by Greg Rucka
Everyone in the room turned, fell silent, and Shirazi held out his hand for the phone.
"This is Director Shirazi. Whom am I speaking to?"
"Director, sir! Captain Bardsiri, sir, with the-"
"I don't care. You have her?"
Hesitation. Then, "No, no we've had to let them go."
Shirazi wasn't certain he'd heard correctly. "You've what? What did you say?"
"We couldn't arrest her, sir, we-"
"You had her, alive, and you let her go?" Shirazi heard his voice rising, was aware that the attention from his men in the room had become that much more intense. "Is that what you're telling me, Captain Bardsiri?"
"She had-she was traveling under diplomatic protection! We couldn't do anything, we had to let them go! I'm sorry, sir, I just didn't have the authority-"
Shirazi held out the phone to Parviz, hearing the captain continuing to excuse himself, his voice now small and agitated. "Get the location, a complete description of the vehicle, the license plate, everything."
Parviz took the handset, nodding, and Shirazi turned to Zahabzeh. "She's with her own people, they picked her up somewhere in an embassy vehicle."
"Diplomatic immunity does not extend to murderers," Zahabzeh said.
"Something Captain Bardsiri either doesn't know, or decided he didn't want to risk. But still, if she's traveling with embassy staff…"
"If they get her back to the British mission, we will lose her."
"Agreed." Shirazi considered for a moment, all the time he needed. Whatever possible political fallout would come of violating British sovereignty, he truly didn't care. He needed Chace, he absolutely had to have her, and Zahabzeh was correct; once she reached the embassy, she would become untouchable. Removing her from the mission grounds would be impossible.
But taking her from a mission car while it made its way to the embassy, that was another matter entirely.
Parviz was off the phone now, a paper in his hand. "They were heading south towards Karaj."
"They'll take the highway," Zahabzeh said. "Quickest route to the embassy."
"We need to be quicker," Shirazi said. Shirazi got out of the van last, holding back, as he should, as his role required, despite his passionate desire to be first. But when the doors at the back of the van opened, he made sure it was Zahabzeh leading, and Shirazi let Kamal, and then Parviz, follow after him before exiting himself.
The Benz had stalled in the intersection, bent metal and a cloud of steam, shattered glass glimmering on the ground. The three men in the lead had drawn their weapons, Zahabzeh already covering the driver, the one called MacIntyre, who was only now beginning to regain his senses. Behind him, Shirazi heard the whine of the van as Javed put it in reverse, backing it closer.
Behind the cracked windshield, MacIntyre righted himself, started to move, then saw the guns and arrested, raising his hands before laying them flat on the dashboard. Shirazi had a moment's relief that the man was intelligent enough to have read the situation, to have seen the inevitable outcome. He sincerely hoped MacIntyre wouldn't change his mind, decide now was the time to become a hero; if he did that, Shirazi would have no recourse but to order him shot, and his desire was very much that no one die. Not yet, at least.
Without ceremony or hesitation, Shirazi walked to the rear of the Benz. There was young Caleb Lewis, blood running down the side of his face, looking appropriately dazed and frightened. And there, too, was Tara Chace, slumped against him, and behind the glare of streetlights off the window, Shirazi saw her turn her head, blinking at him blearily, sluggishly. Shirazi tried the door, found it locked.
"Parviz!" Shirazi called, and the young man instantly holstered his gun, running around to join him. The baton was in his hand before he came to a halt, extending out with a snap of the wrist, and Shirazi stepped back to give him room, saw Caleb Lewis flinch, hand moving to shield Chace's head. Then the end of the metal baton hit the window, the glass exploding into fragments. Parviz rammed the baton against the side of the car, collapsing it, stowing it, then brought his gun out again.
"If he moves," Shirazi told Parviz in Farsi, knowing that Caleb Lewis would understand him, "kill him."
Parviz nodded.
"You can't do this," Lewis began. "This vehicle-"
"We are doing it." Shirazi reached into the car, unlocked the door, then yanked it open. Javed was out of the van now, moving to join him, and together they took Chace by the arms, pulling her from the vehicle. She didn't struggle, semiconscious, and once out of the Benz, became dead-weight in their arms. Together with Javed, they moved her to the van, laying her in the back of the vehicle.
