She’d removed the headscarf and now looked like the young woman that he’d once known. The years had aged her, but not in a bad way. If anything, she was more beautiful than before — especially in the eyes. The flippancy of her youth was gone, replaced with a mysterious gravity that made her difficult to read. “Thicker sauce,” his mother would say. Life had a way of cooking you down. Jack thought of how they’d first met — right here in Iran, with her screaming up in that little sports car. He turned his head sideways, still leaning on his hands, his eyes playing sleepily over the tiny scars on her jawline and neck. It was difficult for him to distinguish his guilt from the fatigue that pressed him down.
Ysabel suddenly spoke, breaking the silence, causing both men to start.
“Does no one besides me have an issue with what we’re doing?”
Dovzhenko looked across the front seat at her, then back at the road.
“It’s dangerous,” Jack said, “I’ll admit. But I don’t see a way to find the missiles without crossing the b—”
She cut him off. “I’m not talking about crossing the border. We are about to bargain with the life of a child. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Jack took a deep breath. “It does,” he said. “But we didn’t give him this disease. We’re offering to help him if his father helps us.”
“I don’t like it,” Ysabel said. “We choose to do what we do. This man, Yazdani, has no choice. If he wants to save his son he must commit treason against his country.”
Dovzhenko gave a little shrug. “You could say he was helping his country. Nuclear weapons will only bring retaliation against the people. Yes, we are forcing his hand, but for a greater good. And the boy will get help.”
“I know all this,” Ysabel said. “But I still hate the tactic. We are predators, preying on this man’s misery. If he does not help us, his son dies.”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “But we won’t be the ones to kill him.”
“No,” Ysabel said. “His father’s decision will.”
“Hopefully,” Jack said, “his father will decide correctly. It’s a shitty business, Ysabel. But this is the way it works.”
Ysabel turned suddenly to glare over her shoulder, her face illuminated in the green glow of the Toyota’s dash lights.
“You should sleep,” she said.
“I tried,” Ryan said. “Can’t.”
“Then at least lean back,” she snapped. “You are crowding me.”
Ryan recoiled at the flash of emotion. He’d expected something like this when he first saw her in the airport, but not now, not after what they’d just been through.
“Are you okay?”
She twisted farther in the seat, shaking her head in disgust. “Just so you know, that is not a question women like to be asked. Ever.”
Dovzhenko stared ahead, eyes fixed on the road.
“We’ve all been through a lot,” Ryan said, his voice softer. He hoped it sounded less condescending. “In case you didn’t notice. I honestly thought you might have discovered some new injury now that we’ve had time for the adrenaline to wear off.”
“I am fine,” Ysabel said.
“You?” Ryan asked the Russian.
“No problems here,” Dovzhenko said without looking back.
Ysabel took several breaths, composing herself. “I… I nearly died, Jack… I mean — and you just stopped calling. Dropped off the face of the earth.”
Ryan tried to think of a rebuttal, but there wasn’t one, not a good one, anyway. Finally, he said, “I know.”
The sun pinked the eastern horizon by the time they were just a few miles out of Mashhad. It was a city of almost three million people and traffic began to pick up. Headlights from the vehicles behind them threw Ysabel’s face into shadows.
“I thought we had something,” she said. “You and I.”
“Your father made it pretty clear—”
“You’re a grown man, Jack,” she snapped. “Stop trying to put this off on my father. I know exactly what happened. I think you merely decided it was time to flip the pillow.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” Ryan said.
“Flip the pillow,” she said again. “You wanted something cooler, the other side of the pillow, different from anything I had to offer.”
“That’s rich,” Ryan scoffed. “Your father surrounded you with SAS bodyguards and told me in no uncertain terms you were better off without me.”
“I’ve seen you fight,” Ysabel said. “You could handle a couple of SAS bodyguards.”
Ryan fell back in his seat. The Toyota suddenly didn’t feel like nearly enough real estate for him and this angry woman.
Dovzhenko drove on, the thump of traffic and Ysabel’s breathing the only sounds.
Ryan gave a long sigh. “Things are about to get kind of dicey,” he said. “You and I should probably clear the air of… whatever this is…”
“Or we could drive in silence,” Dovzhenko said. “That would be fine as well.”
Mashhad loomed in front of them. Ysabel stared out her window.
Jack was a fixer, like his dad. He felt sure that most any problem could be made better if properly hashed out. But Ysabel wasn’t up for hashing anything this morning. And he was too exhausted to push it — without saying something he knew he would regret. He focused on Dovzhenko instead.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
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.