Tom Clancy Under Fire (28 page)

The waiter appeared with glasses of ice water and a stainless-steel pitcher beaded with condensation. Jack placed his phone on the table. As he’d hoped, the restaurant’s lunch hour had passed and there were only six other patrons, only two of them close by.

Jack’s phone vibrated.
IN PLACE,
Ysabel texted.
I CAN SEE YOU. WAVE, HANDSOME.

He suppressed a smile and touched his ear.

At two exactly, Raymond Wellesley walked in and spoke briefly to the hostess, who showed him to the table. “Hello, Jack.”

“Raymond.”

A pair of men in black leather coats stepped through the restaurant door. Ignoring the hostess, they took a table ten feet behind Wellesley’s chair.

Subtle,
Jack thought.

“Have you ordered?” Wellesley asked.

“I thought I’d wait for you.”

They stared at each other across the table, the SIS with a half-smile on his face, until the waiter had returned and taken their orders.

“Cards on the table,” Jack said.

“Agreed. Jack, what are you doing here? You have no idea what you’ve got yourself involved in.”

“I have some idea.”

“I assume Seth and Matt are here as well?”

“Not here, but around. Raymond, why are you trying to derail all this? The outcome will be good for everyone.”

“Not if our Moscow friend does what we expect he’ll do.”

“He won’t.”
I hope,
Jack thought but didn’t say.

Wellesley shook his head sadly and chuckled. “American hubris. You never consider the potential blowback. I thought your father was smarter than this.”

“I can’t speak for him, but you’re wrong. We’ve calculated the odds just as you guys have. It’s a gamble worth taking. And this is something the people here want.”

“Want?” Wellesley repeated. “Desire can be manufactured. These people don’t know what they want until they’re told.”

“You take a dim view of ‘these people.’ We don’t.”

“That’s irrelevant. It will fail, what you have planned.”

“I guess we’re going to find out.”

Their food arrived. Once the waiter finished arranging the dishes and was gone Jack said, “That was some cold business back in Tehran. Luckily for him, Scott Hilby never knew what hit him. What was it, you were afraid he might talk to me?”

Wellesley said, “Jack, are you trying to play James Bond again? You’re hoping to get a recorded confession for something I wasn’t involved in?”

Jack pushed his phone across the table to Wellesley. The phone’s screen read 2:09. “Check for yourself.”

Wellesley waved his hand dismissively. “You’re smarter than that. By the way, does your father know you’re not a . . . Remind me of your title again. Arbitrage specialist?”

Jack glanced at his watch: 2:10. No call.
Come on, Gavin, give me something.

Jack didn’t respond to Wellesley’s question, but instead asked his own: “You haven’t heard from David Weaver, have you?”

He saw a flicker of doubt in Wellesley’s eyes. “I don’t know who that is.”

“He knows who you are. Apparently, he and Hilby were close. You ordering him to blow off the top of Hilby’s head is eating him up inside.”

Jack glanced at his watch: 2:12.

Wellesley said, “You’re lying. Otherwise I would have already been called home.”

“Not if what you’re doing isn’t sanctioned. I think you’re out here trying to set national policy.”

Wellesley’s cell phone chimed. He finished chewing the piece of chicken in his mouth, said, “Excuse me, please,” then pulled the phone from his inner suit pocket. He studied the screen for a few moments, typed a reply, and then returned the phone to his pocket.

“Jack, since Nine-Eleven both our governments have shared a unified policy when it comes to terrorism, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

“Like him or not, Valeri Volodin knows how to handle terrorism—he crushes it where he finds it. If you believe the Caucasus is troublesome now, imagine the region with someone other than Volodin at the helm. That is what keeps me up at night, Jack, as it should our leaders. Sadly, it does not.”

