Tom Clancy Under Fire (14 page)

He rejoined Ysabel at the barrels. He lowered the nine-millimeter to his side.

“Satisfied?” said Ervaz. He was short and stocky, with a goatee.

“We’ll see,” said Jack. “Where is Seth?”

“I was hoping you could tell me. I haven’t heard from him for over a week. That is not like him.”

In his pants pocket, Jack’s phone vibrated. He pulled it out and checked the screen. It was a text from Seth:
WHERE ARE YOU?

Ervaz asked, “Is that him?”

Jack ignored him and typed,
TELL ME HOW YOU’RE DOING, SETH.
In reply, a trio of question marks appeared on the screen.

Jack repeated his last message, this time in all caps.

Another few seconds passed, then:
SHARP STICK, JACK.

Jack smiled. He was texting with Seth, the real one.
OUTSIDE NEMIN,
he replied.
MEETING ERVAZ.

Seth’s response was immediate:
RUN.

J
ACK FELT
his gorge rise into his throat. He suppressed it. “No, it’s not him,” he told Ervaz.

“I don’t believe you.”

Behind Ervaz, one of the men took a half-step to the right. He was clearing himself for a clean shot-line.

Jack half raised the nine-millimeter in his direction. “Don’t.”

Ervaz said, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

Jack didn’t reply.

“Tell me where Seth is.”

The man behind Ervaz took another sidestep.

“One more step and I’ll drop you!” Jack barked.

Ervaz repeated calmly, “Where is Seth?”

Jack heard the roar of a car engine somewhere to his right. He resisted the impulse to look and kept his focus on Ervaz and his men. To Ysabel, he asked, “Where is it?”

“Coming down the driveway. Fast, one SUV, headlights off. What should we do?”

Jack’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen:
RUN!

In unison the men behind Ervaz reached into their coats.

Jack shouted, “Ysabel, get to the house!”

Jack turned slightly right, double-tapped the man behind Ervaz, then adjusted aim, fired a third round at the fleeing Ervaz, then backstepped behind the barrels and crouched. A trio of bullets slammed into the steel lip. Jack felt a sting in his eye. To his right, a pair of headlights came on, pinning him. He glanced that way, saw the SUV’s grille twenty feet away and closing fast.

Jack turned on his heel, coiled his legs under him, and sprinted toward the farmhouse. Ysabel was almost through the door. He heard a crash of metal on metal, then a hollow gong as the steel drums scattered. Then three gunshots, followed by two more. Jack reached the door, ducked through, and turned right and pressed himself against the inside wall. He peeked around the jamb.

The SUV had come to a stop, half hidden in a cloud of dust. From the barn came flashes of orange. Jack saw the driver’s door open; then, a moment later, came the chattering of an assault rifle. The gun’s muzzle flare lit up the front of the SUV. From the passenger side, another rifle opened up, the bullets peppering the front of the barn.

The rifles went silent. A voice shouted, “I’ve got two down, two down!”

“Check them!” came the reply.

From the SUV’s passenger side, a figure crossed in front of the headlights and disappeared into the barn. After a moment came a lone gunshot, then a second one. The man emerged from the barn.

“They’re done,” he called.

“Strip them,” the man at the driver’s door replied, then shouted, “Jack! You there?”

It was Seth.

“I’m here!” he called back, then whispered to Ysabel, “Stay put. Same deal: If there’s shooting, run for the car.”

“But Jack, that’s him. I recognize the voice.”

“Just do what I say. I’m coming out, Seth.”

With the nine-millimeter hanging at his side, Jack stepped out the front door.

Seth called, “Nice to see you alive, Jack.” He turned around, opened the SUV’s rear door, and dropped the assault rifle inside. Jack stuffed the nine-millimeter into his jacket pocket and walked over.

Seth walked up, embraced him briefly, then said, “Sorry about all that. Wow, what a rush, huh?”

“Christ, man, you almost ran me over.”

“Better than a sharp SUV in the eye, though.”

Despite himself, Jack laughed.

“Hey, you look like hell; looks like you’ve already been run over once. And your eyebrow’s bleeding.”

Jack touched the spot with his index finger and felt something hard just beneath the skin. “Splinter from one of the barrels, I think. By the way, Ysabel’s here.”

“Thank God. I hoped you’d find her, but I wasn’t sure. Listen, we gotta get out of here. The gendarmerie out here is on the ball.”

Seth’s partner came out of the barn and walked over, his assault rifle cradled diagonally across his body.

Seth said, “Jack, I think you’ve met Matt Spellman.”

“Good to see you again, Jack.”

W
ITH JACK AND YSABEL
following in her Mercedes, Seth led them northeast away from Nemin and higher into the Elburz Mountains until they could see snowcapped peaks appear in the distance.

“Where is he going?” Ysabel said. “We’re almost to the Azerbaijan border.”

“No idea,” Jack replied, but decided if Seth didn’t stop before the border, they would. It was time for some answers.

“Jack, is that really Spellman?”

“That’s him.”

