Tom Clancy Under Fire (47 page)

Baku, Azerbaijan

J
ACK WASN’T SURE
it qualified for the strict definition of irony, but in the end Raymond Wellesley’s obsession over derailing the coup, which was matched only by Seth’s obsession to see it succeed, would be the SIS man’s downfall.

The fact that Wellesley had chosen to use the Four Seasons Baku as his bolt-hole after leaving Makhachkala made Jack wonder if there was something to Jung’s theory of synchronicity after all.

“I love it when a plan comes together,” Ysabel said, taking a sip from her coffee cup.

“I’m not celebrating until I see him step off that elevator,” Jack replied.

From their position in one of the lobby’s seating areas, they had a perfect view of where Wellesley was to emerge.

Jack only hoped that wherever Seth Gregory had gone, he was watching what was about to unfold—especially since it was Seth who’d made it possible. His seemingly trivial act of making off with the coup’s operational funds had been the final nail in Wellesley’s coffin.

Having invested so much time and effort in trying to stop the coup, Wellesley had chosen to tap into his own private operational war chest, funds that were themselves suspect. Gavin Biery and Matt Spellman, working in conjunction with a recovering but still hospitalized Medzhid, and Medzhid’s counterpart in Azerbaijan’s own Ministry of the Interior, had managed to penetrate Pacific Alliance Group, the front company Wellesley had used to lease his nerve center schoolhouse in downtown Makhachkala. From there, the rest of the dominoes had fallen in rapid succession—through Pacific Alliance Group, Wellesley had not only hired the
Igarka
to transport the Kvant to Makhachkala, but also paid, in person, the owner of the flatbed truck that was to take the Kvant to yet another PAG-leased building from which the Kvant was to track Seth’s hubs for the Krasukhas on the ridge above Makhachkala. Finally, Wellesley had used funds from Pacific Alliance Group to rent the only available property outside the village of Keshar-e Sofla, a cabin at the end of the lonely dirt road where Ysabel had ambushed Jack’s kidnappers.

At Gerry Hendley’s request, Mary Pat Foley had presented this evidence to the chief of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service, who, as it turned out, had recently initiated a covert probe into Wellesley’s extracurricular financial activities.

While Gavin and the others had found no proof that Wellesley had received compensation from the Russian SVR, Jack suspected that evidence would eventually be found. In men like Raymond Wellesley, hubris always trumped hypocrisy.

“Are you sure we can’t shoot him?” Ysabel asked. “Even just a little bit?”

Jack smiled. “Tempting as it is, no. I’m already on thin ice with my boss.”

“There he is,” Ysabel murmured, nodding toward the bank of elevators.

Dressed in khaki trousers and a blue oxford shirt and carrying a leather valise draped over his shoulder, Wellesley looked more like a visiting businessman than an intelligence operative who may or may not be on the run. Though Gavin had been able to pin down the front end of Wellesley’s travel arrangements, his destination was a mystery. However, unless they’d missed some detail, it appeared the SIS man assumed he was in the clear.

Wellesley strode past them, pushed through the revolving doors, and headed to the waiting black ZiL limousine. The driver opened the rear door, shut it behind Wellesley, then walked around to the driver’s side.

Jack’s phone chimed with a text message:
READY WHENEVER YOU ARE.

Jack and Ysabel stood up and walked out of the lobby. Jack opened the ZiL’s rear door and leaned in. “Morning, Raymond.”

Wellesley’s face went pale. “Jack, what are you—”

“Do you mind if we join you? Ysabel, after you.”

Ysabel climbed in and took the seat opposite Wellesley. Jack did the same and shut the door. He asked, “Are you carrying?”

Wellesley seemed to have regained his composure. His shocked expression was gone, replaced by the smug half-smile Jack had seen many times since meeting the SIS man. “No, Jack, I’m not armed.”

“That’s good, because our driver is.”

“I see. What’s your plan, then? Take me out into the countryside, shoot me, then bury me?”

“It worked for Oleg Pechkin.”
Sort of.

“Who?”

Ysabel said, “You know, Mr. Wellesley, Seth was right about you: You’re too arrogant for your own good.”

“Ah . . . How is Seth, by the way?”

“Dead,” Jack replied.
But already on his way home,
he thought. He and Ysabel would be back in Virginia in time for the funeral.

“Sorry to hear that. I actually liked Seth. He reminded me of a younger, more crass, less intelligent version of myself. Come to think of it, he was nothing like me. But the man had vision, I will say that.”

