Under Fire

6

Jack downed the dregs of his coffee and set the cup on the counter, where Ysabel scooped it up and headed back to the French press. She returned with the second cup, and they walked to the sunken seating area and sat across from each other.

Outside the balcony windows, the sun was fully up, and yellow rays streamed in, casting sharp shadows across the carpet. Jack turned his face to the warmth and let it soak in.

“Your eye looks better,” said Ysabel. “How do you feel?”

“Like I went five rounds with Chuck Liddell.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Never mind. So, when and how did Seth recruit you?”

“About eight months ago. The truth is… we were a little more than friends.”

The admission took Jack by surprise. “You were hooking up.”

“What? Oh, yes, I guess that’s what you would call it. Purely physical. Does that shock you?”

“Not particularly. Where did you meet?”

“At Chaibar, as a matter of fact.”

“So he seduced you.”

“It was genuine, and mutual. I could be wrong, of course. We broke it off after a month but stayed friends. He’s a good man.”

MICE, Jack thought. The most common reasons for someone cooperating with a foreign agency fell within the acronym MICE — Money, Ideology, Compromise, or Coercion — but the umbrella was bigger than that: ego, excitement, disaffection, personal ties, sex… Though it seemed this last one may have been Seth’s original method of recruitment; the relationship had ended quickly, but Ysabel’s cooperation had not. Ideology, then?

“Why did you keep working for him?”

“I didn’t start until about two months after we broke it off — after I joined the research group,” Ysabel replied. “It has no name, really. It’s just a bunch of us academics. We talk about Russia.”

“When you and Seth met, did you know about this group?”

“No, I got the impression it had just been founded.”

If Ysabel was right, perhaps Seth’s relationship with her had been genuine, and her joining the group just dumb good luck for him.

“Tell me about this research group. What’s the context?”

“The new leadership in Moscow — what they want, what they might do next and where. It’s all brainstorming, really.”

“Who runs it?”

“My department head at the university — Dr. Pezhman Abbasi.”

“One day out of the blue he just asked you to join?”

Ysabel nodded. “We’re very close, he and I, like grandfather and granddaughter. He hired me at the university.”

“So you report to him; who does he report to?”

“I don’t know that he does, Jack. You don’t understand, it’s all just intellectual ‘what if’ games. Many of the departments do it — econ, history… Sometimes what they come up with becomes part of curriculum. Jack, we weren’t gathering intelligence.”

In fact, coopting private-sector academic groups was a common tool for intelligence agencies. Raw, puzzle-piece intel can get you only so far. What a nation or group was capable of told only part of the story; how that nation or group intended to use those capabilities was the real prize, and getting to that often took out-of-the-box thinking.

Before Jack could explain this to Ysabel, she said, “Ah, I see what you’re getting at. We may have been feeding someone? The VAJA, yes?”

Ysabel was no dummy, Jack thought. “Could be.”

VAJA was the acronym for Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence, Jack thought, and ostensibly the latest, kinder-and-gentler incarnation of the SAVAK, Shah Reza Pahlavi’s ruthless secret police.

Ysabel said, “I feel foolish for considering this. You don’t think Pezhman is involved in—”

“At this point, I don’t think anything,” Jack replied. “So you were feeding Seth your notes from the group. Tell me about it.”

“Yes. He never said why he was interested, but I knew who he was, Jack, and I knew he was working for the U.S. You’ve heard the old Persian proverb: ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’”

“Isn’t that Arabic?”

Ysabel smiled. “A tragic misattribution. Anyway, both Iran and your country should fear Russia. Plus, officially, I’m half American. If a few notes from a think tank would help the common cause, then so be it.”

Ysabel was right: The direction of Russia’s foreign policy was troublesome. Its president, Valeri Volodin, had already invaded Crimea, eastern Ukraine, and Estonia — though he’d been pushed out of the latter, something that seemed only to strengthen his ultranationalist tendencies.

