Darren Huang, the Secret Service night-shift supervisor, a kid about Jack Junior’s age, stood outside the door of the Oval Office waiting to walk him to the residence. Ryan motioned for him to step inside.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“Hey, Darren,” Ryan said. “Still pitching on Saturday?”
Ryan liked to know just a little bit about each of the agents who protected him. Huang was team captain and pitcher on an adult-league baseball team where he lived in Great Falls, Virginia. The agent didn’t have the need to know, but two of the other members of his team were case officers at CIA. One of them happened to be Mary Pat Foley’s nephew. It was the way of things in D.C. You either were a spy or knew someone who was — even if you didn’t know you knew it.
The agent smiled at his boss. “Indeed I am, sir. We’re starting off to a pretty good year.”
“Good to hear,” Ryan said. “I’m going to gather up a few things and hit the head, then I’ll be ready. Would you do me a favor and let Special Agent in Charge Montgomery know that I need to talk to him first thing?”
“Understood, Mr. President,” Huang said. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him, assuming his pantherlike gaze outward, toward any oncoming threat.
Unbeknownst to Ryan, the agent pushed the button at the end of the wire that ran down his sleeve, and then spoke into his lapel mic to CROWN — Secret Service code for the White House command post — letting the Uniform Division desk officer know that SWORDSMAN wanted to speak with the SAIC.
Ryan had time to get rid of his last two cups of coffee and flush the toilet before his personal cell phone rang.
He let it ring while he washed his hands.
“Jack Ryan,” he said, shoving the phone between his ear and shoulder while he dried.
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
Shit, he’d woken up Gary Montgomery when he didn’t need to.
“My fault, Gary. I meant first thing tomorrow.”
“No worries,” the special agent in charge said, stifling a yawn. “I can be right there.”
“No, no, no,” Ryan said. “Please. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
There was silence for a moment. Then: “Your call, sir, but to be honest, if it’s something important, I’d rather get a jump on it.”
Ryan thought about that, nodding to himself. He was the same way. “I have a special assignment I’d like to run by you. It’s a delicate matter, the kind that could end a career. And I have to admit this one is very likely to blow up in both our faces.”
“Put it that way, Mr. President,” Montgomery said, “I’m in one hundred percent.”
“Good,” Ryan said. “I’ll give you a five-minute rundown of what I have in mind, then we can hash out the details when I see you first thing… tomorrow.”
33
Erik Dovzhenko did a little shopping at the Dubai airport before he headed over to the relatively run-down Terminal 2 so he could catch his Ariana connection to Kabul. He had just over an hour, enough time to grab a few necessities like ibuprofen, Imodium, and Vicks cough drops. Military logisticians, even the notoriously stoic Russian Army, ensured that their soldiers had access to what the Americans referred to as “bullets, beans, and Band-Aids.” But intelligence officers — especially those on the run — had to provide for themselves. In addition to his meager first-aid supplies, Dovzhenko purchased two stainless-steel one-liter water bottles, a blue baseball cap with no logo — which was surprisingly difficult to find — and a flimsy-looking duffel bag in an earthen brown color. It was supposed to be military grade but had far too many straps and loading points that Dovzhenko would eventually have to cut off as soon as he reached a spot outside airport security where he could get a knife. He still wasn’t hungry, but he bought a couple of Snickers bars, knowing he’d eventually need the energy.
He filled the two bottles from a water fountain and made it to the gate just in time to make his connection. The inexpensive Vostok Amphibia on his wrist couldn’t be hocked to bail him out of a tight spot like the fancy dive watches spies wore in the movies, but it was built like a tank, and was acceptably accurate. His diplomatic passport, a pair of sunglasses, two ballpoint pens, and Maryam’s notebook rounded out his entire loadout of gear.
It had always galled him that American currency was so ubiquitous where the ruble was not. But one did what was necessary, and he customarily carried two thousand U.S. dollars divided between his belt and the lining of his leather jacket. He’d change some of it into the local Afghani currency when he arrived at Kabul, but American twenty-dollar bills would speak with a much louder voice.
A young woman with black bangs peeking from beneath a blue hijab greeted him as he boarded. He stowed the duffel in the overhead, keeping the notebook with him, and wedged himself into his impossibly narrow seat. Fortunately, the plane was only about a third full, so everyone had an entire row to themselves. The greasy smell of lamb warming in the galley oven made him wish he’d taken some of the Imodium. He settled himself in as best he could, put on the sunglasses, and pulled the ball cap down low. Exhaustion overtook him, and he was asleep before the landing gear came up — dreaming of Maryam’s face, ghostly pale, one eye open even in death, as if to be certain he’d made it to safety.
34
The Afghan customs official at the Kabul airport was a stumpy, heavyset man who looked as if he could not quite commit to growing a beard. He eyed Dovzhenko’s diplomatic passport suspiciously, then shunted him off to a supervisor. The second man did not appear to like Russians any more than the first, but waved him into the country nonetheless. The airport was small and the layover was quick, just long enough for Dovzhenko’s clothing to soak up the odor of dust and burning garbage that would accompany him for the rest of his time in Afghanistan. He exchanged two hundred U.S. dollars for just under fifteen thousand afghanis — about a third of a month’s pay for the average Afghan man. Half an hour later, he was in the air again, flying over mountains that were the same color as his new duffel.
There was one attendant on the Ariana flight to Herat. Unlike the young woman out of Dubai, this one kept her bangs tucked neatly inside her blue hijab.
Anguish and fatigue consumed a great many calories, and Dovzhenko was feeling unsteady on his feet by the time he landed in Herat. Pilots in Afghanistan had gotten used to rapid corkscrew descents to keep from getting shot. Even now, when the danger was minimal around Herat Province, landings were white-knuckle, ear-popping affairs.
The warm naan bread and spiced lamb wraps from the stall outside the terminal caused him to salivate, but he opted for one of his candy bars instead. It was a little too early to be breaking into the Imodium. The sugar seemed to go straight to his cells and, though he felt no happier, he could at least walk in a straight line without looking as though he might keel over. He used the renewed energy to scan the outer terminal for danger.
Dovzhenko had spent enough time in dangerous places to know the threats in this place would come from every direction. Former enemies might act like friends one moment and then revert to old habits if some unanswered insult popped into their minds. A clear head was essential to survival now. There could be no more losing himself to his grief.
His mother had often told him the Tolstoy story about a peasant who went to steal cucumbers from his neighbor’s farm. This cucumber thief became so engrossed in thoughts of becoming wealthy from planting the seeds of the stolen loot that he began to daydream others were stealing from him — and absentmindedly shouted to his imaginary guards, “Keep an eye out for thieves!” alerting the real guards. It was his mother’s favorite story, and she told it every time she thought Dovzhenko had his head in the clouds. A spy, she said, could not afford to daydream.