Shirazi climbed in after her, Javed returning to his place behind the wheel.
"That's it," Shirazi called out to Zahabzeh. "We're done."
Zahabzeh, Parviz, and Kamal all began backing towards him, their weapons still held on the Benz and its remaining occupants. One by one the men climbed into the van, and then Javed had them moving again, even before Zahabzeh could close the doors. Shirazi sat down beside Chace, put his fingers to her throat, feeling for her pulse. She was staring up at nothing, her eyes unfocused, glazing, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly beneath the blanket she wore as a shirt.
"How bad is she?" Zahabzeh made the question sound like curiosity, rather than the vital matter it was. "Will she live?"
Bending his head to her mouth, Shirazi felt the woman's breath brushing his cheek. He could hear her over the sound of the engine, the rapid wheeze as she inhaled, exhaled, struggling for air, and he frowned, slipped his hands beneath her blanket, running them over her torso. Her skin was cold, clammy, but he could feel no wound.
"Help me," Shirazi told Zahabzeh. "Hold her head, we need to roll her."
With Zahabzeh's help he rolled Chace onto her right side, again slipped a hand beneath the blanket, now feeling his way along her back, her bare skin, her bra, and then something slippery and wet. He pulled his hand back, saw blood shining black on his fingers, wiped them on the blanket and then lifted it, revealing a tattered and bloody square of plastic stuck to her skin, the tape peeled back, exposing a narrow entry wound.
"The kit," Shirazi ordered. "Oxygen and an occlusion dressing. Quickly."
Kamal moved, staggering as the van made a turn, dropped to his knees between Shirazi and Zahabzeh. He dug in the medical bag, handed over a wrapped dressing.
"Get a mask on her." Shirazi ripped the bandage open, pulling free a thin sheet of shiny foil and gauze. He pulled the plastic from Chace's back, tossing it away, then lay the new bandage over the wound, pressing it firmly to her skin with his palm. "Quickly."
The small canister of oxygen was already out, Kamal moving with surprising speed, and in the back of his mind, Shirazi imagined that the young man thought this a potential redemption, a possible absolution for the murder of Hossein. Oxygen began to flow, and Shirazi took the mask from Kamal, pressed it to Chace's mouth and nose, pulled the strap around the woman's head to hold it in place.
"Lay her down. Gently."
Zahabzeh complied, and together they returned Chace to her back, and Shirazi spread her eyes open wider, looking at each of them closely, then took her pulse again. It was still racing, but stronger than before. The rapid movement of her chest had subsided, her breathing still shallow, but nowhere as labored.
"Tell Javed there's a change to the plan," Shirazi told Zahabzeh. "We have to go by ground."
"It's almost two hundred kilometers," Zahabzeh said. "The helicopter-"
"We put her on a helicopter, she will die, Farzan."
Kamal had shifted, preparing an IV, and now had Chace's left arm in his lap, searching for a vein. Zahabzeh turned to watch, his expression flat as the catheter went into the woman's arm. Her eyes were still open, and she blinked, but made no noise. Kamal handed the IV bag to Parviz, telling him to hold it up.
"By road, then," Zahabzeh said. "It's funny, though."
"What is funny?" Shirazi asked.
<
br /> "We're working so hard to save her life when we're just going to kill her later."
Shirazi looked down at the woman on the floor of the van. The makeshift maqna'e had come loose, the blond hair it had concealed now spilling around her head. Shirazi saw that she was looking at him, and for a moment there was comprehension in her eyes, understanding, even pain. But there was no fear.
"First we will take what we need," Shirazi told Zahabzeh.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LONDON-VAUXHALL CROSS, OFFICE OF D-OPS
11 DECEMBER 1756 HOURS (GMT)
The red circuit had opportunity to ring only once before Paul Crocker had the phone to his ear. "D-Ops."
