by Greg Rucka
If Allah were merciful, Sinan vowed again. • In early September-Sinan wasn't sure of the date-the Prince presented Matteen and Sinan with gifts. This wasn't new. He had already given them new Kalashnikovs, and new pistols, too, Glocks that could weather almost anything the desert would throw at them. But this time he presented them each with a small white box, not much larger than Sinan's hand, nor much thicker, and wrapped with a green silk bow.
Inside, each of them discovered a passport for the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
The documents were real, not forgeries, and Sinan's had his name, his true name of al-Baari, and the surge of gratitude he felt when he saw that confounded him. That the Prince would do this for him, after all he had thought of the man, gave him guilt.
"We are taking a trip," the Prince told them. "We are going to Yemen."
16
London-Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room 3 September 1555 GMT Chace beat Crocker to the Ops Room by a minute, was getting a light from Ronald Taylor at the Duty Operations Desk when he entered.
"D-Ops on the floor," Ron said.
Crocker made a beeline to them, dropped the folder in his hand into Taylor's lap, saying, "Designation is Tanglefoot, Minder One allocated."
"Operation: Tanglefoot," Ron echoed.
"Lex? Put it up."
At the MCO desk, Alexis tapped on her keyboard, and the plasma screen representation of the world redrew itself, now with a lime-green halo surrounding Yemen. The call-out appeared beside it on the map, and Chace watched as the letters, one by one, appeared.
"I hope that doesn't mean I'm liable to be tripped up," Chace said. "Tanglefoot."
"It was either that or Lemontree," Crocker said. "I hate that fucking computer."
Chace chuckled. Contrary to popular belief, mission names were chosen entirely at random, from a computer-generated list of suggestions. It was a mystery to her exactly for what criteria the computer searched, and she suspected-as did most of the Ops Room staff-that the nameless technician who had written the program in the first place had done so with a Pythonesque relish of the absurd. She had, in her time, been associated or instrumental in such operations as Shoebox, Tanlines, Eyefire, and, personal favorite, Laceboy.
Tanglefoot was positively tame in that light.
Crocker turned from the plasma wall, apparently only marginally satisfied by Lex's execution of the order, and glared at Ron. "Mission Planning's delivered the brief?"
"Right here, sir. Minder One departs Heathrow oh-seven-fifteen tomorrow the fourth, BA flight 902, arrives San'a' via Frankfurt twenty-three-twenty local, same day."
"Long flight," Chace observed.
"At least you're going first class."
"And coming back steerage."
Crocker's look was icy. "Continue, Ron."
"Arriving San'a', Minder One checks in to the Hotel Taj Sheba. It's on the outskirts of the old city, ten kilometers from the airport, but it places her centrally, and it's popular with the tourists, so she'll fit right in."
"Five star, is it?" Chace kept the sarcasm mild.
"Actually, yes."
Crocker snapped his lighter closed, jetted smoke from his nostrils. "Cover?"
"Given the nature of the mission and the possible length of stay in country, Mission Planning felt it would be best for Minder One to be working with fresh papers." Ron sorted through a briefing file on his desk, settled on a new sheet. "Diana Kelsey in Documents is doing the passport right now, going with the Italian romance-novel cover."
"I'll pack my most billowy blouses."
"You're traveling as Adriana Maribino, from Como, in the north. Should help explain your looks some."
"And I thought I'd have to dye my hair."
"That's enough," Crocker snapped. "You're as bad as Wallace ever was."
Chace doubted that. There had been times when Wallace so completely undermined the seriousness of a briefing, he'd reduced the room to stitches, leaving Crocker glaring at a sea of faces, all trying to stifle the giggles. It had earned Wallace a dressing-down by D-Ops on more than one occasion.
"Sorry, sir," she said, unrepentant.
Ron hesitated, glancing from Crocker to Chace, then back again, before resuming. "Miss Maribino is single and works as a waitress at one of Como's finer dining establishments, the Trattoria del Gesumin. Restaurant favorites are the salmon tagliatelle, saffron risotto, and osso buco. This is a big trip for Miss Maribino, and she's splurged, registered with FST Arabia for a fourteen-day 'Roads of Arabia' package. The first week is centered in and around San'a', with trips to Ar-Rawda and Wadi Dhahr, so it'll support your cover."
