting. A pair of Soviet-era binoculars pressed against his eyes. He’d not yet made the pilgrimage to Mecca and could not claim the wisdom of the gray so his scabby beard was dyed orange red. He was, however, wise enough to know that this new man visiting the Iranian bitch carried himself like a Russian. Years of infidel occupation laid bare the subtle differences in the way Russians and Americans carried themselves. Russians acted as if they owned the world. The Americans simply owned it.

He watched the Iranian woman’s bodyguard come out and retrieve the old van and drive it up in front of the building, obscuring the view of the door.

The small radio with a whip antenna crackled at the Afghan’s elbow.

“Shall we take them now?”

“Hold,” the Afghan said. He hadn’t survived these decades as a smuggler by rushing into things. They’d come to take the woman, but the Russian added a new dimension. An alternative plan began to form in his mind. It would be lucrative but would take some time to set up. This Russian had somehow bested the two men he’d sent inside to take the woman. He could not be underestimated.

The Iranian woman was a thorn in everybody’s shoe. She stirred up trouble with opium producers, made the other women believe they deserved more than they were already given, and walked around a good deal of the time with her hijab cocked to expose half of her head. She was not just a whore but a meddlesome whore. The Afghan would make double the profit, earning from one side to get rid of her and the others who bought her for their pleasure — or to sell again. His tongue flicked out over dusty lips, thinking of all the money.

The woman and the Russian came out next and the van pulled away.

“They are leaving!” the voice on the radio hissed.

“Follow them,” the Afghan said. “See where they go. We have much to do.”

A motorcycle on the street below coughed to life, followed by another. They both rolled out of the alley farther down the street and rode into the cloud of dust after the taillights of Ysabel Kashani’s van.

38

“What?” Ding Chavez lowered his reading glasses when Jack walked into Clark’s hotel room. “You look like you took a snap kick to the walnuts.”

Ryan made his way to the couch to flop down, only to pop up again and grab a bottle of water from the minibar.

The Russians had gone, so the room at the EME Catedral now served as the command post, allowing team members to meet and plan while slowing their op-tempo and rotating surveillance on da Rocha. At present, Adara was taking a nap, while Caruso and Midas were in the lobby of the Alfonso XIII. They’d sing out if da Rocha or Fournier left the hotel.

“Seriously, kid,” Clark asked. “Are you getting sick?”

Ryan exhaled quickly and then took a long drink of water, wiping his mouth with his forearm before blurting, “Ysabel Kashani.”

His eyes had a thousand-yard stare, as if looking through the wall instead of at it, fixed on nothing.

Clark shot a glance at Ding, then back at Ryan. “What about her?”

“She’s in trouble, John.”

“In London?”

Ryan shook his head. “Her Facebook profile shows her in London with a husband and baby, but she’s too smart to post photos of her family online. That was all cover. She’s in Afghanistan, and she’s in trouble.”

* * *

“Damn,” Chavez said when Ryan finished recounting Kashani’s phone call. “You believe her?”

“Of course I believe her,” Jack said, incredulous. “She knows what we do. Hell, she saved my life.”

“‘Believe’ was the wrong choice of word, ’mano,” Chavez said. “What I meant was, is she sure this guy is a Russian spook?”

“If anyone would know, it would be her,” Jack said. “She was writing opinion papers on Russia for the university when we were… when I met her.”

Clark rubbed his chin in thought. “If this Russian wants to turn, he should just go to the embassy in Kabul. The Agency has plenty of competent case officers there who can deal with him.”

“It sounds like he has some trust issues,” Ryan said. “He trusts her and she trusts me. She’s hoping I’ll handle it personally.”

“Oh, hell, no,” Chavez said. “That’s too classic. We don’t let oppo choose who their handler is going to be. Besides, CIA would get more than a little pissy if we jump into the middle of their bailiwick.”

“We’re already in the middle of it, Ding,” Ryan said, pleading his case. “She called me.”