Under Fire

5

Twenty minutes later they reached Ysabel’s building, an eighteen-floor high-rise in a fashionable garden neighborhood off Vali Asr Street. Inside the apartment Jack found the decor a mix of minimalist modern and traditional Persian, with a sunken seating area and a gourmet kitchen with stainless-steel appliances. The carpet was a cream berber. The wall nearest Jack was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling bookcase; at first glance, all the books looked like either classical literature or history, some of them rare.

Ysabel walked through the space, turning on floor and table lamps while Jack stood at the balcony’s French doors, gazing out the windows at Tehran’s lighted skyline. Below was a tree-lined lake rimmed by what appeared to be gas lamps. Jack kept Ysabel in the corner of his eye until she walked up and stopped beside him.

“That’s Mellat Park,” she said. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Very.”

In each hand she held a square glass a quarter full of amber liquid. She handed him one; the ice cubes tinkled softly.

He said, “Ysabel, just for curiosity’s sake: This apartment… your Mercedes… Are you rich?”

“My father is.”

This gave Jack pause. Was all this a lark for Ysabel, an adventure to break up the monotony of wealthy leisure? He hoped not. Then again, during his dad’s first administration he’d faced the same kind of bullshit, so he had no business making any assumptions about Ysabel.

“Iranian fathers like to dote,” she said.

“I see.”

“Don’t judge, Jack.”

“I didn’t say a thing.”

“It’s in your voice.”

Jack took a sip from the glass. It was ice-cold Scotch; it burned his throat, then settled warmly in his belly. He asked, “Aren’t you Muslim?”

“Partially lapsed.”

“Daring girl.”

“Only in private. Tehran is changing, but it’s going to take a while until one can walk down the street with a bottle in a brown paper bag.”

“Hopefully the changes will stick.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She took a sip from her glass, then gestured to the park below. “It used to be called Shahanshahi Park — Park of the King of Kings — before the revolution,” Ysabel said. “I suppose Khomeini thought it sounded too… shah-like.”

Jack glanced sideways at her. “I’m sorry about the roof. I shouldn’t have used you like that.”

Is my regret because she’s a woman? he wondered. No, if it’d been him and Ding or Dominic on that roof… well, that comes with the job. Ysabel hadn’t signed up for this — at least not to that level. Even so, she’d handled herself well. Hell, she’d probably saved his life.

“Apology accepted,” she replied. “Just don’t do it again. Why did you have me face away from the door? And why the hair?”

“So he didn’t see your face and, if we’re lucky, couldn’t tell you were a woman.”

“Ah.”

“Thanks for the rescue on the road, by the way. The chance of me getting more than a few hundred yards was slim.”

“Something tells me otherwise.”

“I noticed your accent. There’s only a hint of Persian in there.” Despite himself, Jack found it alluring, exotic.

“I’m mostly a product of the West. I went to Leysin American School in Switzerland, then Cambridge — politics and international studies.”

“Educated in the decadent West,” Jack said. “How did you pull that off?”

“My father was a doctor. And he sat on the Tehran city council for many years. He was a politician through and through, knew how to walk the tightrope and gather favors.” Ysabel paused and smiled. “Plus, behind closed doors even extremists like Khomeini liked having our children educated in the West — the idea being we absorb all the imperialists’ knowledge then return home and use it to glorify Iran.”

“And have you?”

“Hardly. I teach at the University of Tehran. For whatever reason, our department was immune to politics — and Sharia, if you can believe that. Okay, that’s enough interrogation, Jack—”

“I wasn’t—”

“Let’s see to your arms before you start bleeding on my carpet. And your eye is almost swollen shut — not a good look for you.”

She led him down a hallway to a spacious bathroom done in earth-toned tile. She told him to sit on the toilet, then turned on the sink faucet, let hot water fill the basin, and dropped in a washcloth.

“You don’t have to do this for me,” Jack said.

