A Gentleman's Game

by Greg Rucka

  “You on your bike?” Chace asked him.

  Lankford shook his head, took off his coat, hung it on the rack.

  “What then?”

  “He wanted to talk about my prospects.” While he said it, Lankford dropped a folded square of paper onto her desk. “Wanted to know how it was working out down here, if I was ready to make a go of it full-time.”

  Chace looked at the paper, then to Lankford, quizzical. Over at the Minder Two desk, Poole’s chair was scraping back on the floor as he got up to join them.

  “What’d you say?” Chace asked, taking the paper. There was nothing special about it whatsoever: copier paper, white, plain, folded in a square.

  “Well, that I was enjoying the work very much,” Lankford said. “That I recognized I had a long way to go until I was at your level, or Nicky’s, but that I felt certain I would rise to it, and do so quickly.”

  “I agree,” Chace said, opening the sheet. “You’re coming along nicely.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chace looked at the note, handwritten by Crocker, blue ink on white paper.

  Leave. Do not return home. Lose Box. 0210 Imperial Age, VIP, clean. Minders will support.

  Chace found it suddenly hard to breathe, had to force herself to inhale. She turned the note in her hand, showing it to Poole but looking at Lankford. He was watching her, his expression blatantly defying the banality of his words, drawn with tension.

  For a moment, she honestly couldn’t think of anything to say, her mind still spinning from the note, trying to fathom it, straining to understand. Trouble, obviously big trouble, and she was at the heart of it, but she was damned if she could see the why of it, or even the how. She had known it wasn’t a spot-check by Box, she had known it wasn’t simply a security viewing. But this . . . This was beyond anything she had imagined, if for no other reason than that she had not, in her wildest dreams, thought it would lead to something like this.

  Box wanted her, Crocker’s message made that clear. Why, she didn’t know, but if Crocker was telling her anything at all, he was telling her that Kinney was going to try to put the arm on her and she’d better get moving, and fast.

  The clock on the wall told her it was fourteen-thirty-three. Just under twelve hours until she was to be in the VIP room at the Imperial Age, then. Provided she could keep her liberty for the duration.

  Poole had finished reading the note, and now he was looking at her, too, much the way Lankford was.

  “Is there anything else you think I should be working on?” Lankford asked her. “To improve my performance?”

  She still couldn’t trust her voice with a response and so she shook her head, drawing the note back from Poole and crumpling it tight in her hand, then dropping it into her jacket pocket. Then she rose from her chair.

  “No, Chris,” she told him. “I think you’ve definitely demonstrated that you’re ready to be Minder Three.”

  Poole took the cue off her, went to the stand, grabbed his coat.

  “I’m off for a pint,” Chace told them, and left the Pit.

  •

  She had a moment of apprehension, showing her pass to the warden on the door on her way out, but he didn’t stop her, just gave her a nod of recognition and waved her through. She stepped out into the courtyard of the building, into the slight mist that was doing a weak imitation of rain, following the walk to the door by the gate. The gate was opening, and Chace recognized C’s black Bentley as it glided into the yard. She looked away from the car, kept her stride steady.

  There were more guards on the gate and they showed no signs of wishing to detain her, just checked her pass again, logged her out. Chace took the opportunity to glance back toward the entrance, saw C’s driver opening the rear door, saw Barclay climbing out of the car, far enough away that she couldn’t read his expression. She turned away before he could return the look, stepped through the door beside the gate, tucking her pass back into her inside pocket.

  Wondering if she hadn’t just left Vauxhall Cross for the last time.

  31

  Saudi Arabia—Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan

  16 September 1731 Local (GMT+3.00)

  Sinan watched as Matteen moved to the entrance of the tent, closed the flap, then slipped and turned the four wooden toggles through their frogs, trying to ensure against interruptions. Finished, he returned to the small table, propped his rifle against it, and sat on the rickety stool. On the table was a blue and black knapsack, a knockoff of a popular Western design, with several pockets and flaps and zippers. Matteen opened the pack and began loading it with boxes of ammunition, to weigh it down.