"Procedure," Crocker demanded.
"The Yemen Number Two, Andrew Hewitt, is the pointer. As soon as he can confirm that Faud has arrived and can provide a location, he'll contact Minder One by phoning her room at the Taj Sheba between oh-seven-ten and oh-seven-twenty."
"My wake-up call," Chace murmured.
"He'll only call once, and only after he has the information, so it's vital you be in the room at those times."
"Understood."
"Hewitt will ask how Minder One slept. If she replies that she slept well, he'll come around immediately and deliver the gun and what intelligence on the target he's been able to gather. If Minder One feels that she has been compromised in any way, either by local security or opposition forces, she will respond that she slept poorly and needs to go back to sleep.
"In that instance, fallback is three hours plus seven minutes from the time of call, at a teahouse on Az-Zubayri Street, just south of the medina wall and east of the Sa'ila." Ron checked another of the sheets arrayed before him on the DOO desk. "Incidentally, there's a chance of rain, so the Sa'ila may be running. Otherwise your weather is in the low twenties."
Which meant the nights would be colder, Chace told herself, and reminded herself to pack a sweater.
"Failing the first fallback, the Station Number Two will load a dead-drop in the Qat Suq, in which Minder One will find the weapon and a briefing on the target's location and movements. Details on the drop are still being worked out, but we'll have them before her departure."
"Is there a selection to be had, or has someone made the firearm decision for me?" Chace asked.
"Chester reports that you rated highest with the P99 and the TPH," Crocker said. "Assuming that you'll be working close, we're arming you with the TPH and a Gem-Tech Vortex suppressor."
"Twenty-five or twenty-two?"
"Twenty-two," Crocker said. "Quieter."
Chace nodded. The smaller round meant less noise, but it also meant even less damage, especially with the addition of the suppressor. Not only would she have to be close, she'd have to make each shot count and most likely need every one of them. With six in the clip and a seventh in the chamber, it wasn't a lot to work with if things went wrong.
"If it all goes off," Ron said, "Minder One will have no other contact with Hewitt or the Station after the meeting at the Taj Sheba. If there's trouble or if Minder One is blown, she's to make her way to the safehouse on Maydan al-Qa', running through the old Jewish Quarter. Clay house, basement access, there's a map to it in the briefing. Minder One goes to ground, waits for the Station to contact her. There's a waterpipe on the northern corner of the building, street-side, little bit of rope around it. She removes the rope to indicate the house is in use. If the rope isn't there when she arrives, Minder One is to avoid the safehouse altogether and take whatever action she then deems necessary to complete or abort the mission."
"The basement?" Crocker asked.
"Unlike the rest of San'a', homes in the Jewish Quarter have basements," Ron explained. "There was an imamic declaration forbidding them to build any structure taller than nine meters."
Crocker grunted.
Ron looked to Chace. "Any questions?"
"Think that covers it. I'll nip home and get my things sorted, start practicing my Italian."
"Be back here by oh-three hundred," Ron said. "Gibbons will be on
the desk then, but he'll have your documentation and tickets."
"Go over it again." Crocker ground out his cigarette in the cracked ashtray on Ron's desk. "Make certain you have it cold. I want drop-loaded and drop-cleared signals for the Qat Suq, as well as two alternate escape plans for Minder One to get out of the country if for some reason it goes to hell."
"There aren't many places for her to go," Ron said. "North and she's in Saudi, west she's in the Red Sea, east she's in Oman, south she's in the Gulf of Aden-"
"I know the damn map. Two alternates."
"Yes, sir."
"When you're finished, come see me," Crocker told Chace, and then whirled and blew out of the Ops Room much as he had entered.
Both Chace and Ron watched him go without comment.
"Right, going over it again," Ron said. "You'll be traveling as Adriana Maribino, from Como…" • "Close it," Crocker said.
