by Greg Rucka
Kinney nodded and slunk back toward the bedroom.
She fumed, leaning forward on the couch, trying to get a better look at the monitor. Hopton shifted to his left, trying to accommodate her view, and that mollified her somewhat. She didn't doubt that he would do as Kinney had directed, but at least he didn't seem happy at the prospect. • At eighteen minutes to six, they blew the wall, and even then, it was almost too late.
Activity started in four-twelve at oh-five-thirty-three, with the return of the three men Kinney had been waiting on. They were all in roughly the same age bracket, mid to early twenties, two of them of indeterminate Middle Eastern origin, the third Caucasian, and Chace could hear them through the thin walls even as she watched their entrance on the video feed. They looked exhausted and nervous, and she thought that was a bad combination. They'd been living in fear since the seventh, she supposed, knowing what the inevitable response to the attacks on the tube would be, knowing that Box would be out in force, bent on finding anyone anywhere who might be a threat.
A justified paranoia, as far as Chace was concerned.
She watched over Hopton's shoulder as the three men removed their coats, dropping them onto the couch in a heap, then headed in different directions-one toward the bathroom, one toward the bedroom, the third, the Caucasian, digging into his discarded coat, where he pulled a small digital camera from its pocket.
Site selection, Chace confirmed for herself. They've been out choosing targets.
The Caucasian had moved to a chair at the kitchen table, and Hopton twisted the knob on his control, turning the camera to keep the man in view. Chace watched as the man opened a laptop computer of his own, booting it up, then attached a cable from the computer to the camera, preparing to upload his photographs.
Chace heard the soft click of the bedroom door opening, Kinney stepping carefully to join them. Chace glanced away from the screen long enough to look the question at him, but Kinney shook his head.
"Not yet," he murmured.
She wanted to scream at him.
"The women," Kinney explained softly. "They're too close to the wall from four-ten. If it's blown they'll get hit in the blast, and we don't want to risk losing them. I want them alive."
Chace rolled her eyes, looked back to the monitor. Hopton was getting to his feet, holding the detonator for the wall-charge in one hand, using hand signals to motion the rest of the team to prepare for their entry. All of the men were moving carefully, quietly, pulling their balaclavas and gas masks into place, swinging their weapons into their hands.
On the monitor, the Caucasian man was bent to the laptop, back to the camera, working.
Then he stopped, and Chace saw the tightening along his back as his head came up, saw him turn his chin, realized he was listening, that he'd heard something.
She felt one of the stuffed animals resting against her thigh where she sat on the couch, reached down for it, brushing the hard rubber of the teething bear with her fingertips.
It wasn't what he was hearing, Chace realized. It was what he wasn't.
"Now!" she hissed to Hopton.
"Chace," Kinney growled.
On the screen, the man had risen from the table, was walking toward the wall, their wall.
"Jesus Christ, do it now!" Chace said. "He knows, dammit-"
Kinney dropped a hand onto Chace's shoulder, already turning to Hopton, snarling, "Get her out, and don't be gentle about-"
She launched herself off the couch, trying to shrug free of Kinney's grip on her shoulder, pleading with Hopton. "He doesn't hear the baby, Sergeant! He knows!"
"Sergeant, get her out of here."
Hopton grimaced. In her periphery, Chace could see the man on the monitor, now at the wall, so close to the camera his image was distorting.
"Clear," Hopton said, and Chace shut her eyes, tucking her head, trying to save her vision from the inevitable flash of the explosion, and even then she could see the light, a searing red that matched the crackling burst of wood and wall. There was a scream, and Hopton shouting, and she opened her eyes to see the CT team pouring into the apartment, stepping over the Caucasian man, twisted on the floor.
Beside her, Kinney was shouting into the radio, telling the other team to go go go, but even as he was saying it Chace heard the second detonation, muffled, and a scream.
The bathroom door opened, and the man inside surged out, pants half-raised, and Chace had just registered the pistol in his hand when one of the CT team shot him.