"Duty Ops Officer, sir, flash traffic from Tehran Station, Immediate and Urgent. Rescue attempt intercepted en route stop. Minder One taken by VEVAK forces and in custody stop. Number Two minor injuries stop. Require instruction as to how to proceed stop. Message ends."
"I'm…"
"Sir?"
Crocker coughed, feeling as if his head was beginning to spin, as if the room had suddenly lost its balance.
"Sir?"
He drew a breath, slowly, felt his heart pounding hard in his chest. "Send to Tehran Station, immediate and urgent, as follows: imperative you determine location where Minder One detained. Authorized to use all available means, including activation of network assets. Message ends. And Ron?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell MCO to get an open line to the Station, and bring in Minder Two, get him up to speed."
"Right away, sir."
Crocker set the handset back in its cradle, stared at it for a moment, and was about to key his intercom when the door opened, Kate standing there.
"She's at the embassy?"
"No." Crocker got up, took his suit coat from the stand, began slipping into it. "VEVAK hit the car before they made it in. Is C still in the building?"
"In her office," Kate said quietly. "She was waiting on… she was waiting for the good news."
"Tell her I'm coming up," Crocker said. For several seconds after Crocker was done speaking, C sat in silence, her face set in stone, impossible to read. Then it cracked, an overwhelming sadness settling on her, and she sighed.
"It's over, then," she said. "Certainly, if they have her in custody, it's over."
Crocker shook his head, refusing the analysis. "I've directed Tehran Station to try to determine where Chace is being held. Minder Two is on his way into the Ops Room, I can have him briefed and on his way to Iran tonight if I can get MOD transport."
"And what is he supposed to do when he gets there? Attempt a rescue? Attempt a second rescue?"
"If feasible, yes. Poole is ex-SAS, as well as a Minder. We have time. D-Int confirmed that the Iranians released the news of Falcon's death earlier today, but attributed it only to 'foreign agents.' They'll try to fit her for it, and that certainly means a trial, most likely a very public one. We have some time."
She shook her head, her expression softening, almost affectionate. "I applaud your loyalty to your people, Paul, but the proposition is absurd. Even if Barnett were to locate Chace, it's too late, the damage is done. It's over."
"Poole-"
"Poole will never leave England, Paul!" She got up from behind her desk, exasperated, frustrated. "Have you stopped to consider what you're asking? Even if, by some grace of God, Tehran is actually able to verify where Chace is being detained, even if the location isn't, for some absurd reason, a maximum-security site, it will never happen. The risk of a rescue attempt going wrong is simply too great. Bad enough they've got one of our agents alive, one that they'll undoubtedly put on trial for murder, you would send them a second one?"
"If we find the location, a rescue attempt becomes viable. If we go through MOD, with Poole as lead, if we can get an SAS brick in support, we can get her out of the country."
"You're not listening to me, Paul. It's not going to happen, the PM will never allow it."
"We owe her a rescue. We can't just abandon her."
C's voice turned cold. "We owed her the effort, and we made it as best we could."
"There's more we can do."
"It doesn't matter. The Prime Minister will never authorize an incursion into Iran to save the life of one SIS agent, you know that, certainly not after the failure of Coldwitch. And certainly not in the face of Minder One being the lead story on the morning news. Chace is lost to us, Paul. Our priority now must be determining how we will respond to the Iranians when they put her in front of the cameras, how we can mitigate the damage."
Crocker stared at her, knowing that everything she was saying was true, knowing the logic, feeling it boiling, foul, inside of him. "We have to try."
"We have done," C said. "To the best of our abilities, we have done."
"It's not enough."
She considered him, and he realized what he was seeing from her was very close to pity.
"I don't know any other way to put this that you'll understand," C said. "So I'll say it like this: if you send Poole to Iran, I shall recall him, and then fire you. If you order Tehran Station to do anything other than the most routine intelligence-gathering, I will countermand your directive, and I will fire you. If you do anything at all that could further exacerbate the situation as it stands right now, I will reverse its course, and fire you. Iran is now off-limits to the Ops Directorate until I say otherwise. The priority now is damage control, nothing else, and I cannot-I will not-permit you to make things worse."
