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her mid-thirties, with large black almond eyes, high cheekbones, and an ever-so-slightly hooked nose. She was Iranian, Jack guessed, but he’d detected little trace of a Persian accent, rather a mix of British and something else.
    “It’s probably not a good idea to jump out of this one, yes?” the woman finally said. “You would end up a red smear.”
    “Everything’s relative,” Jack replied. He glanced over the seat through the back window. There were no headlights.
    “They won’t catch up,” she said. “They don’t have the horsepower.”
    The question is,
Jack thought,
am I better off with this woman?
    As if reading his mind, she said, “You’re safe. I am not with them.”
    The conviction in her voice was genuine, Jack decided.
    “There’s a penknife in the glove compartment,” the woman said.
    Jack opened it, dug around until he found the knife, then used it to saw through the zip-tie securing his hands. He rubbed his wrists; they were slick with sweat-diluted blood.
    “Your car is going to need some bodywork.”
    “I have another. How do you know Seth Gregory?” she asked.
    “Who says I do?”
    “You went to his apartment building. You had lunch with him.”
    This surprised Jack; his countersurveillance skills were solid, yet he’d missed her tailing of him. “How do you know Seth?” he asked.
    “Answer my question.” A little steel in her voice.
    “We’re old friends.”
    “What high school did he attend?”
    “Saint Matt’s—Matthew’s—Academy. Your turn: How do you know him?”
    “Seth and I worked together.”
    Something told Jack this woman wasn’t with Shell Oil.
    The woman slowed the car, turned right onto another paved road, then accelerated again. Through the windshield Jack could see the lighted skyline of what he assumed was Tehran.
    “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “We don’t know each other well enough yet.” Jack thought for a moment, then said, “How long did Seth spend in the Marines?”
    The woman sighed. “I do not like dancing. In case you’ve forgotten, I just rescued you.”
    “Answer my question.”
    “He tried to join after college—University of Illinois, by the way—but he wasn’t eligible. He wrecked his knee playing football and had to have it rebuilt. Three times. He still wears a brace and needs cortisone shots.”
    It was the right answer. The military disqualification had nearly crushed Seth, so badly had he wanted to serve. In fact, Jack had flown down to Illinois in hopes of cheering him up. It had worked, but only a bit. For Seth, being turned down for service would be a regret he never got over.
    “He also tried to join the Coast Guard, but they denied him, too.” She turned toward him and said, “Satisfied?”
    While her knowledge of Seth’s background wasn’t definitive proof of their relationship, it would have to do. “I’m Jack.”
    “Jack Ryan? Seth has spoken of you.”
    Thanks a lot, Seth.
He waited for the follow-up from her—“
The
Jack Ryan, son of President . . .”—but she only took her right hand off the steering wheel and clasped his in a firm grip. “I’m Ysabel. Ysabel Kashani.”
    •   •   •
    HAVING SPENT TIME in Russia in his early days with the CIA, John Clark had learned his share of Russian. One of his nuggets of teaching wisdom was
Doveryai no proveryai
—trust but verify, a phrase used to great effect by Reagan during INF treaty negotiations. A proverb, Clark had told Jack, that could also be applied to intelligence work.
    Jack decided he would trust Ysabel to a point. How he would verify her bona fides was a question he couldn’t yet answer. Nor did he know what exactly he’d gotten himself into. Either way, he could use an ally.
    They drove in silence for fifteen minutes until reaching the northern outskirts of Tehran. Jack asked, “Is this the Shomal?”
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I overheard the driver.”
    “It’s the Tehran-Shomal; outside the city it becomes Freeway