A cloud of smoke enveloped Sassani’s face as he puffed the cigarette to life. He held it to the side, considering Dovzhenko for a long moment. “The precision of your technology would be extremely useful in ferreting out the traitors.”
“As I said, very soon.” Dovzhenko nodded to the prisoners. “Surely these three have given you viable information by now.”
Sassani shrugged. “I suppose. But they are weak.” The Iranian wheeled and walked toward the heavy man, who was now strapped to the board, touching the coal of the cigarette to the arch of the man’s bare foot. Sassani stepped away from the thrashing and croaked screams.
Bloody spittle drooled from the corners of the man’s lips, down his cheek, to pool on the filthy concrete floor by his ear. Sassani hovered over him.
“I ask you again,” the IRGC thug said. “Where is Reza Kazem?”
The prisoner groaned. “I do not—”
Sassani pushed the cigarette into the man’s eyelid, bringing more screams and futile attempts to escape the pain.
“Tell! Me! Where!”
The prisoner coughed, wincing.
“I do not—”
Sassani lifted his hand to apply the cigarette again.
“Isfahan!” the prisoner screamed, pulling away, way, attempting to shrink into the concrete. Anything to avoid another injury to his eye. “He is in Isfahan.” He began to sob. “I swear it. Isfahan.”
The smile drained from Sassani’s face when he realized his cigarette had gone out.
A callow guard wearing a green uniform and baseball cap walked in and stood to the left of the door beside the metal lockers, taking in the sights. Unknown to Dovzhenko, this one was young, incapable of growing more than a sprout of facial hair. If the torture room bothered him, he was smart enough to keep that to himself.
Sassani stood and raised a wary brow, as if he’d been caught doing something vile by a younger brother. “What is it?”
The young man braced against the wall. “The court has handed down the sentence,” he said. He offered up a folder, which Sassani snatched away.
He read it over, giving a slow nod of approval. “Public hanging.”
The IRGC thug nearest the boy, Javad, spoke up. “This one has cheated the hangman.” He gave the lifeless body a shove, causing it to swing in a greater arc.
Sassani scoffed. “See,” he said to Dovzhenko. “As I told you. Weak. But he will hang with his fellow traitors, nonetheless, by way of example.”
Sassani took the cigarettes out of his slacks and put a fresh one in his mouth. His venomous smile made Dovzhenko sick to his stomach. “May I trouble you for another light?”
Dovzhenko looked on passively as he lit the Iranian’s cigarette. There was something at play here. Something Dovzhenko could not quite put his finger on.
Reza Kazem was a troublemaker to be sure, the face of the tens of thousands of students and other dissatisfied Iranians who took to the streets in greater number every day across the entire country. It was natural for Sassani to want to know his whereabouts — but he wasn’t hard to find.
9
President Jack Ryan’s eyes flicked open at 5:27 a.m., just before his customary alarm. He was exhausted, and could have used the extra two minutes and forty-one seconds of sleep, but Cathy was home. Beside him. Right now. Awake. Conflicting schedules and high-profile jobs made grabbing a few moments together all but impossible. Times like this could not be taken for granted. He fluffed his pillow — they had great pillows at the White House — and grabbed his glasses from the nightstand when he turned off the alarm, before rolling over to face his wife of nearly forty years. She needed glasses as badly as he did, but had yet to put hers on, which was good because it tempered her view of his aging face and bleary-eyed bedhead. Nestling in closer, he caught the scent of mouthwash and Dioressence perfume. Supremely good signs indeed.
Egyptian cotton sheet pulled up to her chin, blond hair fanned across her pillow, Cathy Ryan fluttered long lashes. She began to sing as soon as Jack turned over, in a voice somewhere between Betty Boop and Marilyn Monroe.
“…Happy Birthday, Mr. President…”
Ryan chuckled, kissing her on the nose when she finished the song. “You know it’s not my birthday, right?”
Dr. Ryan’s eyes flew wide. Her lips puckered in a mock pout. “Really?” For one of the most talented ophthalmic surgeons in the world, she played the part of breathless bimbo incredibly well. Both hands now clutched the sheet on each side of her pouting chin. Her perfectly manicured nails were painted a deep red called I’m Not Really a Waitress. Amazingly, the White House press office had been able to keep the name of the color under wraps.
Her breasts rose and fell beneath the sheets as she heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Darn! If it’s not your birthday, then what am I supposed to do with this present?”
Eighteen minutes later, Ryan turned slightly to glance at his bedside clock and heaved a sigh of his own. Cathy’s arm trailed across his chest, her leg over his thigh, warm, so they no longer needed the sheet. Soft breaths puffed against his neck.
She chuckled softly.
“What?” he said.
Ryan couldn’t see her face, but he’d known her long enough to feel the tensing of her skin when she smiled. “You ever think what it would be like if there was some crisis of impending doom right now and the Secret Service had to burst in here with Arnie?”
“Now would be better than five minutes ago,” Ryan offered, considering the real possibility that his chief of staff might barge into the presidential bedroom if the threat was great enough.
“Maybe a little better,” Cathy said. “But not much.”
Ryan shrugged. “It’s different for you, hon. You’d be embarrassed, cover up with the sheet. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud. It would be a guiltless way to proclaim, ‘Hey, the leader of the free world’s still got it.’”
“Oh, you still got it.” She nuzzled in closer, shuddering a little. “Anyway, I can’t just lie around here all day. I need to get to the hospital.”
“I know,” Ryan said. “I’ll hear it later in the briefing, but you docs must talk about this stuff. Fill me in on the latest expert opinions about this epidemic.”
Cathy reached down for the sheet and pulled it up to her chest before collapsing back on her preferred stack of three down pillows. Ryan knew she was envisioning a map of the United States and the number of deaths in each area. If the victim happened to be a child, she’d see the name. Her brain worked that way, recalling pictures of information — pages she’d read, images she’d seen — with a near-photographic memory. Though she specialized in diseases and injuries of the eye, Cathy had been asked by her husband to be the face of the media campaign providing education and information on the recent outbreak of a virulent strain of influenza.
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” she said. “That’s in the U.S. and Canada. But there are two hundred — plus reported sick enough to hospitalize. We’re having some luck with antivirals, maybe even stemming the tide, but it’s too early to know for sure. First responders, military, essential personnel, hospital staff — they should all be vaccinated by the end of this week or early next. The CDC is doing a terrific job of pushing out everything we have on hand, basically attempting to throw a bucket of sand on the fire and smother it all at once. The trouble is, Jack, we’re going to run out of sand, in the near term at least. We usually recommend vaccinating the very young and the elderly, but this stuff is hitting primarily healthy people in the prime of life, much like the pandemic of 1918.”