Crocker said nothing. C pressed the button on her intercom, summoning her PA, and as soon as the door to her office cracked open, spoke to the unseen assistant, saying, "My car, please. And inform Downing Street that I'm coming over with an update on the Iran situation."
The door closed silently.
"What am I permitted to do?" Crocker asked.
She looked at him sadly. "Go home, Paul." Poole was waiting when Crocker returned to his office, and from the look on Minder Two's face, Crocker knew he had already heard the news.
"Got tired of waiting in the Ops Room," Poole said. "When do I leave?"
"You don't." Crocker reached for the red phone, punching a key, and when Ron answered, said, "Inform Tehran Station to stand down, repeat, stand down. Require full report soonest, otherwise Station to resume normal operations."
He hung up before he heard Ron's confirmation of the order, turned back to Poole, to see the man standing, hands clenched, glaring at him.
"We're not doing anything?"
"There's nothing we can do, Nicky."
"You can bloody send me to go and get her!"
"Alone? Really?"
"Lankford's still in Mosul, he can meet me in Basra, we deploy from there-"
"It's not going to happen, Nicky." Crocker dug a thumb against his temple, feeling his head throb. "I couldn't even if I wanted to. C has declared Iran off-limits. No operations, no action, nothing."
"God-dammit, Boss!" Poole's voice exploded in the tiny office. "We owe her!"
"I know."
"Then fuck C and fuck the rest of them and send me to Iran to get her!"
"Knock it off."
"Go to the CIA, then!"
"It'll be the same response. They've already written off Coldwitch."
"She's in some goddamn VEVAK interrogation room right now, they're using rubber hoses on her or needles or whatever the hell's the method of the month over there, and they're going to get everything she knows, you realize that? Never mind that she's my friend, and that maybe, maybe, you even think of her as yours. She's a fucking intelligence gold mine for them!"
"You think I don't know that?" Crocker asked. "You think C doesn't know, the CIA doesn't know? If there were even a chance of getting her out of there, you think I'd let C stop me? But there isn't, Nicky. There just isn't."
Poole stared at him for several seconds, struggling, warring with himself, until finally swearing, turning away. His fists tightened, then relaxed, and with it his posture slackened
.
"They'll take good care of her." The consolation sounded hollow and false, even to Crocker's own ears. "Reasonably good care. A doctor for her, at least, the medical attention she needs. They'll want her healthy for the cameras."
"Well, that makes it so much better, now, doesn't it?"
Crocker had no response.
"So they'll put her on trial, and then what? Prison for five years before we get her back?"
"The assumption is that she'll be tried for the murder of Hossein Khamenei," Crocker said. "In which case they'll execute her once she's found guilty."
"Lovely."
"Not really."
They looked at each other, the antagonism gone.
"So this is everything," Poole said. "This is all we are going to do."
"For now, at least. Once the Iranians reveal they have her we'll know more. They might not take it public."
"Go to the FCO you mean? The Ambassador?"
"It's possible. Depends what they want."
"Maybe we can work an exchange? Trade her for somebody?"
"Maybe."
"You don't sound hopeful."
"We're not holding anyone they would want, certainly no one of equal or greater value." Crocker shook his head. "And I doubt the Foreign Secretary or the Prime Minister would think Chace's life is worth any concessions the Iranians would ask for."
"Bastards," Poole muttered, the one word an indictment, encompassing each and all of them: the Prime Minister and the Foreign Secretary; C and Seale and the CIA; VEVAK and Youness Shirazi; even Crocker and Poole, himself. They'd lost. Chace wasn't dead, but she might as well have been, because she was never coming back. Chace was gone.
Bastards, all of them.
Crocker had to agree.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IRAN-ISFAHAN PROVINCE, NATANZ
12 DECEMBER 0221 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
It had been past midnight when Shirazi and the others reached the house in Natanz, some twelve kilometers outside of town, and he went inside with Zahabzeh, Kamal, and Parviz to prepare it, while Javed stayed with their prize in the van. Chace wasn't going anywhere; after stabilizing her, Shirazi had injected her with ketamine, just enough to put her down for the journey.