She pulled the pistol from her waist, stepped through the breach in the wall, coughing as she caught a lungful of atomized debris still hanging in the air. The CT team was already disappearing into the bedroom, and she heard an exchange of fire, two single shots, and the rattle of multiple MP-5s in response.
Behind her, Kinney was shouting that he wanted them alive. Chace didn't know if it was directed at her, the radio, or God above. She didn't much care.
Pistol held low in both hands, Chace followed after the CT team, peering around the doorframe into the bedroom. Blood spattered the wall and ceiling, and she saw the two women, still in the bed, each in their nightclothes, one of them now being dragged free of the sheets by Hopton as another of the CT team readied a set of plasticuffs. The other woman was pitched face forward, as if she'd been sitting and then simply toppled, and past her Chace could see the gap into four-ten, where the explosion had taken the wall. It had also taken the back of the woman's head.
The third man was slumped against the wall, legs splayed, eyes wide.
Chace stepped back and nearly slammed into Kinney as she turned.
"You bitch, you stupid bitch! Look what you've done!"
Past him, on the floor, Chace could see the Caucasian man trying to roll onto his side. The blast had caught the side of his face and chest, and blood bubbled out of him where the shrapnel of the wall had driven through his flesh.
"You've fucking ruined it," Kinney raged. "I wanted them alive! We needed them alive!"
"Two of them are." She indicated the man on the floor with the pistol in her hand. "Though I don't fancy his chances. Shall I put him out of his misery?"
Kinney's face lost all the color that had flooded into it, and he struck at her forearm, trying to get her to lower the pistol. She laughed, tucking the pistol back into her pants.
"You're an evil piece of work," Kinney said, raising his radio again.
"No," Chace told him, heading for the door. "They're evil, Mister Kinney. Me, I'm one of the good guys."
6
London-Mayfair, Hyde Park 13 August 1217 GMT It was one of the oldest espionage cliches in the Firm, certainly outdated, and in the current day and age of parabolic microphones and laser-beam listening devices quite possibly tragically insecure. But walking in Hyde Park was still Paul Crocker's favorite method of information exchange with the CIA, and he balanced the potential of compromise with the benefit of being able to talk out of the office, away from the alarmist eye of the Deputy Chief and the distrust of C. Meetings like today, the only person who knew for certain where he was and what he was doing was Kate, and she'd run dutiful interference should the need arise.
Cheng was waiting for him on a bench near the Park Lane entrance, and though he was certain she saw him coming, she didn't move until he'd reached her.
"You're late." She said it mildly and didn't bother to look at him, instead keeping her eyes on a couple picnicking with their two children some twenty feet away.
"Tube's still fouled," Crocker said, which was the only explanation he was willing to give, and truly the only explanation necessary. It had been just six days since the strikes, and even with crews working around the clock, the Central and Northern Lines were still down, and the Bakerloo had resumed service only that morning, and even that was limited. The economic impact of the closures had yet to be measured, but traffic in Central London had predictably become even more of a nightmare than it already was.
Cheng got off the bench, adjustin
g the linen jacket she was wearing. The jacket was navy blue, and the blouse beneath it a pearl white, and her trousers, linen as well, were black. She watched him take in the wardrobe, then looked him over in turn and cracked a smile.
"You must be burning up."
Crocker grunted, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and getting one lit. It had turned unseasonably hot in the past week, and the air in the city had been still and heavy. Depending on where you were, you could still catch the scent of the smoke. Standing in his three-piece suit, Crocker felt as if he might spontaneously combust.
Cheng turned and began walking, heading deeper into the park, and Crocker fell in beside her. He had almost a full foot on her, and a stride that could easily outdistance Cheng's own, but the walking was habit as much as the meetings were, and they'd long ago worked out a rhythm. Cheng had been posted to London as the CIA resident a year after Crocker had ascended to D-Ops, and though they had never interacted in the field prior to that point, they instantly saw in each other a kindred spirit or, at the least, an ally against a common foe-the bureaucrats. Cheng would always put America's concerns first, as Crocker would put England's, but the friendship that existed between them was honest, if shaped by the respective demands of their assignments.