Raymond Wellesley had in essence just admitted he had indeed gone rogue. Even so, the confession wouldn’t be enough to indict him in the eyes of his government. While Wellesley was objectively right about Volodin’s stance on terrorism, the man’s larger national policies, dominated by blunt aggression, would eventually spill beyond the borders of the Russian Federation. If that happened, terrorism would be the least of everyone’s worries.

“So, to directly answer your earlier question: Do you really imagine someone of my standing would betray Her Majesty’s government?”

“You suggested Paul Gregory had done just that, and he had more years of service than you do. And he was a better man than you.”

“You mean Paul Gregory, aka Boghos Grigorian? I am nothing like him. Tell me, Jack, how is Seth faring? Stable, rational?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of course he is. Did he tell you where he got his father’s coup manual? No, on second thought, he probably didn’t.”

Jack felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. It had been Wellesley. Via Oleg Pechkin, the SIS had given Seth the manual. He’d done his research on Seth, had found his weak spot, then planted the seed and nurtured it into an obsession.
Bastard.

There was no telling how much of Seth’s planning had been guided by Wellesley’s deft hand—or how many of their own countermoves he and Pechkin had prepared. Wellesley was playing a chess game he might have already won.

Jack said, “You give yourself too much credit, Raymond.”

“As you said, I guess we’re going to find out. Jack, none of this needs to happen. You abort, we’ll do the same, and we all go home, no harm done.”

Jack was surprised Wellesley thought he’d buy such a blatant lie.

“That’s a call way above my pay grade. I’m here for the duration.”

Wellesley put down his fork and carefully folded his napkin. “Jack, I think it’s time you come with me.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Yes, it is. Stand up, Jack.”

“What’s your plan, Raymond, a gunfight right here?”

“No, we’ll just walk you out to the car and drive away.” Wellesley turned and nodded at his bodyguards. They stood and walked to the table.

“Time to go, Jack.”

As if by magic, Dominic Caruso appeared and took up station to their left, his sight line to both them and Wellesley clear. Dom said cheerily, “Hi, guys.”

In unison the bodyguards slid their hands into their jackets.

“Don’t,” Dom said.

Jack glanced sideways and saw Dom had his Ruger tucked behind his left leg, the muzzle just visible.

Jack told Wellesley, “Seth was right about you: You’re too cocky for your own good.”

Scowling, Wellesley stood up. “We’ll see each other later, Jack.”

Jack gave the SIS man a parting shot he hoped would shake the man’s calm: “Come find us.”

•   •   •

BACK AT THE OPEL,
Jack first recounted the meeting for Ysabel, then called Gavin, who asked, “Did it go through?”

Going into the lunch date, Jack had one primary goal: to definitively sort out the two landline telephone numbers they’d collected from their Khasavyurt trip, Dobromir’s contact for Wellesley and Helen’s line to Pechkin, which was the same one Osin was to call after the raid.

“Yes,” Jack answered. “Wellesley answered the two-twelve call.”

“Okay, good. That’s the number Dobromir had for him. Cocky bastard hasn’t even bothered to change it.”

“What did you text?”

“What you told me to: ‘I’m Dobromir, I’m pissed, Helen’s in a Scottish jail, and I want answers.’ I don’t see what good this is going to do us, though.”

“It’ll rattle Wellesley’s confidence. By now they probably know Aminat’s home safe, but as far as they’re concerned Helen could be alive and talking to Scotland Yard. This is just one more thing for them to worry about.”

“And waste time on. Got it. Okay, the other number: When it rang through I got that generic female voice asking for a text message. I put in, ‘Khasavyurt raid negative. Umarov suspicious. Instructions?’ I haven’t heard back yet.”

Jack now knew something about how Wellesley and Pechkin were operating in Makhachkala. Wellesley’s cell, and probably Pechkin’s as well, depending on whether Gavin got a response, were being routed through landlines, perhaps from inside Wellesley’s Chirpoy Road apartment. If so, Jack might have identified their war room.

He asked, “What did Wellesley text back?”

“He told Dobromir to sit tight and he would find out what was going on.”

