Under Fire

4

Jack felt his body lurch upward. His head banged against something with a dull thunk. He opened his eyelids slightly; waves of pain radiated across his head and pulsed behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut again, took several deep breaths, until finally the pain eased. What had happened? Ambush… Balaclava Man.

The floor beneath Jack was shuddering, emitting a crinkling sound. Jack’s brain started assembling pieces: He was moving. Inside a vehicle. He opened his eyes again and scanned his surroundings. A small panel van, white walls, tool racks holding spools of wire and hand tools. An electrician’s van. Remember that, Jack thought.

He was lying on a plastic tarp, feet toward the front seats, his head resting on the driver’s-side wheel well. His jacket was gone, leaving him in only a polo shirt. Jack rocked slightly onto his butt and could feel his back pocket was empty.

They’d taken his wallet, which contained his Virginia driver’s license, personal credit cards, hotel room key card, and his hybrid satellite cell phone. None of these would lead his kidnappers anywhere of value. As did all of The Campus’s operations officers, Jack practiced good digital tradecraft: In addition to having his phone AES-256 password-protected, Jack religiously cleared his call history, discussed nothing over instant messaging or e-mail that was confidential or extraordinary, kept nothing but innocuous contacts in his address book, and aside from Hendley’s main line, there were no numbers on his speed dial; the rest he’d committed to memory. In short, his phone was as gray as could be — as was his room at the Parsian Hotel Azadi. Still, if they realized he was Jack Ryan, Jr.… Like it or not, Jack knew he was a high-value target.

The tarp he lay on was a bad sign. It suggested they were going to start working on him here. It wouldn’t do to have the van’s interior bloody. His hands were bound before him with a thick zip-tie, but not his ankles. Better news.

From the front seat a voice said, “Check on him.” Jack recognized the voice: Balaclava.

Jack shut his eyes. Through his lids he sensed a flashlight beam pass over his face. The beam went dark.

“Still out,” came the reply.

This voice Jack didn’t recognize, but the accent was American, a rough New York one. Jack felt certain he’d broken the nose of his assailant in Seth’s bolt-hole, but he heard no trace of it in this man’s voice and his head was covered in a dark wool beanie, which could be covering any scalp laceration. In Seth’s apartment Balaclava had seemed both interested and disinterested in the man Jack had taken out. His kidnappers were American, and Wellesley and Spellman had warned him not to get involved. Was this their response?

“How far?” Balaclava said.

“Two miles. Take a left on this road up here. There are headlights behind us.”

“The ones from the Shomal?”

“I don’t know. Can’t tell. Shit, maybe—”

“Relax. It’s probably nothing.”

After a few moments, Jack heard the soft tick-tock of the van’s turn signal, then felt the vehicle turning. He opened his eyes and craned his head backward. Upside down, through the van’s rear window, he caught a glimpse of the moon; as the van finished the turn, it slid from view. The tires began crunching slightly. They’d turned onto a gravel road. Were they outside Tehran? This, too, was a bad sign: dark, isolated road, hands bound, lying on a tarp-covered van floor.

Shomal, Jack thought. The name sounded familiar, and Balaclava’s use of the suggested a highway or freeway. Jack tried to recall his mental map of Tehran, but he drew a blank.

Doesn’t matter, he thought. One thing mattered: He had to get out, make a break. If they reached their destination with him inside this van, he was finished. How far would he get, though? The hell with it. Better to die running than lying down.

“Did they make the turn?” asked the American.

“No, it kept going. We’re okay.”

Not so fast, Jack thought.

He curled his legs until his knees touched his chest, took a deep breath, then mule-kicked the driver’s seat. Balaclava lurched forward, his head smacking the steering wheel. The van skewed to the right, wheels thumping on the road’s berm.

“Get him, get him,” Balaclava yelled.

Jack spun on his butt, curled his legs again, and kicked the back doors. Knowing it would take more than one try, Jack kicked again, grunting with the effort, then again and again, until finally the rear doors burst outward. The thrum of the tires and the red glow of the taillights filled the interior. The van veered left. Jack bounced off the side wall.

He rolled onto his side, got his feet under him, and stood in a half-crouch. His head banged against the van’s roof. He felt a pair of hands on his hips, pulling him backward. Headlights flooded the interior. A horn began honking. How close, Jack couldn’t tell. With his eyes squinting against the glare, Jack twisted sideways, broke free of the hands.

“God damn it…!” the American shouted. “Get back—”

“Grab him!” called Balaclava.

Jack curled himself into a ball and heaved himself out the doors.

