by Greg Rucka
"That's this Sunday."
"I know," Cheng said pointedly.
"The week of the fifth? Nothing more specific?"
"We're assuming that Faud's keeping the details vague as a security precaution. Yemen is hot right now, you know the drill. You've got advisers in country, we've got advisers in country, the whole place is jumping with the black balaclava set."
Crocker frowned. "You'd think Faud would be avoiding the place."
"Why bother?" Cheng said. "He knows we don't have evidence to charge him with anything, and he knows the Yemeni authorities wouldn't dare touch him."
She closed the folder, handed it over to Crocker. "You can read this one yourself, but it stays here. I'll have a copy sent to you via the JIC."
"I'll make sure Simon knows it's coming," he said, taking the folder and settling back in the chair. The chairs in Cheng's office were infinitely nicer than the ones in his own, and he resented how much more comfortable he found them. He flipped the folder open, read the brief assessment inside, determining that it was exactly as Cheng had described. He closed it again, sighed, and pulled himself out of the chair.
"Who're you sending?"
"Haven't decided yet."
"Stop lying to me. Is it going to be Chace?"
"Haven't decided yet."
"It should be Chace," Cheng said. "She's the best you have." • "Poole," Weldon told Crocker early the next afternoon.
"I'm sorry, sir?"
"Send Poole to Yemen."
Crocker clenched his fists, forced them open again, grateful that he was holding them behind his back as he stood in front of the Deputy Chief's desk. Outside the windows, London was blanketed in gray, a weak rain drifting down.
Weldon returned his attention to the proposal Crocker had brought to his desk, flipping through the three pages detailing what, Crocker hoped, would become Operation: Tanglefoot. He had spent much of the previous night drafting the document, much to the annoyance of his wife, Jenny, who was left alone to entertain his parents. He'd handed the proposal to Kate first thing that morning, and she had promptly typed it up and then submitted it for approval to the requisite department heads. When Weldon flipped to the last sheet, Crocker could see Rayburn's signature next to his own.
Two of the signature lines remained blank. One for the Deputy Chief, one for C. Without signatures from both, the operation would never happen. Or at least never happen with proper authorization.
It wasn't beyond Crocker to play out of bounds. He'd mounted operations without approval before, but it was always a risky proposition, and he never did it without a compelling reason, at least to him. But in this instance, there was simply no reason to try and circumvent the chain of command. Conops had come down with the PM's blessing, and unless things had radically changed in the last three weeks, there was no reason to think that HMG had changed its mind about the fate of Dr. Faud.
Weldon let the sheets drop back atop one another, then tilted back in his chair to look Crocker in the eye.
"Send Poole," he repeated. "You don't know how long it will be before Faud shows, and you'll want your Minder in country by tomorrow, latest. Could be a week whoever it is finds himself left there, twiddling his thumbs. Poole can go with military cover, it circumvents the weapon issue, and it will make it easy for him to stay unnoticed and to deploy. Should make his egress easier as well."
"I disagree, sir. Military personnel working in Yemen are almost universally being surveilled by one force or another-"
"It shouldn't matter. They won't know who he is."
"They'll know he's British, and if he's spotted around the scene after the assassination-assuming it goes off-it'll splash back on us."
Weldon's mouth twisted. "That's a valid point."
"I certainly thought so."
"There's no need to get testy, Paul."
"I don't appreciate being second-guessed in this fashion, sir. I am the Director of Operations, operational planning is my purview, not yours."
"And mine is oversight. Something you could stand a little more of, I daresay."
Crocker continued to stare over Weldon's head, out the window, watching the rain fall.
"If you send Chace, she's going alone?"
"As detailed in the proposal, yes, sir."
"Why no backup?"
"Conops specified concealment of origin. Two Minders are that much more likely to be made."
It was a lie, but Crocker had no intention of letting Weldon know that he was relying on Landau's people for backup. The thought of working with the Israelis on an assassination of a Saudi religious figure in Yemen would cause the Deputy Chief to break out in hives.