Jack doubted Ysabel’s research group at the University of Tehran was the only one the VAJA had launched. Do the Iranians know something the United States doesn’t? Is this what Seth’s network was chasing?

“I assumed I was only working on my own small part,” said Ysabel. “Whether there were more than myself and this Ervaz, I don’t know.”

Jack went silent, trying to assemble pieces, to find the right thread to tug that might lead him to Seth. He said to Ysabel, “Write down the e-mail address for Ervaz. I need to make a call.”

“You can use my—”

“No, I need a pay phone.”

“There’s one down the block. I’ve got a prepaid calling card.”

Jack got dressed, jotted the serial number of David Weaver’s nine-millimeter on his palm, then left the apartment. He found the pay phone on the corner outside a small convenience store fronted by crates of fruits and vegetables. An employee was sweeping the sidewalk. He nodded and smiled at Jack.

Jack used Ysabel’s card to dial The Campus’s main switchboard. It was late afternoon there. After five rings, Carly, Hendley’s most recent intern, this one from Towson University, answered.

“Evening, Mr. Ryan. You caught me going out the door.”

“I won’t hold you up. Is Gavin still in?”

“What do you think?” she said, laughing. “I’ll transfer you.”

The line went silent, then buzzed twice. Gavin Biery picked up and said, “Still alive, Jack?”

“And kicking.” Jack hesitated. Dragging Gavin into this was going to put the man into a tough spot, but unless he was willing to give up on Seth, he had no choice. He would fall on his sword with Gerry later. “I need a few more favors.”

“Shoot.”

“I need you to brick my phone. I lost it.” Jack paused, then changed his mind. “No, scratch that. Track it.”

“Can do. You want a cloned phone?”

“What?”

“We’ve got a cloud. We back up all your phones and tablets whenever you’re in the building. You didn’t get the memo?”

“I guess not.”

“By the way, those are some nasty pictures in your photo album.”

“I don’t have—”

“Kidding, just kidding. Yeah, I’ll set up a trace on your old phone. Whenever it’s powered up and on either Wi-Fi or roaming, I can track it. I’ll get a duplicate headed your way.”

“Give me a different number, though.”

“Can do. You’re at the Parsian Hotel?”

“No, send it to Ysabel Kashani, 1214 West Sedaqat, Tehran. Signature required. I’m going to buy a disposable cell phone. If I give you the number, can you switch it to the number of the stolen phone?”

“Sure, no problem.” Gavin paused. “Jack, maybe you should let Gerry know—”

“I know. I’ll put him in the loop.” The question was: When? Jack probably should have already done this.

“What else?” asked Gavin.

“Monitor my credit cards and get me some new ones.”

Though Jack doubted his kidnappers would be stupid enough to use his cards, it was worth a shot.

Gavin asked, “Did you get mugged, Jack?”

“More or less. Next: I need everything you can give me on these two e-mail addresses.” Jack recited the Yahoo! and Gmail addresses Ysabel had given him. “Next: Look into a guy named David Weaver.” Jack also recited the address on Weaver’s IDP, as well as the man’s credit-card numbers and the nine-millimeter’s serial number. “It looks like a SIG Sauer P226, but there are no markings and no logo.”

“Got it. Next?”

Jack gave him Dr. Pezhman Abbasi’s name and particulars. “He’s at the University of Tehran. Whatever you can get on him.” Jack was tempted to ask for the same check on Seth, but he decided to hold off for now. “I’ve also got an e-mail for you to track.” He gave him the address for Ervaz. “Finally, I need you to run a license-plate trace. Can you do Iran?”

“Might take a bit longer, but I think so.”

Jack gave him the van’s plate number, as well as the partial wording on its side placard, then said, “Thanks. I’ll call you back.”

Jack hung up, then went into the convenience store, bought a prepaid cell phone, then returned to Ysabel’s apartment to find her sitting at the dining table.

Jack asked, “When did Seth give you Ervaz’s name and contact info?”

“About a month ago.”

