Tom Clancy Under Fire Read Free Page B

suggested and continued down the damp sidewalk. The few passersby he saw, mostly Europeans in casual sport coats and trousers, offered him a perfunctory smile. The locals were a mix of men and women, the latter wearing no headscarves at all, simply nodding. No smiles. Neither friendly nor unfriendly. A good sign, Jack knew. He had chosen his attire in hopes of blending in.
    At one-fifty, Jack made his way to the correct address, an apartment fronted by granite columns and a line of neatly trimmed squared hedges. He climbed the steps into the tiled foyer and found the intercom panel. He pressed the button labeled
VII
. A moment later a voice said, “Come up, Mr. Ryan.”
    Good guess or foresight?
Jack thought.
Assume the latter, Jack.
    The foyer’s inner door let out a soft buzz. Jack opened it, stepped through, and followed the carpeted runner to the elevator, an old-style accordion-gated elevator that took him to the seventh floor and another tiled foyer. As the gate parted, a door across from him opened, revealing Raymond Wellesley.
    “Early is punctual,” he said. “A man after my own heart. Come in.”
    Jack followed Wellesley inside and down a short hallway to a spacious room decorated in what Jack could only describe as gray, with furniture and decor that were neither British nor Persian, neither colorless nor vibrant. A perfectly forgettable safe house with furnishings that came with the place, Jack thought.
    He stopped at the entrance of the room and looked around. To his left a pair of hallways led back to what he guessed were bedrooms; to his right was an alcove minibar. Standing beside a sectional couch area in front of the windows was a second man of medium height, with dark cropped hair and a heavy beard. His face was deeply tanned, as though he spent more time outdoors than he did indoors.
    Wellesley said, “Jack, may I introduce Matthew Spellman.”
    Spellman stepped around the couch and extended his hand. “Matt.”
    “Jack Ryan.”
    “Coffee, Mr. Ryan?” Wellesley asked.
    “Thanks.”
    They settled into the sitting room, Jack taking a wingback chair, Spellman on the couch opposite him. Wellesley poured Jack a cup of coffee from the carafe on the low table between them, then joined Spellman on the couch.
    Jack raised his mug in a half-toast. “To Anglo-American cooperation.”
    “Let’s hope so,” Wellesley replied.
    Having already guessed Wellesley was SIS, Jack surmised Spellman was CIA. Whatever Seth Gregory had done or was suspected of doing, his friend had attracted some powerful attention. Jack was tempted to take a hard line, to demand answers, but he knew it would get him nowhere, not yet. Moreover, aggression might only pique their interest in him. Better to let his hosts make some progress on their agenda.
    “Just so there’s no misunderstanding,” Spellman began, “we know who you are.”
    “And who am I?”
    “First Son of President Ryan.”
    “And if I wasn’t?”
    “Please, Mr. Ryan,” said Wellesley. “We’re not thugs. What’s your business in Iran?”
    “Market scouting. I’m with Hendley Associates. We do—”
    “We know what Hendley does. But why are you here, in Iran?”
    “I told you. Market scouting. President Farahani’s move toward moderation may open things up to foreign investment. If so, we want to get ahead of that.”
    “Makes sense. Heck, maybe I should get some stock tips from you,” Spellman said with a chuckle.
    “How long do you plan on being here?” This from Wellesley.
    Good cop, bad cop,
Jack thought. Though Hollywood had made the technique a cliché, it was tried-and-true. Spellman and Wellesley were giving him a mild form of it now—affable cop, slightly testy British bobby.
    “It’s open-ended,” he replied.
    “How well do you know Seth Gregory?” asked Wellesley.
    “We’re old friends from high school.”
    “When was the last time you were in touch with each other?” Spellman asked.
    Intentionally covering already plowed