Weldon grunted, reached for his favorite fountain pen, black lacquered with mother-of-pearl inlay, and slowly unscrewed its cap as he reviewed the proposal a final time. When he reached the last page, he laboriously signed his name, then capped the pen, replaced it, closed the folder, and handed it to Crocker.
"You should take it up to C."
"Very good, sir," Crocker said, leaving Weldon to his fears, and the rain at his window. • Barclay, like Weldon, kept Crocker waiting, his chin resting on his steepled hands while he read the proposal. He read it slowly, very slowly, as Weldon had, and Crocker was certain Barclay did it to annoy him. When he was finally finished, he lowered his hands and gazed levelly at Crocker.
"Now tell me what you've neglected to include in this proposal," Barclay ordered.
"I don't follow, sir."
"Of course you do." Barclay tapped the pages before him. "I know you, Crocker, I know every one of your little tricks, and all of your back-alley games. You don't meet with the head of the Metsada in my building at three in the morning and not cut yourself a deal on the side. Now, I want you to tell me what the Israelis wanted in exchange for their information, and I want it now."
"Landau asked for the meeting as soon as he arrived, sir. As he was leaving for Tel Aviv the next day, I couldn't exactly ask him to call again later."
"Don't lie to me," Barclay snapped. "Landau left on El-Al flight thirty-seven at seventeen-twenty hours on Tuesday the thirty-first. He could have met with you at any point during the day, and he didn't. I don't like it when you're here in the small hours, I never have. It means you're in your kitchen, cooking something likely to make me ill to the stomach."
Crocker fought off a smile at the thought of his C doubled over and vomiting in the executive lavatory.
"Either you tell me about the deal you cut with Landau, or I withhold my signature," Barclay said.
"If I may remind you, sir, the proposal for Operation: Tanglefoot has been prepared in response to HMG's issuance of conops, dated Tuesday, seventeen August-"
Barclay slapped both palms down on his desk violently, half-starting out of his chair. "Who the hell do you think you are? You stand there and condescend to me, telling me about conops issuance when I've been fielding calls from the Prime Minister twice a day for the last month, demanding to know what we're waiting for, telling me to get on with it?"
"All you have to do is sign off on the proposal and you'll have his answer," Crocker said.
Barclay, now on his feet, glared at Crocker in what could only be described as a mixture of amazement and fury.
"Every time I believe I've seen the limits of your arrogance, you delight in proving me wrong," Barclay said. "Yes, Crocker, I know how to make my Prime Minister happy. But I'm not about to offer him hollow comfort, not if it's liable to come back and bite this Government in the ankle, or somewhere higher.
"You think you can trump me, that I will bow to pressure from above. You're wrong. I assure you, I will happily weather any dressing-down Downing Street delivers, rather than authorize an operation the scope of which I am unaware."
The two men glared at each other, until Crocker slid his eyes away, looking past Barclay's shoulder.
"Very well." Barclay closed the folder, all but tossing it back at Crocker. "Tanglefoot is denied. Come up with some
thing else."
"There won't be another opportunity for months, if not years."
Barclay, already settled again behind his desk, reached for the stack of papers awaiting his attention to the left of the blotter. Without looking up, he said, "Pity."
Crocker turned the folder in his hands, thinking. Barclay's head remained bowed as he began reading the latest needs projections from the East Asian desk.
"That's all," Barclay said, still engrossed in his reading. "You're dismissed."
Crocker sighed, dropped the proposal down once again in front of Barclay. "Muhriz el-Sayd."
Barclay took his time, leaning back in his chair. He kept the look of satisfaction on his face in check, but enough of it survived the process to make it plain they both knew who had won the round.
"Go on."
"He's EIJ, commands tactical operations," Crocker said. "The Mossad wants him dead. He's the man Faud will be meeting in Yemen."
"Landau wants us to do the job on both men. Is that it?"
Crocker shook his head. "Landau had the itinerary, but not the dates. In exchange for us providing him with the dates of travel, his people would take Faud when they hit el-Sayd."
"Much to the chagrin of the Americans."