“Then why are we following him? He sent Balaclava and Weaver to snatch you in a van that belongs to Ervaz, tried to kill you at Pardis, then kills Ervaz back at the farm. Are you sure we should be trusting him?”

“No, I’m not, but Seth seems to.”

“I’m not sure that means anything anymore,” Ysabel whispered under her breath. “I really don’t know how you do what you do. I’m starting to think no one is trustworthy.”

Welcome to the rabbit hole,
Jack thought.

After another ten minutes of driving, Seth’s SUV pulled off the road and into what Jack guessed was a scenic overlook. Out his window he could see a steep-sided valley cloaked in fog. Seth and Spellman climbed out; Jack and Ysabel did the same, and the group met at the SUV’s hood.

Spellman had left his assault rifle in the vehicle, Jack saw.

“You look great, Ysabel,” Seth said, coming around to give her a hug. She backed away from him. He held up his hands, said, “Okay, okay, I understand,” then returned to where he was standing.

Seth said, “Jack, you’re going to want some answers, I’m guessing.”

“Damned right.”

Jack pulled the nine-millimeter from his pocket and laid it on the SUV’s hood with a dull thunk. He kept his hand on it.

“Easy, Jack. What’s—”

“Fuck easy. Spellman, you’d better start talking.”

“What’s going on, Jack?” said Seth.

“It’s okay,” Spellman replied. “I can put your mind at ease, Jack.”

“Make it good.”

“Three nights ago at Pardis Condos,” Spellman began, “there were three shots fired. One took off that man’s head—”

“Balaclava,” Ysabel interrupted.

“His real name was Scott Hilby, he’s ex–Royal Marines. After he went down, there were two more shots, one into the rear corner post of the Range Rover. The third one I didn’t see. The fourth shot never came. You were sprawled face-first on the sidewalk. You and Ysabel headed north on Rajaei Boulevard—”

Ysabel broke in: “How do you know my name? Seth, you gave him my—”

“After that, I lost you.”

“That means nothing except one of your people was there,” said Jack. “Along with Balaclava and the sniper.”

“I assume you went into Seth’s condo?”

Jack nodded.

“There was a man in the bathtub with a hole in his forehead.”

“David Weaver,” Jack replied.

“Not his real name, I’m sure,” Spellman replied. “I don’t know what it is. His Albany address is fake.”

“Tell me what I found on the roof,” Jack pushed.

Spellman smiled at this. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Jack. Southeast corner of the roof, about eighteen inches back from the edge, I dumped a gallon of bleach, then covered the blood pool with gravel. There was a hole in the tarpaper, but no bullet.”

“Wait a second. You said you dumped it? That was you up there?”

“I’ve had to wear a few different hats since this thing started.”

Matt Spellman was his ice-cold guardian angel. Or not.

“Keep going.”

“The weapon Weaver used was a L115A3 Lapua—standard issue for British Army snipers, sans markings. It’s in the back of our car, if you want to see it. Satisfied?”

“Mostly.”

Ysabel said, “What exactly is ‘this thing’ you mentioned, Mr. Spellman?”

“Matt. We’ll get to that.”

Jack asked Seth, “Why did you kill Ervaz?”

“First of all, that wasn’t Ervaz. Right now, I just want to make sure we’re all friends again.”

“That’s a bit of a stretch,” replied Ysabel. “Do you have any idea what you’ve put us through? Any idea at all?”

“No, I don’t. You can tell me all about it later. We need to get across the border. I’ve got somewhere safe we can go.”

“I didn’t bring my passport,” Ysabel said sarcastically.

“You won’t need it,” Spellman replied.

“What’s across the border?” Jack asked.

“Someone I want you to meet,” said Seth.

•   •   •

THEIR CROSSING
into Azerbaijan was surprisingly uneventful, a mere twenty-minute drive through a winding mountain pass, then down into a valley. No spotlit checkpoints, no guards, not even a sign to let Jack know they’d left Iran. He kept his eye on Ysabel’s dashboard compass, but after the tenth switchback curve Jack gave up.

Finally Seth pulled the SUV onto a short dirt road that opened into a clearing with three rust-streaked Quonset huts and a wooden tower, atop which sat a roofed platform. This place was a forestry service camp, he guessed. Either that or an old border outpost.

He and Ysabel climbed out. The air was much colder; their breath steamed around them. They followed Seth and Spellman into the smallest of the three huts. The interior was lit by a pair of kerosene lanterns hanging from a rafter above a workbench with a scarred and stained top.

The group gathered around it.

Ysabel said, “Seth, do you have a pair of tweezers, a pocket knife? And some alcohol?”

“Yeah, hang on.” He walked to a nearby cabinet.

“Jack, sit down on that stool. Don’t argue.”

Jack did as instructed. Seth returned with a pair of fine needle-nose pliers and a half-pint bottle of vodka. With her index finger under Jack’s chin, she turned his face toward the glow of the lantern, dipped the tip of the pliers into the bottle, then into the wound in his eyebrow, and plucked out the splinter. Jack winced.

“Done,” she said, then handed Jack the vodka bottle. “Clean it.”