He hit the road hip-first. The impact jarred his spine and knocked the air from his lungs. He barrel-rolled over the road, stones gouging and scratching his arms, his eyesight filled with snatches of dark sky, dirt, tall grass alongside the road, and headlights. Behind him an engine roared. Tires skidding. A gust of air buffeted him as the car swerved around him. Jack felt himself plowing through grass, then down an embankment. He stopped rolling, faceup and staring at the sky. His stomach filled his throat and his eyesight sparkled. He rolled onto his belly, got his bound hands beneath his chest, and pressed himself up, then onto his knees. Down the road he saw the van’s brake lights flash as it skidded to a stop amid a cloud of dust. Thirty feet behind, the trailing car was also sliding to a stop.

Damn, Jack thought. Frying pan to fire. Now he had at least three pursuers to elude.

The van’s driver’s-side door swung open and Balaclava hopped out.

Jack got to his feet, started to turn to run. He stopped.

The trailing car’s engine revved, veered sideways around the van, its nose aimed at Balaclava, who flung himself back into the van. The car plowed into the open door; it tore free and skipped over the car’s hood and roof in a shower of debris. The car skidded to a stop, the reverse lights came on, and it backed up until it was even with the van. As it passed, out the passenger window came a trio of orange muzzle flashes.

“What the fuck?” Jack muttered.

Spewing a rooster tail of gravel, the van surged forward, its rear doors banging open and shut. The brake lights went dark and faded into the dust cloud.

The car kept backing up, picking up speed, then did a J-turn and skidded to a stop across the road from Jack. The car was black, a Mercedes E-Class.

From the driver’s window a female voice shouted, “Get in!”

Jack didn’t move.

“Get in before they regroup and turn around!”

No choice, he thought.

Half stumbling, half running, Jack crossed the road, went around the car’s rear bumper, then opened the passenger door, threw himself inside, and slammed the door shut. A moment before the dome light went dark and the car sped off, Jack glimpsed long black hair, and manicured nails on the steering wheel.

With the car’s headlights off, the Mercedes’s powerful engine ate up the gravel road until they reached the intersection. The woman turned left onto pavement. In the flash of headlights Jack glimpsed a square, white-on-blue sign: a single number 3. The woman floored the accelerator and within seconds the speedometer swept past 140 kph.

In silence they drove on, the woman’s eyes flashing between the windshield and the rearview mirror. She was in her mid-thirties, with large black almond eyes, high cheekbones, and an ever-so-slightly hooked nose. She was Iranian, Jack guessed, but he’d detected little trace of a Persian accent, rather a mix of British and something else.

“It’s probably not a good idea to jump out of this one, yes?” the woman finally said. “You would end up a red smear.”

“Everything’s relative,” Jack replied. He glanced over the seat through the back window. There were no headlights.

“They won’t catch up,” she said. “They don’t have the horsepower.”

The question is, Jack thought, am I better off with this woman?

As if reading his mind, she said, “You’re safe. I am not with them.”

The conviction in her voice was genuine, Jack decided.

“There’s a penknife in the glove compartment,” the woman said.

Jack opened it, dug around until he found the knife, then used it to saw through the zip-tie securing his hands. He rubbed his wrists; they were slick with sweat-diluted blood.

“Your car is going to need some bodywork.”

“I have another. How do you know Seth Gregory?” she asked.

“Who says I do?”

“You went to his apartment building. You had lunch with him.”

This surprised Jack; his countersurveillance skills were solid, yet he’d missed her tailing of him. “How do you know Seth?” he asked.

“Answer my question.” A little steel in her voice.

“We’re old friends.”

“What high school did he attend?”

“Saint Matt’s — Matthew’s — Academy. Your turn: How do you know him?”

“Seth and I worked together.”

Something told Jack this woman wasn’t with Shell Oil.

The woman slowed the car, turned right onto another paved road, then accelerated again. Through the windshield Jack could see the lighted skyline of what he assumed was Tehran.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“We don’t know each other well enough yet.” Jack thought for a moment, then said, “How long did Seth spend in the Marines?”

The woman sighed. “I do not like dancing. In case you’ve forgotten, I just rescued you.”

“Answer my question.”

“He tried to join after college — University of Illinois, by the way — but he wasn’t eligible. He wrecked his knee playing football and had to have it rebuilt. Three times. He still wears a brace and needs cortisone shots.”

It was the right answer. The military disqualification had nearly crushed Seth, so badly had he wanted to serve. In fact, Jack had flown down to Illinois in hopes of cheering him up. It had worked, but only a bit. For Seth, being turned down for service would be a regret he never got over.

“He also tried to join the Coast Guard, but they denied him, too.” She turned toward him and said, “Satisfied?”

While her knowledge of Seth’s background wasn’t definitive proof of their relationship, it would have to do. “I’m Jack.”

“Jack Ryan? Seth has spoken of you.”

Thanks a lot, Seth. He waited for the follow-up from her — “The Jack Ryan, son of President…” — but she only took her right hand off the steering wheel and clasped his in a firm grip. “I’m Ysabel. Ysabel Kashani.”