"I'm sure."
"So Chace is going as backup to a Mossad hit squad?"
Again Crocker shook his head. "Chace is going to assassinate Faud, that's all."
"You expect me to believe that she'll leave el-Sayd alone?"
"She'll be ordered to take no action in the pursuit of el-Sayd," Crocker said, picking his words carefully.
Barclay gave him a look of thinly veiled suspicion. "So you're just going to forget that the Mossad expected something in return for their information?"
"I made no promises to Landau, sir. If he assumed we had an arrangement in place, that's his error, not mine, and not the Firm's."
"He won't like it," Barclay mused. "If he realizes what you're up to, he's liable to send in people of his own to go after el-Sayd. That could foul the attempt on Faud."
"It is a possibility," Crocker said.
Barclay fingered the proposal, considering, then plucked his pen from its holder and scribbled his signature on the last page.
"You should tell him that Chace will be going after el-Sayd," Barclay said. "He doesn't need to know that we've no intention of pursuing it, and it could keep the Mossad off our backs."
"That was my plan, sir."
"Then for once we're in agreement." He handed the proposal back to Crocker. "Copies to Downing Street and the FCO by close of play, if you please."
"Very good, sir."
"Don't leave just yet."
Crocker tucked the folder under his arm, waiting for the rest of it.
"I want a success on this, Paul," Barclay said softly. "You've just been handed an opportunity to prove the worth of your precious Special Section, not just to me but to the Government. This is an assassination, nothing less, and anything less than Faud's death will result in mission failure. Whatever it takes, Faud doesn't leave Yemen alive."
"There are limits to what even Chace can do."
"She's the leader of the Special Section," Barclay said. "I think it's high time she proves just how special she is."
15
Saudi Arabia-Tabuk Province, Residence of Prince Salih bin Muhammad bin Sultan 3 September 1404 Local (GMT+3.00) For Sinan, it had been two-plus weeks of growing disgust and frustration, watching the Prince pay lip service to everything they believed, everything they had been taught, only to swiftly pivot and shamelessly bury himself in behavior that should have cost him his head, literally. That Abdul Aziz had condemned both Matteen and him to bear witness made him feel further betrayed, and bewildered.
Had he not proven himself in the West Bank? Had he not gone to act with Hamas as ordered, and had he not further culled the weak from their pack with the removal of Aamil? Abdul Aziz had told him, in front of the camp, that he had done well, that he had acted as a jihadi should. He had, in front of the camp, declared Sinan bin al-Baari a True Warrior in the name of Allah, all mercies upon him.
Had Abdul Aziz lied? Was he still condemned as an outsider-a Muslim, yes, even a Wahhabist, yes, but not an Arab-and therefore never to be fully trusted?
It had occurred to Sinan that this might be a test. If so, he reflected, it was a particularly grueling one. The Prince seemed eager to violate every prohibition in Islam short of eating pork, and Sinan suspected that, at some point, the Prince had probably violated that prohibition as well.
After Abdul Aziz had departed with the others from the camp, the Prince had ordered Hazim to show Sinan and Matteen to their rooms, wishing them both a good night and a pleasant rest under Allah's watchful gaze and inviting them to join him for breakfast the next morning. Hazim had guided them to "modest guest rooms," which had been anything but. Sinan's bed had been the largest he had ever seen, and with a water-filled mattress, to boot. The bathroom had been larger than the admittedly small house he'd been raised in near Sheffield, and after enjoying the luxury of a shower, he had tried to sleep for the few hours that remained of the night. After months of his cot in the camp, the bed had seemed a tempting proposition.
A false temptation, much to his surprise. He'd ultimately wrapped himself in a blanket on the carpeted floor, sleeping in that fashion until he'd been woken by the muezzin's call to prayer, played through speakers outside the mansion. He had roused himself, dressed, and prayed toward Mekkah, then donned his Kalashnikov and cautiously emerged from his room.