Ysabel smiled, then wrung out the cloth and handed it to him. “So presumptuous… I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

She disappeared and Jack could hear her rummaging in the hall closet. She returned with a clear plastic case.

Teeth gritted against the pain, Jack finished wiping the dirt from his forearms until only raw red abrasions were visible. She handed him a towel, which he used to blot his skin dry.

“Painful?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She pulled a small spray bottle from the first-aid kit and said, “Arms, please.” Jack extended them and she sprayed them. He winced. “Other side,” Ysabel said, then repeated the process on the insides of Jack’s forearms.

“Lift up your shirt,” she ordered.

“What?”

“Do as I say, Jack.”

He lifted his polo shirt. She examined his torso, gently probing various spots with her index finger.

“Why Ysabel?” Jack asked. “That’s not Persian, is it?”

“My mother was second-generation American — a fiery Andalusian, or so my father tells me. I have her to thank for my dual citizenship, I suppose. She died when I was two.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Such is life.”

Her words were breezy, but there was none of it in her voice, Jack noted. To have little more than secondhand memories of your mother couldn’t be easy.

Ysabel finished her examination of his torso and said, “Just a few bruises. You’re lucky. Of course, the van wasn’t going all that fast.”

“Still pretty daring, I think,” Jack said with mock indignation.

“Okay, Indiana Jones. How’s your vision? Any nausea?”

“No. I’ve got a hard head.”

“In more ways than one.”

Ysabel doused a gauze pad and dabbed first at his cheekbone, then his forehead. She leaned back, examined her handwork with pursed lips, then nodded. “Better. Meet me in the kitchen and I’ll get you an ice pack.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Jack, if they’re looking for you, a black eye like that might make it easier. You can shower if you’d like, there’s a robe on the door hook. I’ll make us something to eat. We have a lot to talk about.”

A huge understatement, Jack thought. He’d already started compiling his list of questions.

Freshly showered and wrapped in a white terry-cloth robe — a man’s size, Jack noted — he joined Ysabel in the kitchen, where she was reheating a casserole dish in the microwave. She pointed to the counter, where a pile of four pills sat. “Ibuprofen.”

“Thanks.”

“Feel better?” asked Ysabel.

“Much. Should I be expecting company?” Jack grabbed the lapel of his robe and wagged it.

Ysabel smiled. “Nosy.”

“I’ve had enough surprises for one night.”

“The owner won’t be coming back.”

Am I wearing Seth’s robe? Jack wondered.

The microwave beeped. Ysabel opened the door and, using a pair of oven mitts, lifted the casserole dish out. She placed it on the counter and began spooning the food into bowls. “Khoreshteh qiemeh bademjoon,” she said. “Persian eggplant stew. You’ll like it.”

Jack carried their bowls to the dining nook and sat down. Piled in the middle of the mahogany table was the accordion folder they’d found in Seth’s safe, along with the wallet and nine-millimeter Jack had taken from his attacker.

“I haven’t looked at them,” she said, sitting down. She laid a blue gel ice pack beside his bowl. Pressing the ice pack against his cheekbone with his free hand, Jack took a spoonful of the stew; the meatlike chunks of eggplant tasted of turmeric and onion. “You’re right, it is good.”

“So ask your questions, Jack,” she said.

Not sure where to start, he took a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Did Seth have a car?”

“That’s your first question?” Ysabel replied with an amused smile. “No, he didn’t. He used taxis and buses.”

“When did you start following me? After I left Chaibar?”

“Yes. Seth told me you two were having lunch. It was the first time I’d seen him happy in weeks.”

“Nice disguise, by the way. You looked ten years younger.”

“Thank you. I think.”

Jack was only mildly surprised Seth hadn’t recognized Ysabel — if she wasn’t lying about them knowing each other, that was. To compensate for his ADHD, Seth tended to block out everything except whomever he was talking to at the time. Clearly, Ysabel knew this.