Having spent time in Russia in his early days with the CIA, John Clark had learned his share of Russian. One of his nuggets of teaching wisdom was Doveryai no proveryai — trust but verify, a phrase used to great effect by Reagan during INF treaty negotiations. A proverb, Clark had told Jack, that could also be applied to intelligence work.

Jack decided he would trust Ysabel to a point. How he would verify her bona fides was a question he couldn’t yet answer. Nor did he know what exactly he’d gotten himself into. Either way, he could use an ally.

They drove in silence for fifteen minutes until reaching the northern outskirts of Tehran. Jack asked, “Is this the Shomal?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I overheard the driver.”

“It’s the Tehran-Shomal; outside the city it becomes Freeway Three.”

“Any idea where they were taking me?” Jack asked.

“You mean aside from a shallow grave?” Ysabel replied. “No idea.”

“Do you know who they are?” Even as the words left Jack’s mouth, the word wallet popped into his head. In the commotion, he’d forgotten about the second American’s wallet. He patted his crotch; the wallet was still here. Thank God for bad frisking technique.

“Do you need some alone time?” asked Ysabel.

“Funny.” Jack pulled out the wallet and opened it.

Ysabel glanced over. “Where did you get that?”

“Off one of them back there.”

“What about yours?”

“They’ve got it.”

Inside the man’s wallet was a driver’s license and two credit cards. He stuffed it into the back pocket of his khakis. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“My apartment. We need to talk. Plus, you’re a mess. Your arms, your face…” She grimaced and said, “You look awful.”

Jack checked his forearms; below the sleeves of his polo shirt, his arms looked like they’d been worked over with a belt sander.

“It’ll have to wait. I need to go back to Seth’s.”

“Why?”

“Steaks.”

Ysabel paused, then with a flash of revelation in her voice, echoed Jack: “Steaks.”

Ysabel picked her way through the city, taking a circuitous route to Seth’s apartment, skillfully doubling back and traversing alleys until she seemed satisfied they weren’t being followed. She had tradecraft, Jack realized.

“Who taught you?” he asked.

“Seth. Just a few things, really.”

She pulled to the curb a block north of Seth’s building and across from the café in which Jack had sipped tea earlier that evening. The café was closed, its wraparound windows dark. The Mercedes’s dashboard clock read 12:09. Almost three hours since they’d taken him from the apartment. He and Ysabel sat in the darkness, listening to the car’s engine tick as it cooled.

After ten minutes of watching, Jack said, “Nothing. You?”

“No. This is a bad idea, Jack.”

“I don’t see how my night could get any worse. There’s something I need in there.” Providing it’s still there, he thought.

“We,” Ysabel said. “We need.”

“Slow down. We’re not quite there yet,” Jack grumbled.

“Suit yourself. Let’s go.”

Three minutes later they were standing before Seth’s apartment door. Ysabel reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a hammerless .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver.

Jack opened his palm and whispered, “May I?”

“Why?”

“Please, Ysabel.”

She frowned at him for a moment, then placed the revolver in his hand.

Key, he thought abruptly. He patted his pockets. He said, “Damn, the key. They must have taken it.”

“Hold on,” Ysabel murmured. She rummaged in her purse and came out with a bronze key. “Try this.”

Jack took it. “Where’d you get this?”

“Seth gave it to me along with the one to his Pardis condo. I assumed it was for something there. It’s worth a try.”

Jack slipped the key into the lock and turned it; the dead bolt slid back. Using the knuckle of his index finger, Jack swung open the door until the knob touched the inner wall. The room was dark, the window shades still drawn. The attacker he’d left unconscious on the floor was gone, but the blood smear where his head had lain was still there.

Jack waited a few beats, then peeked left around the jamb. Nothing. With the revolver at waist level and tucked close to his body, he stepped into the apartment. Ysabel followed, then shut the door and locked it. On flat feet, Jack walked into the kitchenette, cleared it, then went down the hallway and cleared the bathroom and bedroom in turn.

He returned to the main room to find Ysabel staring at the blood. “What happened here?” she murmured.

“I got ambushed.”

“Did you kill him? Was he one of the men from the van?”

“No, and maybe. Follow me. The quicker we’re out of here, the better. Don’t step in the blood. Keep track of what you touch.”

“Worried about fingerprints?”

“Habit. By the way, why do you have a gun?”

“Protection. Rapes are rising in Tehran. The lure of uncovered hair and all that nonsense.”

They walked back to the bedroom. Jack crossed the room, adjusted the curtains so the center slit was closed, then turned on the card-table lamp. Jack handed Ysabel the folding chair. “Against the front door.”

She returned a few moments later and pointed at the safe and said, “What the hell is that?”