  Sinan didn’t sit and, after confirming that Matteen was getting the weights correct, turned his attention to Nia. They were in one of the smaller tents, and there wasn’t a lot of room, and among the smell of the canvas and the heat and the dust, Sinan was sure he could smell her, too, and he cursed his imagination, willed himself to focus on the task at hand.

  “We are your brothers in this,” he said to Nia gently. “And you are our sister.”

  She nodded, hesitant, but the gesture was clear enough, even under her cloak and veil.

  “You are shahid, and our purpose is to see you attain Paradise.”

  Another nod, and Sinan was suddenly uncertain if he was trying to reassure Nia or himself. Behind him, he heard the sound of the zipper running over its teeth as Matteen closed the knapsack.

  “Show us,” Sinan told Nia.

  The woman hesitated again, then turned away from him, toward the wall of the tent. She reached up, unfastening her veil from her cowl, removing the abaya. Sinan looked away at first, when her bare arm revealed itself, and saw that Matteen was watching Nia’s movements with a decided disinterest. He envied his fellow the ability, wondered how he could manage it.

  Sinan couldn’t.

  But he couldn’t not look, either, and when he forced his eyes back to Nia, she was pulling the abaya away from her body, and he saw her bare legs. They were smooth, their curve gentle, her thighs slim but strong, and when she shifted her weight, he saw the muscles move, disappearing up beneath the shorts that were too short, the kind of shorts the Zionist girls wore. Her skin reminded him of her eyes, the eyes he’d caught himself thinking about too many times. Warmth seemed to emanate from her and, for the first time, Sinan wanted to touch her, to feel it for himself.

  And he knew he was too weak, then, and he prayed to Allah, the Compassionate, for mercy.

  She folded the abaya carefully, then shyly turned back around to face him, her eyes on the dirt floor of the tent.

  Sinan looked, and even though he was supposed to look, even though it was his job to look, he felt guilt and shame surge through him, seeing her like this. She’d been given one of the Western tops to wear, powder blue to match the dark blue shorts, and there were three thin white stripes on the top, running around the center, and they made her breasts seem bigger, more defined. Her arms, like her legs, were slender and graceful, and her black hair fell thickly below her shoulders.

  When he looked at her face, he was certain she was beautiful, and he thought, for the first time, that he must be very ugly to her eyes.

  It was Matteen who spoke first. “Good, I believe the clothes. But your hair will have to be cut, you understand?”

  Nia’s left hand started toward her head, then stopped, fell back, and she nodded, still looking at the floor.

  How old is she? Sinan wondered, still drinking her in, unable to stop himself. Eighteen? Nineteen?

  “Come sit here,” Matteen said, and he got to his feet, making room for Nia at the table.

  She did as he instructed, and when she moved, she glanced to Sinan, and he knew she saw how he was looking at her, and still he couldn’t stop it. She knew it, it was in her eyes, and he expected displeasure or contempt.

  But he saw none.

  “Sinan?” Matteen asked. “You want to do this?”

  Sinan looked at him quickly, but Matte
en appeared just as bored by their activities as before.

  “We have scissors?”

  “I thought I brought them, they’re in our tent,” Matteen said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He opened the flap just enough to slip out, leaving them alone, before Sinan could offer to do it himself.

  Nia shifted on the stool slightly, hands in her lap. Sinan tried to find something else in the tent to look at, settled ultimately on the main support for the roof.

  “Is it heavy?” she asked softly. “The bomb?”

  “Ten pounds,” Sinan said. “Maybe more. When we’re finished with your hair and your clothes, you will try on the knapsack. Matteen’s weighted it down, so you know what it will be like.”

  “I thought there would be a belt. In Gaza, they showed us pictures of the belts.”