In the main, SIS needed the CIA more than the CIA needed SIS. But not always, and Cheng was wise enough to see that, even if her bosses back in Virginia weren't.
They walked, taking in the park, the smell of the grass and the trees, the summer hour. Scattered on the lawns, Londoners sunbathed or took lunch or kicked footballs, but it was quieter than normal, and Crocker knew there were fewer people out and about. That, and the abrupt lack of tourism, gave the park a strangely empty air.
"How're Jenny and the girls?" Cheng asked.
"Fine. I'd ask how whoever you're seeing is, but you're not seeing anyone."
Cheng smirked. "Not that you know of, at least."
Crocker blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. "So what do you have?"
"You talked to Rayburn?"
"Not since yesterday afternoon."
"He'll be getting our analysis of the tape sometime today. He'll be able to tell you everything I can."
"Angela."
"You are an impatient man."
"I have an impatient C, who apparently has an impatient Prime Minister. They want action, and they can't have that without a target."
"Speaking of action. Quite the stunt your Mister Kinney pulled on Tuesday morning."
"That wasn't Kinney, that was Chace."
"Chace killed three suspected terrorists in one sitting? There are folks back home who'd give her a medal."
"Four, actually," Crocker corrected. "One of them died in hospital from injuries sustained at the scene."
Cheng pursed her lips in a silent whistle of appreciation.
"It wasn't her fault," Crocker said, far more defensively than he'd intended. "They'd been made, there was reason to believe there was an explosive on scene, they had to move."
"Was there?"
"Was there what?"
"An explosive?"
Crocker flicked his cigarette away, watching it bounce off the gravel into the grass.
"It hadn't been assembled yet."
"You can't really take chances with that, though, can you."
"Which is something I've been trying to explain to Mister Kinney since Tuesday afternoon." Crocker glanced down at her. "The tape, Angela."
"It's definitely Harakat ul-Mujihadin, this new wing, the Abdul Aziz faction."
"You've confirmed it?"
Cheng nodded. "They've got this program back at Langley, it can take the facial characteristics off an image, a photo or a video or whatever, run it against a database, establish an ID. It's pretty neat."
"Yes, we have that program, too."
"Difference is, ours works." She shot him a quick grin. "The young guy on the tape is named Tariq Ahmad Dar. He is-or was-a HUM militant out of Kashmir. We have intelligence that says Abdul Aziz recruited him for his faction in late spring last year."
"Where'd you get this?"
"Some of it from the Khalid Shaikh Muhammad bust. You remember the mad scramble we all went on after he was taken into custody?"
"Painfully," Crocker said. Muhammad had been, at the time, the al-Qaeda military chief. His capture had netted hundreds of pages of scattered intelligence, ranging from operations in progress to hints and whispers of other plans in development, most of which later turned out to be suspect when the Americans discovered a Syrian-manned al-Qaeda link to the prisoners in Guantanamo.
"Dar was on the watch list that came out of the bust."
"Almost all of that intelligence has been downgraded as a result of the compromised source. That's not enough."
"We have other means of verification, as I said."
"I'm not going to go to C with the fruits of your blown networks. Not on this."
Cheng's expression soured and hardened. "Not everything was blown by the Syrians."
"Angela, the CIA has been relying on networks ten and fifteen years old, built by agents later exposed as doubles. Between Ames, Hansen, and Wu-Tai Chin, your HUMINT has been shit, and the Company refuses to redress the situation. Ames himself recruited the majority of your informants out of Egypt and Afghanistan, agents later linked to al-Qaeda or al-Qaeda factions, and some of whom had direct contact with UBL. Unless you can verify an alternate source, it's fucking trash, no matter what your computers are saying."