She set the pliers aside and turned to face Seth, her hands on her hips. “How did we get across so easily? I thought the border was better guarded than that, and I live here.”

“What’s with the attitude, Ysabel?” Seth replied. “Why’re you mad at me?”

“Because you’re an asshole, that’s why.”

“What?”

Spellman interrupted and answered her question. “Iran’s got almost thirty-five hundred miles of border, a good chunk of it with Iraq, Afghanistan, and Turkey. Your new president’s got bigger worries than a border with a mostly friendly neighbor.”

Jack said, “You said you wanted me to meet someone, Seth. Where are they?”

“He’s late. Crossing borders is a little harder for him.”

“Tell us what this is all about.”

“Better to let our guest get here first,” Spellman replied, “but I’ll tell you this, Raymond Wellesley ain’t a friend of ours.”

“Us or America’s?”

“Both. Jack, you two had breakfast yesterday. What did he tell you? That one of his men saved you at Pardis?”

“Yeah.”

“Think it through. Did he give you any details that he couldn’t have gotten from the news?”

“No, he didn’t.” Jack shook his head, frustrated. Wellesley hadn’t offered any details because the two men who could’ve provided them were dead. “I should have caught that.”

“Nah, listen, Wellesley’s a master at this and he’s been doing it for thirty years. Let me take a wild guess, Jack: He threw me under the bus?”

“Subtly. Weaver’s address, the American accents . . .”

Seth said, “And after you almost get killed Wellesley shows up, the sympathetic White Knight, and hands you a common enemy.”

Unbidden, a sentence popped into Jack’s head: “You haven’t the stomach for it.” That was what Scott Hilby had said to Jack moments before the kill shot had come. Not “You haven’t got the stomach for it.” The phrasing was British. There was no doubt now: Hilby and Weaver belonged to Wellesley.

Jack asked them both, “Did you know they snatched me up?”

“When?” asked Spellman.

“The night after the three of us met. They were at Niavaran Park, trying to get in your safe.”

“Shit,” Seth muttered. “Did they get in?”

“No.”

“Niavaran Park?” Spellman repeated. “Seth, what’s he talking about?”

“I have a place you and Wellesley didn’t know about.”

“Clearly, Wellesley knew about it,” Jack replied.

“Do you know where they were taking you?” asked Spellman.

Ysabel answered, “North of the city, up the Shomal Freeway. They were headed east on a dirt road outside Keshar-e Sofla when I caught up with them. Does that matter?”

“It might. Let me look into it.”

Jack said, “Tell me about Ervaz.”

Seth hesitated, then said, “I don’t know who that was back there, but it wasn’t Ervaz. Probably one of his heavies. Ervaz is actually a guy named Farid Rasulov—”

“We know that. Hamrah Engineering.”

“He’s also two other people: Suleiman Balkhi and—”

Ysabel said, “The Bayqara Group. We know that’s fake.”

“Well, he’s none of the above. His real name is Oleg Pechkin. He’s SVR,” Seth said, referring to Russia’s foreign intelligence service.

•   •   •

JACK TOOK
a few moments to digest this. The revelation made things both easier and more treacherous. They’d just consolidated four names into one, but that name had also put the Russians firmly on the playing field.

Once again Jack found himself assembling puzzle pieces in his head: Pechkin ordered Yazdani’s van be used by a pair of kidnappers supplied by Wellesley, who was working hand-in-glove with Pechkin.

“I’ve been playing cat-and-mouse with Pechkin for almost a year,” Seth said.

“Who’s the cat and who’s the mouse?”

Seth shrugged. “It’s only been in the last few weeks I discovered he was also Ervaz, and that he was connected to Hamrah.”

“And to Raymond Wellesley,” Spellman added.

“What’s so special about Hamrah, anyway?” asked Ysabel.

“Easy access,” Seth replied. “Hamrah does all the Parsabad–Artezian railway project surveys, from Parsabad in the south, all the way north past Makhachkala. With my degree, getting hired was a snap. I can cross the borders like I’m crossing the street.”

Jack said, “Get to the point, Seth. What’s it about?”

“Self-determination.”

From outside came the crunching of tires on the dirt road. Spellman trotted to the hut’s partially open door and peeked out. “It’s them,” he called over his shoulder. “Medzhid and two bodyguards.”

Instinctively, Jack put his hand in his pocket and gripped the butt of the nine-millimeter, then changed his mind and pulled his hand back out. Seth saw this.

“You’ve got to trust somebody sometime, Jack.”

“I do,” Jack replied, and tilted his head toward Ysabel.

“I’m not setting you up, Jack. Not on my life.”

“You’ve already done that,” Ysabel shot back. “Three times.”

“Necessities of war.”

Before Jack could respond, the hut’s door swung open and three men strode inside. Spellman led them to the workbench. As the lead man stepped into the lantern’s light, Jack saw he was tall, broad-shouldered, with perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair and a square jaw. He was, Jack thought, movie-star handsome. Despite probably being in his late fifties, Medzhid looked ten years younger than that.