“But why the surveillance at all? Why follow me?” If Ysabel had picked him up at Chaibar, it meant she’d been staking him out for almost thirty-six hours and had followed him to his meeting with Spellman and Wellesley.

Whatever her role in all this, she was dedicated.

“Why not follow Seth?”

Ysabel said, “For a while now I’ve suspected he was in trouble and not telling me. Plus, Seth is… cagey, especially lately. He would have spotted me.”

“If he was — is — in trouble, why would you expect him to tell you?”

“We’re friends, Jack. And, yes — just friends.”

“Not my business.”

“But you were wondering about it.”

“That’s not the whole truth, though, is it? You’re more than friends. You’re working together.”

“After a fashion.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Instead of answering, Ysabel asked her own question: “What were you doing at that building in the Zafaraniyeh district?”

Jack was getting annoyed with the thrust-and-parry, but he decided it might break the stalemate. “I was meeting a man named Speidel.”

Ysabel let out an exasperated sigh. “Spellman, Jack. Matt Spellman.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Seth was reporting to him.”

Interesting that Seth had shared Spellman’s name with her; in the Spy Rings for Dummies manual, sharing a handler’s name was taboo. Why had Seth done it? Did she also know about Raymond Wellesley? He said, “Spellman thinks Seth has done a runner — along with a lot of money.”

“He’s right about the former. The money I don’t know about.”

Jack decided to gamble: “You were part of his network, weren’t you? An agent.” It was a logical guess; if Seth was reporting to Wellesley and Spellman, it suggested they were his handlers. Handlers handled agents. The fact that it was a direct conduit with no cutouts told Jack that Seth was overseeing the network. But what was he, an agent or a CIA operations officer? And what was the purpose of the network? Something to do with Iran? So many damn questions, Jack thought. He hated having to play catch-up.

“Who were the men who took me?” he asked.

“I don’t know. But I did get the van’s registration plate.” She closed her eyes for a moment, recalling, then recited it for him.

“Could they have gotten yours?” Jack asked.

“Doubtful. They were too busy diving for cover. Their plate might be useless to us, though — unless you want to ring Spellman.”

“We’re not doing that. I might have a way.”

“From your vast array of financial contacts?” Ysabel said with a smile.

“Yep. I think it was an electrician’s van.”

“It was. I caught a snippet from the placard on the side — Yazdi something. I’ll see what I can find.”

Jack said, “You knew nothing about Seth’s Niavaran apartment? Or about the keys he gave you?”

She shook her head. “As I said, I assumed they were both for Pardis. I’m just guessing, but maybe he thought I’d be able to track down his bolt-hole if things went bad — and if it was important enough.”

This was plausible, Jack decided. By leaving Ysabel initially ignorant of the bolt-hole, he might have been trying to protect her.

“Okay, one more question—”

“Thank goodness.”

“Was Seth really working for Shell?”

“I don’t know.”

While Ysabel’s answers weren’t proof positive she was on Seth’s side, Jack’s gut told him she was on the level.

He had his ally. Provisionally. Goddamn espionage, Jack thought. He’d stepped into this world of his own volition, but it had come with a price: Outside your inner circle, trust was a rare thing; of course, the actions of his former girlfriend, Melanie Kraft, hadn’t helped matters. Though she’d had her reasons — objectively good ones — he still considered her turning on him as a betrayal.

Enough, Jack.

Ysabel said, “Shall we check our booty?”

“Pardon?”

“Our spoils. The folder and wallet.”

The wallet contained two credit cards and an IDP — International Driver’s Permit — all issued to a David Weaver. The address on the IDP was 4711 Hardesty Street, Albany, NY 12203.

“What a perfectly ordinary American name,” Ysabel noted.

“Very.”

The International Driver’s Permit was a nice touch, Jack thought. Standards for IDPs were often inconsistent from country to country. Jack suspected they’d glean little of use from digging into David Weaver. Still, he’d have Gavin check. No doubt Weaver’s partner, Balaclava, was also equipped with an IDP.