This was about the same time Seth abandoned the Pardis condo, the one Spellman and Wellesley knew about, for the bolt-hole off Niavaran Park. “Did he say why he wanted you to have the name, when you should use it?”

“No. His brain was always going a mile a minute. He’d jump from one subject to the next. Sometimes I could barely get a word in. Sometimes it was like I wasn’t even talking.”

“That’s the ADHD,” Jack replied.

“That explains a lot.”

“Think back: Did his move to the bolt-hole coincide with something you gave him from your group?”

“Well, the group met once a week and I reported to Seth after each one, so it’s hard to say. He never showed much reaction to anything I gave him.” After a moment of silence, Ysabel stood up and headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms. “I’m going to have a shower.”

Jack removed his disposable cell phone from its blister pack, powered it up, then called Gavin and gave him the new number. Five minutes later the screen blinked with a text from Gavin: THIS NUMBER SWAPPED TO YOUR OLD NUMBER. Jack punched in Seth’s number and texted: IT’S JACK. CONTACT ME AT THIS NUMBER, ASAP.

Next he jotted a list of follow-ups on the pad:

Of these last two items Jack was uncertain. Digging into the ownership of the safe house would probably reveal nothing but a front, and the probing wouldn’t go unnoticed. He decided to back-burner this.

As for another meeting with Spellman and Wellesley, if in fact his kidnappers belonged to them, a second visit to the Zafaraniyeh district safe house might land him on the tarp again. Still, wanting to know if they’d heard from Seth was exactly what a friend would do.

And it might be worth the risk to gauge their reaction to his injured face — and to an unexpected visit.

After trying unsuccessfully to leave Ysabel at her apartment, Jack gave in and they took her second car, a dark blue Range Rover, to a nearby men’s clothing store and Jack bought a few changes of clothing — khakis, button-down shirts, and a windbreaker — before heading to the Zafaraniyeh. Ysabel parked three blocks away from Wellesley’s apartment, under a blooming linden tree.

Jack patted his side pocket and felt the reassuring heft of the nine-millimeter, then climbed out and shut the door.

“Remember,” Ysabel said through the open side window, “one call and I’ll be there.”

“Another drive-by strafing?”

“I have my methods.”

In a short eight hours Jack had learned that Ysabel Kashani was beautiful, smart, independent, and resourceful. As allies went, he couldn’t have hoped for more. Too good to be true? he wondered. If Ysabel wasn’t what she seemed, he hoped he would find out sooner rather than later.

“Give me thirty minutes, then start calling. If I don’t answer, call this number” — Ysabel powered up her phone and Jack recited Gavin Biery’s cell-phone number — “and tell him everything.”

“Starting with where you are.”

“Right.”

“Good luck.”

Jack walked the three blocks to Wellesley’s apartment building and pressed the call button for the correct apartment. Wellesley answered: “Yes?”

“Jack Ryan.”

“Come up.”

The door buzzed and Jack went through. When the elevator doors parted on the seventh floor, Wellesley was waiting. He led Jack into the apartment and offered him tea, which Jack declined. They sat down in the seating area before the windows. Spellman was nowhere in sight.

“Where’s Matt?”

“Elsewhere. Good heavens, Jack, what on earth happened to your face?”

Wellesley’s surprise seemed genuine enough. Which meant nothing.

They were on a first-name basis now, Jack noted. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. What he was about to say might permanently change the game. Whether he answered Wellesley’s question truthfully or with a lie, the SIS man’s reaction might tell Jack much. He decided on the former; it was the best way, he hoped, to maintain his babe-in-the-woods status with Wellesley and Spellman.

“Someone grabbed me last night. There were a couple of them.”

Wellesley leaned forward. “What? Where?”

“Seth’s apartment. Not the Pardis condo. A second one.”

“Go on.”

“I woke up in a van. I managed to get away from them and…” Jack touched his forehead and frowned. “I don’t remember much after that. A woman picked me up and then I… Well, I guess I did something pretty stupid.”