Jack clenched his jaw, but was careful to keep his face impassive. “Things have a way of working out, Raymond,” he said, then called out, “Dom, we’re ready.”

“On our way,” Dom replied.

•   •   •

THEY SAT IN SILENCE,
Jack’s eyes never leaving Wellesley’s. By the time they reached Heydar Aliyev International Airport’s charter terminal, the SIS man was shifting nervously in his seat.

Dom pulled through the rolling gate, then turned right through an open garage door and into a dimly lit hangar. Through the window Jack could see a gleaming white Gulfstream 650 jet with its folding stairs extended. Standing at the bottom of the steps were a pair of trim, broad-shouldered men in navy blue suits.

Wellesley glanced out the window. “What are you playing at, Jack?”

Ysabel replied, “This is your plane, isn’t it?”

“It is. This is perhaps the worst kidnapping in history, you know that, don’t you?”

Jack ignored him. He checked his watch: 8:20 a.m.

“Raymond, five minutes ago, e-mail and text messages went out to forty-two thousand Makhachkala citizens. In an hour, they’re going to be on the streets, surrounding every government building; in ninety minutes, President Nabiyev will be announcing his resignation. In two hours, Rebaz Medzhid will be on every radio and television network in the country. In six hours, every major network and social media site in the world will be streaming the coup, live and in color.”

“Good Lord, Jack, you’re not a very fast learner, are you? Volodin will simply order the border garrisons back in—”

“He may indeed. It won’t matter. Those garrisons will never come within fifty miles of Makhachkala. Medzhid and the military governor have come to an understanding. If Volodin wants to put boots on the ground in Dagestan, he’ll have to fly them in—an order which has gotten a little stickier.”

“What does that mean?”

“Over the last twenty-four hours Volodin’s foreign minister has been visited by or has heard from ambassadors from the United States, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, and China. I’m paraphrasing, but the message was simple: You’ve had your fun in Crimea, Ukraine, and Estonia. Don’t push your luck.”

“That won’t scare him.”

“Probably not, but he’s no idiot, either. He’s going to have to make a choice: let Dagestan go and hopefully maintain a cordial relationship—something I think Medzhid will be open to—and easy access to Caspian oil, or march in, crush yet another republic that simply wants freedom, and take his chances with the backlash he’ll get from a new crop of Dagestani insurgent groups, not to mention the nasty ones already in Chechnya and Georgia—as well as the non-Federation Caspian governments who’ll like the idea of another free country sitting beside the basin’s deposits. My guess is Volodin will make the smart move and keep the crude flowing.”

“That’s a big gamble, Jack.”

“The Dagestani people are willing to roll the dice.”

Wellesley shook his head sadly. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You’ve turned this whole region into a terrorist incubator.”

“That may be,” Jack replied. “If so, we’ll hunt them where they are—just like we always do. You’ve got no faith, Raymond. The West doesn’t need Volodin, and it never will.”

Jack scooted forward and opened Wellesley’s door. “Time to go home, Raymond.”

Wellesley climbed out, followed by Jack and Ysabel, who said, “Travel safe, Mr. Wellesley.”

The SIS man gave them a puzzled expression, then turned to head toward the plane. Blocking his way were the two blue-suited men. The older of the two said, “Mr. Raymond Wellesley, I’m placing you in custody for suspicion of violating the Official Secrets Act.”

“Pardon me?”

“Turn around, sir, and surrender your bag.”

The younger man placed his hands on Wellesley’s shoulders and jerked him around so he was facing Jack and Ysabel. As the SIS man felt the handcuffs ratchet into place, his face went blank. “What the bloody hell is this, Ryan?”

“You were careless with your money,” Jack replied. “You wrote one too many checks on your Pacific Alliance Group account.”

“You bastard!”

With one hand on each of Wellesley’s biceps, the two SIS men frog-marched him to the Gulfstream, up the steps, and through the door, which closed a few moments later. As the gap closed, Jack heard Wellesley cry, “. . . bloody fools, don’t you—”

Dom called, “Anybody for breakfast?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Ysabel replied.

Dom climbed back into the driver’s seat.

Ysabel said to Jack, “Have you decided where we’re going?”

“I’m going to leave it up to you. I’ve got two weeks’ vacation and I’m taking every second of it.”

Ysabel nodded, pursed her lips as she thought. “Matt’s suggestion of Tahiti works for me.”

Jack smiled. “Me, too.”

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