Chace did as ordered, then took one of the seats in front of the desk and helped herself to one of the cigarettes remaining in Crocker's pack, resting atop the red operations folder. He remained standing, staring out the window. Night had descended, and London's lights flowed past, much like the Thames itself.
"You've got it?" Crocker asked.
"Perfettamente," Chace answered. "Signorina Maribino e molto eccitata di visitare lo Yemen. Lei spera di essere rapita e stuprata fino allo sfinimento da uno stupendo indigeno."
"You won't have time."
Chace grinned, then said, "I noticed the briefing had no mention of el-Sayd."
"You did, did you?"
"I'm not all thick. Does that mean I don't pursue?"
"If the Mossad intel is correct, el-Sayd will be meeting with Faud. If, by chance, that's when you hit, then el-Sayd becomes collateral and an unavoidable secondary target." Crocker moved back to his chair, focused on Chace. "Am I clear?"
"Perfectly."
"The primary target is your concern. You take the secondary only if the opportunity presents itself. I don't want to burn Landau on this, but I want this blown even less. El-Sayd is a bonus, that's all. You take what you can get, and then you get the hell out of Yemen."
"Yes, sir."
Crocker leaned forward on his desk, and the stare he gave her now was as intense as any she could remember from him. "Understand something else. The security on Faud's going to be tighter than Weldon's wallet, and you're not going in armed for a gunfight with his bodyguards. If you can't get to target, if you see anything that makes you cranky, you abort. Don't be reckless, Tara, it'll get you killed, and I can't afford to lose another Minder, not right now."
"Understood."
Crocker scowled, as genuinely unhappy as Chace could ever remember having seen him.
"Go," he said.
17
Israel-Tel Aviv, Mossad Headquarters, Office of the Metsada Division Chief 6 September 1956 Local (GMT+3.00) Borovsky sat with his gangly legs crossed at the ankles and propped on Landau's desk, oblivious to the folders he toppled every time he moved his feet. The desk lamp threw long shadows on the cinderblock walls of the office.
"You know, the Arabs think by doing this, with my feet like this, I'm saying you're like the dirt on which I walk." Borovsky grinned. "They would say it was an insult, Noah, that I'm saying you're less than dirt."
Landau, still on the telephone, glared at Borovsky in the hopes that the look alone would shut the man up. It seemed to work, but not until Borovsky had barked another of his laughs. He didn't move his feet, however, until Landau was off the phone.
"That was your new friend at SIS?" Borovsky asked.
"Crocker, yes."
"They're going to do it?"
"They've already started. Their agent arrived in San'a' Saturday night."
Borovsky's face seemed to grow even narrower as he pondered this. "We have no intelligence that Faud's even left that fucking desert he hides in as yet. And fuck only knows if el-Sayd is on the move."
Landau didn't speak.
Borovsky shook his head. "They don't have a date. They're shooting in the dark."
"No, Crocker would not allocate an agent on a hunch. Not even for Faud."
"You're sure?"
"I wouldn't. He won't."
"Who did he send?"
"He did not say, but I think it would be Chace, the head of his Special Section."
"He any good?"
"She is the head of his Special Section, Viktor."
Borovsky's surprise was apparent but short-lived. "That's smart, that's clever. We need more women, you know that? The women, they can be fucking vicious."
Landau ignored him, pinched the bridge of his nose above his eyeglasses, trying to think.
"You think Crocker just told us to grab our ankles?" Borovsky asked.
"I don't know. I'm not sure. It was always a possibility."
"I think we're about to grab our ankles."
"Why?"
"We're Jews, Noah. If history has shown us anything, it's that we get screwed in the ass at every opportunity. You gave the British a gift, a chance for revenge, in exchange for which we asked for the opportunity to defend ourselves. What do you think will happen?"
"The decisions are political, not personal."
Borovsky shook his head, looking at Landau sadly. "Killing Faud is purely personal. It will not prevent another attack like they suffered. Faud is not the planner, he is the cheerleader. They've already cut us out, Noah. They sure as hell aren't going to expose themselves to take el-Sayd, too."
"No, we know Faud and el-Sayd are going to meet. That's the logical time to strike."
"You put too much faith in the British."
