Tom Clancy Under Fire Read Free

her team, Roma, a last-minute addition, had been the only one chafing under her leadership. He was a zealot, and he thought like one. Theirs was a business of dispassion; Roma didn’t understand that. The man bore watching. Sooner or later she would have to put him in his place.
    They drove for a few minutes before turning onto Castle Street. Here, too, the sidewalk was lined with pubs and restaurants, though these were more subdued, geared to those students who disliked the “meat markets,” she knew.
Is that the correct term now, “meat markets”?
she wondered. She would check. Standing out was a hazard to be avoided.
    “My contact says her favorite spot is called The Stable,” she said.
    “Like for horses?” asked Olik.
    “Like for university students,” Helen answered. “There it is, Yegor, ahead on the left.”
    “I see it. Olik, Roma, look for her car. A red Mini Cooper with white hood stripes.”
    “How does she afford such a vehicle?” asked Roma.
    A gift from Daddy,
Helen thought but did not say. “Never mind that. Just keep your eyes open.”
    Yegor slowed the van. Moments later, from behind them came the impatient honking of car horns.
    “A little faster, Yegor,” Helen said, and he pressed the accelerator slightly. It wouldn’t do to be stopped by the police.
    “Wait, I think we just passed her car,” said Olik. “On the right.”
    Helen glanced in her side mirror. “Yes, that’s the one. Keep going, Yegor.”
    Yegor sped up, then turned left onto Frederick Street, where he found a parking space a block away from a petrol station. He put the van in park, shut off the engine, and checked his watch. “Now what?”
    “Now we wait,” replied Helen.
    Now we build a pattern.

Parsian Hotel Azadi, Tehran
    J ACK SAT BOLT UPRIGHT in bed and looked around.
Just someone at your door, Jack. Relax.
As much as he loved fieldwork, especially the high-adrenaline stuff, it did tend to put you in that zero-to-sixty mind-set.
    He exhaled and rolled his shoulders, then his neck. Hotel pillows never agreed with him.
    The knock on the door came again, polite but insistent. Jack checked the nightstand clock. Six in the morning. He rolled over, got to his feet, donned his terry-cloth robe, and headed for the door. “Who is it?”
    No answer, but another knock.
    “Who is it?” Jack repeated a little more firmly. There was no peephole. Isn’t that against fire code? It was in the United States, at least.
    “Mr. Jack Ryan?” The man’s accent was English.
    Jack didn’t respond.
    “Mr. Ryan, my name is Raymond Wellesley. May I speak to you for a few minutes?”
    “About what, Mr. Wellesley?”
    “Your friend Seth Gregory.”
    This got Jack’s attention.
    Wellesley said, “This is perhaps a matter best discussed in private.”
    Ease up, Jack.
If by some fluke there had been a coup overnight and these were in fact the Shah’s SAVAK back from the dead, he was screwed anyway. Plus, that kind of visitor didn’t knock.
    Jack unlocked the dead bolt, swung the latch, and opened the door. Standing before him was a short, middle-aged man with thinning brown hair. He wore a tailored dark blue British-cut suit. Savile Row, Jack decided.
    “Mr. Jack Ryan, yes?” said Raymond Wellesley.
    “Yes, come in.”
    Wellesley stepped through the door and strode across Jack’s suite to the sitting area beside the balcony windows. He carefully lowered himself into one of the club chairs and looked around as though checking for cleanliness.
    Jack shut the door and walked over.
    “Apologies for the early hour,” Wellesley said. “Pressing matters, I’m afraid. Good heavens, I’m sorry, would you care to see some identification?”
    “Please,” Jack replied. Something told him he was about to be handed a nondescript business card.
    He was right. The card read:
    RAYMOND L. WELLESLEY
    FOREIGN & COMMONWEALTH OFFICE
    KING CHARLES STREET
    LONDON SW1A 2AH
    UNITED KINGDOM
    [email protected]
    +44 20 7946 0690
    Though Britain