Matteen had emerged at the same time, and together the two men had gone in search of their breakfast, not wishing to insult the Prince by appearing tardy. Hazim was nowhere to be found, but another servant, Hazim's age and just as attentive, had offered to guide them. While the boy led them through the maze of the house, Sinan and Matteen had talked of how they would approach their duty.
"We are not guards," Sinan had muttered. "This is not our work."
"I don't believe we'll have to worry about that," Matteen had replied. • Matteen had been correct.
From the moment they sat down to dine on a breakfast of dates, figs, pastries, and tea with the Prince, the Prince made it clear what he wanted from them.
"Your battles! Tell me everything," he said. "I want to hear it all, every detail! I want to hear your stories as if I was there, beside you. I want to hear them so that your memories become my own. So that we will be brothers, truly."
Matteen and Sinan had exchanged looks then, and Sinan had known they both thought the same thing. Sinan was proud, very proud, of what he had done, and had hopes for what more he would do. But what he had done, he had done in the name of jihad, to fight for tawhid, for the belief in the Oneness of God, as Wahhabism required.
It was not done for bragging rights, for gloating, for anyone or anything. It was done for Allah, praise Him, and that any man, beggar or Prince of the House of Saud, would want to lay claim to it as well bordered on blasphemy.
He was relieved when, at the Prince's insistence, Matteen began telling him some of what had happened in Tora-Bora.
"You saw the picture?" the Prince interrupted. "In the study?"
Both men knew exactly the one the Prince meant, and Matteen nodded.
"That was in '98," the Prince said, and the practiced nonchalance with which he said it made Sinan want to spit out his meal and toss the mess across the table. "I brought Usama a check, stayed with him at the camp outside Asadabad, in Kunar province. We flew falcons together. He's a gifted falconer."
The Prince smiled at them, waited for an acknowledgment.
"I didn't know that," Sinan said.
"Oh, yes. Loves falcons, ever since he was a boy."
"Do you keep falcons, Your Highness?" Matteen asked after another painful pause.
"I do. Would you like to see them?"
"If it wouldn't interfere with our duties for you, yes, please."
"No, no, don't worry about that. I h
ave bodyguards, they are the best, you know. No, that's not why you're here. You're here so we may get to know one another, so that we may become friends, brothers in arms."
Sinan had nodded, finishing his tea, and thinking that if Allah were truly merciful, he would strike the Prince down very soon indeed. • So for two-plus weeks, Sinan and Matteen had been the Prince's friends. They had stayed with him in his palace. They had enjoyed his hospitality at royal insistence, sharing their stories again and again. Sinan discovered that the Prince seemed never to tire of hearing about Ma'le Efraim. They prayed five times a day, dined on lavish meals, played football on the remarkably green lawn in the incredible heat of the afternoon, accompanied the Prince as he flew his falcons, and watched sports and movies in the Prince's study.
Sinan hated all of it, but especially the time in the study, and the films. Action films with explosions and gun battles and special effects, where American heroes laid low all who opposed them, then returned home to sleep with some eager whore who had spent most of the movie half-dressed at the most.
But the Prince had other films as well, and after their first week, he broke those out. These were home movies, videos shot in Monaco and Beverly Hills and Marbella, where the Prince and other members of the royal family went to pursue all those things forbidden at home. That the Prince would show these films to them troubled Sinan, until he realized the Prince's thinking.
Sinan and Matteen were not Saudi, after all. Sinan, in particular, had come from the West. Whether the Prince mistakenly took that to mean that Sinan had shared in the things he was showing them, Sinan didn't know, but it was clear that the Prince felt that not just he but they, Sinan and Matteen too, were held to a different standard.
In the home movies, the Prince rode Jet-Skis and played roulette and purchased Rolexes and danced with blondes who wore little more than the jewels the Prince himself had given them. So did the other princes and their families. One of the videotapes was nothing but footage of the women the Prince had taken to his bed in these places, alone or two or three at a time.
Sinan knew the Prince was married, and had three wives, and ten children by those wives. He knew that the Prince believed himself to be righteous, even as he showed them these movies, twisting in his leather chair to hide his erection.