“Which was?”

“I went back to Seth’s apartment.”

“Why?”

“There was a safe in there. At lunch, Seth asked me to get it for him. I went back for it, but the safe was open. There was nothing inside, so I left.”

This was the weakest part of Jack’s story. While the man on the roof had neither seen Jack’s face nor heard his voice, the incident might in Wellesley’s eyes be too coincidental. Jack’s hope was that the SIS man assumed he was lying out of self-protection.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Seth’s other apartment?”

“How could I know you were who you claimed to be? Anyone can make up a business card. It means nothing.”

“Good point,” replied Wellesley.

“I have to ask, Raymond: I leave here and a few hours later I’m kidnapped. It looks bad.”

“I understand.” Wellesley lowered his head in thought, slowly rubbing his thumb over his chin. “But I can assure you, Jack, it wasn’t me.”

“You? Or you and Spellman.”

Wellesley didn’t reply. “Just be careful from now on, Jack. I can get you some protection if you’d like.”

“No, forget it.”

“If you change your mind, call me. And you should go to the hospital and have your head seen to.”

“Have you heard from Seth?”

“Sadly, no. As I said, we’re quite concerned. Did you try to contact him?”

“I texted him. I haven’t heard anything back. Listen, I have to be honest: I can’t believe he’s on the run with your money. That’s not the Seth I know. Could someone have taken him?”

“Perhaps, but we have no evidence of that. We think he left of his own accord.”

“Any idea where he might have gone? I could take a leave of absence from Hendley and—”

“And what, Jack? Hunt for him like you’re in a Ludlum novel? Jack, I do admire your dedication to your friend, but you need to let us handle this. Go about your business. Inform us if Seth makes contact. That’s all you can do.”

They stood up and shook hands. Wellesley walked him to the door and said good-bye.

Jack returned to Ysabel’s Range Rover and climbed in.

“Did they buy it?” she asked.

“It was just Wellesley. I think so, but that’s one cagey bastard. And if he was behind it, he deserves an Oscar.”

Jack’s disposable phone trilled. It was a text message. The screen read: IT’S SETH.

Jack typed: WHERE ARE YOU?

OUT OF TOWN.

SAFE?

Y, came Seth’s reply. FIND WHAT I LEFT FOR YOU?

Y.

WATCH YOUR BACK. WILL CALL LATER.

The screen went blank.

The place Helen had found for them, a run-down, side-alley garage with a cramped, two-bedroom flat above it, was private enough, but was filthy and stank of motor oil.

As Olik sat on the ratty plaid couch watching television, Helen finished cleaning the kitchen and putting away groceries, then started cooking lunch — beans and toast and grilled tomatoes, a UK staple, apparently. A good leader fed her troops, she thought.

From below came the honk of a car horn.

Helen said, “Olik, go.”

Olik headed down the stairs. Helen leaned over the railing and watched as he lifted the main door’s crossbar and swung open the double doors. The garage’s interior was lit by a lone fluorescent light suspended from the rafters. Outside, the alleyway’s cobbles were wet with rain.

The van rolled inside and Olik shut the doors. Yegor shut off the van’s engine and climbed out, as did Roma.

“I have it,” Yegor announced with a smile.

Yegor trotted up the stairs, shrugging off his coat as he went.

“Did you have any trouble?”

“Very little. The students have lockers. When she went to lunch, I jimmied the door to hers. No one saw me.” He drew a small notebook from his back pocket and handed it to Helen, who scanned the pages.

“Class schedule, dormitory room number, appointments…”

“There are only a few here.”

“The rest would be on her phone,” Yegor said. “I’m surprised they write anything down these days.”

“Which dormitory is she in?”

“Chancellors Court.”

“Good,” Helen replied.

She walked to a nearby cupboard, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a map of the university’s campus. She laid it on the kitchen table and traced her finger over the legend until she found Chancellors. “Right here. It’s part of the Pollock Halls complex. We need to see it up close. We’ll go when it’s dark.”