“Let me know when you hear back from Pechkin.”

•   •   •

JACK AND YSABEL
returned to the Tortoreto apartment. When they stepped off the elevator, Vasim and Anton were at their usual posts.

“Hi, guys,” Jack said.

Anton nodded at him.

“I don’t think I got a chance to say this, but you did good work back in Georgia. I was glad to have you along.”

This seemed to break the ice. Vasim gave him the barest trace of a smile and said, “Thank you.”

“Where did you two serve before joining the minister’s detail?”

“Novolaksky district, near the Chechen border.”

“Both of you?”

“Yes,” said Anton.

“Pretty tough area,” said Jack. “You sure as hell earned this posting, didn’t you?”

Now Anton opened up a bit: “We have many years of service.”

Jack got out his phone. “I just realized I don’t have your mobiles. It would probably be a good idea.”

“Ask Minister Medzhid.”

“No problem, I understand,” said Jack. “Anyway, thanks again.”

He and Ysabel went through the door; as it closed behind them she said, “What was that all about?”

“Just making friends.”

He texted Dom:
STATUS?

AT CHIRPOY ROAD,
came the reply.
NO ACTIVITY.

THANKS FOR THE ASSIST EARLIER.

NO PROB. FUN TIMES.

I’LL RELIEVE YOU AT SEVEN.

They walked to the conference table, where Seth and Spellman were sitting.

“Where’ve you been?” asked Spellman.

“Having lunch with Raymond Wellesley.”

Seth’s head snapped around. “What? Why the hell did you do that?”

“To plant a few seeds,” said Jack. “And I learned something: We’ve got them more nervous than we thought. He tried to snatch me from the restaurant.”

“Ballsy fucker. Was Pechkin with him?”

“No, just a couple leather jackets.”

One of Medzhid’s pantsuited assistants came down the hallway. “Mr. Gregory, the minister would like to see you.”

Seth told Jack, “We’re doing radio and TV call-ins. They’ve started tossing him softballs now, so I think we’ve turned the corner.”

Seth got up and followed the assistant back toward Medzhid’s mini-suite. Once he was out of sight, Jack said, “We’ve got a problem, Matt. Wellesley’s the one who gave Seth the coup manual. He’s been playing Seth from the start.”

“Ah, holy crap,” Spellman said, and groaned. “Not that I doubted it, but man, Wellesley’s good. I’d hate to play chess with the guy.”

Ysabel replied, “I think we already are.”

Looking at the CIA man’s face, Jack decided the frustrated expression he wore was genuine. Under the frequent hammering of John Clark’s “Trust your gut” mantra, Jack had developed, he thought, solid instincts. His were now telling him Spellman was one of the good guys. This was a relief; they needed someone trustworthy in Medzhid’s true inner circle.

While Wellesley’s admission that he’d been jerking Seth’s emotional strings removed any doubt for Jack about his friend’s allegiance, he was more worried than ever about Seth’s stability.

“Does this mean Wellesley has the whole plan?” asked Ysabel.

“Yes and no,” replied Spellman. “Yeah, Paul Gregory’s plan was ahead of its time, but it couldn’t have taken into account things like social media, the Internet, how far propaganda methods have come, and so on. I’m sure Wellesley knows our plan will rely heavily on that stuff, but he doesn’t know the nitty-gritty.”

“Such as?” Jack asked.

“We’ve got the city rigged with satellite Internet and generators at coordination points in case Nabiyev shuts down the ISPs and the electrical grid, which I’m sure he will. For years we’ve been assembling mailing lists in the capital—about sixty thousand people, most of them twentysomethings who want big change, who’ll get an e-mail blast when our social media goes live. We’ve got plenty of bandwidth and servers prepped for the traffic. An hour after the blast, pictures and vids of the protest will be flooding Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and Tumblr. If Nabiyev orders in troops from the garrison and it gets ugly, the whole world will be watching it.”