Cheng glared. "The Company has done-is doing-everything it can to restore its security."
"It could start by admitting how bad the breaches were."
"I think we have."
Crocker snorted.
"I can't compromise the source, Paul. It's not my operation, and even if it was, you know I'm not going to share that kind of intel with you. Certainly not in the middle of Hyde fucking Park."
"Then, as I say, I can't run with it."
Cheng stopped on the path, forcing Crocker to stop as well and to turn back to her. Three young men walked by, two of them arguing with the third. Crocker heard just enough of their conversation to determine that they were discussing a woman.
When the three were well out of earshot, Cheng said, "We have someone inside."
Crocker raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"
She shook her head. "No. But we trust the source, and the source says that Tariq Ahmad Dar was HUM-AA. Dar was in a group of half a dozen HUM regulars who were flown to Saudi earlier that year, recruited by Abdul Aziz for broader operations."
They resumed walking, Crocker thinking on it. When he spoke, it was sourly, saying, "C will be delighted. You've just established a link between HUM-AA and al-Qaeda."
"Yeah, but I can establish a link between the Red Crescent and al-Qaeda, and so can you. You can't take it to the bank."
"Why bring them to Saudi?"
"Hell if I know. They probably ended up in a training camp somewhere teaching new recruits."
"That doesn't explain how Dar got tapped for a suicide run on the tube."
"No, it doesn't, but it doesn't much matter, does it? He did, he's dead, there you go."
"That would have put him in Saudi a year ago."
"About eighteen months ago."
"So something happened in Saudi in the last eighteen months to turn a HUM veteran into a suicide bomber."
"Suicide arsonist," Cheng corrected. "Maybe there's a manpower shortage?"
"Not in Saudi there isn't. They've got a surfeit of eager young men willing to blow themselves sky-high in the name of Allah."
"That's a rather broad brush you're using there, Paul."
Crocker glared at nothing in particular. "We both know who the enemy is here, Angela, and blaming HUM-AA or al-Qaeda or the Islamic Society of North America is only part of the bloody tree, not the roots. The Saudi government has spent four decades fomenting and funding Wahhabist extremism. They're not our allies, they've never been our allies, a
nd all declarations to the contrary, they never will be our allies. It took al-Qaeda blowing up the foreign workers' housing complexes in Riyadh before the Saudi government took substantive action, and then they arrested, what, twenty people?"
"Twenty-one."
"And promptly denied us the opportunity to interrogate any of them by rushing them off for public execution. They didn't want uncomfortable questions asked, anything that might point a finger back at the Palace. The Saudis were covering their asses."
"You're in a mood," Cheng observed.
"I'm always in a mood."
"And here I was about to blame it on the heat."
"Blame it on whatever you like, it goes back to the same problem. Until Saudi Arabia changes its policies, we reap the result of institutionalized hatred."
"You ought to run for office," Cheng said.
"You know that the belief of Islam spreading through the sword is a myth, don't you?" Crocker asked suddenly. "Not many people do, they believe the propaganda-Christian propaganda, a thousand years old. Islam is not a religion of violence, despite certain individuals and organizations doing their damnedest to paint it as such."
"Wahhabism isn't Islam."
"That's my point entirely, thank you."
"Really pisses you off, doesn't it?"
"On the scale of my daily outrage, it ranks an eleven," Crocker confirmed.
They continued walking, now past the Albert Memorial, turning south in the direction of Rotten Row.
"I heard the folks at Box found another one of the safehouses," Cheng said. "I assume Kinney has been by to rub your face in it, or if he hasn't, he soon will be."
"I won't ask how you know that."
Cheng tapped the side of her nose. "About the safehouse, you mean? I know what C had for breakfast this morning, too."
"Weetabix, to keep him regular, I'm sure." Crocker scowled. He hadn't known about Box finding another safehouse, and he didn't much relish the inevitable visit from Kinney, especially given the events of Tuesday morning.