Jack said, “Spellman wasn’t alone when I met with him. He was with a Brit named Raymond Wellesley.”

“I’ve never heard of him. So, British and American handlers, American kidnappers. Quite a coincidence, yes?”

“No coincidence at all.”

Wellesley and Spellman had taken off the gloves: Jack’s status as First Son had earned him no latitude at all. And as Jack had no intention of leaving Seth on his own, his relationship with Wellesley and Spellman had been bound to sour. Now it was out in the open. Oddly, Jack was okay with that.

Also, he preferred to live outside his dad’s shadow — as well as outside his aegis. Of course, Ryan Senior had no control over the former, but fortunately, Jack’s dad had so far resisted imposing the latter.

A more pressing question for Jack was what to do about The Campus. He’d found himself neck-deep in a CIA-SIS operation. Gerry Hendley and John Clark would want to know about it. Later.

Much would depend on what was inside Seth’s mystery accordion folder. Jack pulled it toward him, unwound the elastic band closure, and opened the flap. Ysabel scooted her chair around the table until she was shoulder to shoulder with Jack.

“This is like Shab-e Cheleh,” she said with a tinge of giddiness. Seeing Jack’s confused expression, she explained, “Think of it as Persian Christmas. In the West you celebrate the birth of the son. Here we celebrate the rebirth of the sun — the Winter Solstice.”

“You’re a font of fascinating trivia,” Jack replied.

“You have no idea. Open it.”

Jack did so. Inside was a stack of legal-sized loose-leaf paper, at least five hundred sheets, he guessed. He shuffled through the ream. All the pages had a faded, old-style typewriter font. In Cyrillic.

The date on the first sheet was 4 MaH 1963.

Ysabel said, “I don’t suppose you read Russian?”

“Only fair.” This was a slight understatement, but not far from the mark. Though his grasp of the language had improved dramatically, for some reason he had a hard time getting Russian to stick in his brain. “That middle word is May.”

Yet more questions, Jack thought. The biggest being: What the hell were they looking at? Aside from Gavin Biery, Jack had access to no one who could faithfully translate the document, and he sure as hell couldn’t fax the damn thing. Such a task wouldn’t escape Gerry’s notice, and Jack wouldn’t put Biery in that kind of spot. He’d have to give it some thought.

“None of this looks familiar?” he asked Ysabel. “Seth never mentioned something like this?”

“Never.”

“Do you know anyone else in the network?”

“Only one — code-named Ervaz.”

“Is that a Persian name?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve got an e-mail address. It’s bad form, I know, for me to know even that much, but I suppose I’d become Seth’s ‘right hand,’ as it were. I’ve never tried contacting Ervaz. Should I?”

“We’ll do it together.”

Unbidden, Raymond Wellesley’s “apple tree” comment popped into Jack’s head. “Ysabel, did Seth ever talk about his father?”

“Are you testing me again, Jack?”

“No. Genuine question.”

“Yes, he did, quite a lot. He said his dad — Paul, I think — died of a stroke a few years ago and that his mother was having a hard time with it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Uhm… His father worked for the government. Something to do with farming.”

“Department of Agriculture.”

“Yes, that was it. You know, one thing always struck me when Seth talked about his father: He always seemed” — Ysabel paused, searching for the right words — “more bitter than sad. Almost scornful sometimes.”

“About what specifically?”

“The death, I assumed. I remember because it seemed an odd reaction. Why do you ask?”

“Something Wellesley said — that Seth hadn’t fallen far from the tree.”

“Strange. Then again, if this Wellesley is who you think he is, those types like to play mind games, yes?”

“True.” If so, had Wellesley been trying to plant doubt in his head about Seth, or was there something to the comment?

“Jack, you haven’t asked me what Seth had me working on. Why?”

The question had been on Jack’s mind.

“That’s a morning-cup-of-coffee question,” he said. “Where am I sleeping?”