"Faith has nothing to do with it. You're Intelligence, Viktor, look at it logically."
"No, logic is for planners. I don't plan, I interpret, and that is something else." Borovsky folded his hands behind his head, sighing up at the ceiling. "We're going to get screwed."
Landau nodded slightly, conceding what Borovsky had said. He'd known when he'd gone to Crocker that there was the possibility the Mossad would be left out of the loop, and he'd understood that risk. El-Sayd would never be London's priority the way Faud was, and Landau could hardly fault the people at SIS for that. Each group ostensibly did what its commanding government felt was in its best interests. He bore Crocker no ill will.
But just as SIS had to serve England, Landau and the Mossad had to serve Israel.
"It'll have to go past the Chief," he said after a moment longer.
"What will?"
"Action." Landau reached for his phone again. "Put together a briefing, Viktor. I want our man in Yemen by tomorrow night."
18
Yemen-San'a', Taj Sheba Hotel 8 September 0711 Local (GMT+3.00) "Ciao?"
"Miss Maribino?"
"Si?"
"How did you sleep?"
"Fine, fine. Grazie per chiedere."
"Glad to hear it. Enjoy your stay." • Seventeen minutes later Chace heard two firm but gentle raps at her hotel room door. She rose from where she had been seated on the bed, cross-legged, going over her tourist map of San'a', and moved to the short entry hall, pressing herself against the wall as she reached its end, to keep out of the line of sight from the peephole. It was a Wallace move, and in a situation like this, pure paranoia, but, she rationalized, paranoia keeps you alive a few minutes longer.
Not that she had any reason to be paranoid. She'd been in Yemen for four days, and so far the greatest dangers had come from the potential of nonpotable water and the rather unsubtle advances of a young Frenchman from her tour group who had insisted on using her to practice his Italian.
"Si?" she called through the door. "Chi e?"
"Miss Maribino? Mr. Hewitt. We met at the Al Dobaey restaurant last night?"
Chace reached out, silently turned the deadbolt on the door back, pulled the lockbar, and then rotated the doorknob just far enough to dislodge the latch. Finished, she slid back, stepping into the doorway of the bathroom. It wouldn't buy
much time, but if it wasn't Hewitt, the extra time would give her the initiative should it turn out to be needed.
"Entra," she said.
The door opened, and Andrew Hewitt stepped into the room, searching for her behind his thin glasses. When he saw her watching him, he smiled in cheerful greeting, then stepped the rest of the way inside before closing the door after him. Chace waited until he threw the locks before she moved back to the bed, retrieved her cigarettes from the nightstand, and then resumed her previous posture and position. She lit a smoke, watching as Hewitt stepped out of the small hall, taking stock of the accommodations as she took stock of him.
She put him in his early thirties at the most, and better-looking than his file photograph had made him out to be. Five foot eight, broad from the shoulders down, light brown and curly hair, eyes so light blue as to have moved on to gray. His skin, which back in England had probably been quite fair, had acquired the tan and character that come from exposure to strong sun for extended periods. He wore a tan linen coat over his lightweight suit, the shirt white, the tie blue, the belt black, as were his shoes, though a thin coating of dust clung to the latter. He carried a small briefcase, oxblood-colored leather, in his left hand.
When he'd finished taking in the room, he smiled cheerfully at Chace a second time, then laid his briefcase on the foot of the bed and quickly worked the locks until they released. He lifted the lid, then turned the case to show Chace the contents. Inside, restrained with elastic straps to keep them from rattling about within, was a box of ammunition in.22, a Walther TPH that could easily have been the very same gun Chace had trained with at Fort Monkton, a Gem-Tech Vortex suppressor, a box of surgical gloves, and a rolled-up poster.
"I trust you've been enjoying Yemen?" Hewitt said. "You're still clean, I take it?"
"Pristine." If anyone had been going through her room or her things aside from the maid while she'd been out and about, they were better at hiding that fact than she was at spotting it. It wasn't a real concern; there'd been no sign whatsoever that the Yemeni authorities even knew she existed, and a random wiretap on an Italian tourist visiting San'a' was out of the question. They could speak freely here.