“When was the last time you were here?”

“Two weeks ago, with Seth. It wasn’t here.”

Jack knelt by the safe. The hardwood floor around its gray steel bottom lip was scarred and gouged. The marks were new. Balaclava Man and his partner had been trying to get to the bolts securing the safe to the floor. If they wanted the contents that badly, they’d be back with heavier equipment.

“Steaks,” Ysabel said.

“Steaks.”

They returned to the kitchenette. Jack clicked on the range light, opened the freezer, dug around, and came up with four steaks wrapped in white butcher paper. He dumped them on the counter. Together they began unwrapping the meat.

“I found it,” Ysabel said.

Jack stepped closer to her, their shoulders touching. Written on the inside of the wrapping in black marker were a string of digits: 37-42-51. Jack folded the paper, stuffed it into his pocket. They rewrapped the rest of the steaks and returned them to the freezer.

They walked back to the bedroom, where Jack dialed in the safe’s combination, then depressed the lever. With a dull click the door swung open. Inside was a six-inch-thick brown accordion folder. Jack pulled it out, then inspected the safe’s interior: nothing else.

“Let’s go,” he said.

After using the bathroom hand towel to wipe down all the surfaces they’d touched, they stepped out into the hallway and locked the door.

To their left, the stairwell door banged open, then clicked shut.

At a trot, Jack and Ysabel headed to the fire exit at the end of the hall. Jack placed his hands on the red-striped press bar, said a quick prayer, then pushed. No alarm sounded. They stepped through and Jack eased the door shut. They stood still.

After a few moments, below them came the echoed clicking of footsteps on the concrete stairs. Jack stepped to the handrail and peeked over. Two floors below, a figure stepped onto the landing and turned onto the next set of stairs. In his right hand was a semi-auto.

Jack turned to Ysabel and pointed up the next set of stairs and placed his index finger against his lips. She nodded, then started upward. Jack waited until she reached the next landing, then followed. They climbed upward, Jack occasionally glancing over the rail to check the man’s progress; he was on the third-floor landing.

Jack and Ysabel reached the sixth and uppermost floor. Down a short corridor lit by a dim ceiling bulb was a steel door — the roof access, Jack hoped. Jack pointed to it, then made a key-turning gesture to Ysabel, who nodded, then padded down the hall. After a few moments, she turned and nodded, then opened the door. The hinges let out a rusty squeak.

Ysabel froze. Jack froze.

Silence.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs below, heading upward.

Mouthing “Go, go, go” to Ysabel, Jack followed her out the door and onto the gravel roof. He hesitated, then stepped back inside and tapped the barrel of the revolver against the lightbulb. It shattered. The corridor went dark. He stepped out onto the roof and swung the door shut behind him, catching it before it latched, leaving it open a crack.

Jack whispered to Ysabel, “Walk to the edge of the roof and face away from the door. Tuck your hair into the back of the jacket. Whatever happens, don’t turn around.”

To her credit, Ysabel didn’t hesitate and did as Jack ordered.

Jack pressed himself against the wall beside the door. He drew the revolver from his belt.

A few moments passed. From the corridor came the crunch of glass.

Silence. A few more moments passed.

The door swung open, then a voice called, “Stop right there.” New York accent. “Hands up.”

Ysabel raised her hands.

Jack kicked the door shut. It crashed into the man, who bounced off the door frame, then stumbled into view. Jack took two steps forward and toe-kicked the man in the side of the knee. His leg buckled and he dropped to his hands and knees, stunned. His gun bounced across the gravel and came to rest a few feet away.

While Jack would’ve liked to have his own Q&A session with the man, it wasn’t feasible.

He cocked his leg to his chest and heel-kicked the man in the right ear. With a grunt he dropped face-first into the gravel.

Jack felt a flash of guilt, then quashed it. While the childhood “Play fair” rule was still a part of his psyche, there was no such thing as a fair fight, not out here, and not with guys like this.

Jack leaned over the man; at the back of his head the hair was matted with dried blood, and his left cheek was swollen and the bone around his eye socket was squashed, all souvenirs from their earlier fight in the apartment. One mystery solved.

He turned to the door and eased it shut. Ysabel walked up, knelt down, and checked the man’s pulse. “He’s alive.”

And having a really shitty night, Jack thought. “Search him.”

She did so, then said, “Nothing. Jack, you used me as bait.”

“They wanted me alive, they’d want you alive, too. Find the fire escape, will you?”

“Don’t do that again without warning me,” Ysabel said, and walked away.

Jack picked up the man’s gun, a nine-millimeter, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then grabbed the man by the collar, dragged him to the door, and positioned him across it.

“Over here, Jack,” Ysabel called. She stood at the far corner of the roof.

He trotted over to her. She whispered, “I don’t see anyone.”

“After you,” Jack said.