  “The knapsack is easier to make than the belt,” Sinan explained.

  “Ten pounds.” After a moment, Nia added, “That’s not too heavy. My books were heavier.”

  It took him a second. “You were a student?”

  She nodded.

  “Why aren’t you a student now?”

  “They killed my friend.”

  Sinan moved to the tent opening, peered out between the flaps. There was no sign of Matteen, no sign of anyone about, really. From one of the larger tents, he could hear the sounds of a recording playing a sermon, Dr. Faud’s voice.

  “Your friend,” Sinan began. “Your friend . . . you were close to him?”

  He heard Nia shift again on the stool. “I am a Muslim woman.”

  He turned back to her then, feeling utterly like an ass. “I did not mean to insult you. I know you are a good woman and that you are proper. I didn’t mean to say otherwise.”

  “He was my friend,” she repeated, and she looked up at him, and Sinan thought her eyes were colder now. “In Nablus, and he was shot, and he died, and he didn’t do anything to them.”

  “I understand.”

  She turned her head away, the gesture angry, and Sinan felt even more an ass. He looked to the tent flaps again, wondering what was taking Matteen so long.

  “You aren’t an Arab,” she said. “You’re English.”

  “I am a Muslim.”

  “But you are English.”

  “No, I am a Muslim. What I was before I found the Truth is nothing. It is what I am now that matters.”

  Nia seemed to think about this, then shook her head. “Why are you here?”

  “I want to help my brothers.”

  “Did they kill someone close to you? Did you lose a friend to them?”

  Sinan thought about Aamil.

  “No,” he said. “Not like you mean. But I have seen my brothers dying, my sisters dying, and that was enough for me. The imam in my mosque, before I came here, he taught me about what it meant to be a Muslim, he taught me that there were six pillars, not five, and it was he who helped me find a madrassa that would take me.”

  “So you came here?”

  “I was in Cairo first. For many months, and then I was sponsored on the Hajj by the Prince, Allah have mercy on him. And on the Hajj, I saw . . .”

  Sinan faltered, afraid to share what he had seen. Aamil had been there, and Aamil had understood, but only barely. There had been times, since then, when Sinan had wondered if his vision of the Satans, of the suffering they brought, hadn’t been the result of hunger, or dehydration, or exhaustion, or all of those things combined. It did not matter; he had seen what he had seen, and he had known what he had to do, as a man, as a Muslim, but mostly, as a Wahhabi.

  “What did you see?” Nia asked softly.

  She was looking at him again, curious and beautiful. He opened his mouth to answer and then felt the sunlight splash him as Matteen slipped through the tent flap.

  “Yassir was using them,” Matteen explained, handing the scissors to Sinan. “Sorry it took so long.”

  “It’s all right,” Sinan told him.

  Nia straightened in her seat, pushed her tumbled hair back off her shoulders, and none of them said anything as Sinan began to cut it.

  When he was finished, Nia wiped at her eyes, and he realized she had been weeping.

  32

  London—South Lambeth, the Royal Albert

  16 September 1503 GMT

  The pub was only half a mile from Vauxhall Cross, an easy enough walk, though in the fifteen minutes it took Chace to cover the distance the mist turned to more sincere rain, surprisingly cold, considering the time of year. She cut through Vauxhall Park, then south on Meadow Road, and when she made the dogleg off Dorset onto Bolney, she stopped abruptly to light a cigarette, hunching her head against the rain, cupping the flame with her hand, then looking back the way she had come, counting to fifteen.

  No one came around the corner in a hurry to catch up.

  She blew out smoke, frowning as she moved to the entrance of the pub. Bad sign, she thought. It wasn’t an elaborate flush, to be sure, but still, it would normally have been enough to force Box to tip their hand. That it hadn’t worked meant that Kinney was playing cautious and, worse, that he knew she was on to him.

  Once inside and out of the rain, she ran a hand through her hair, looking over the room. It was almost entirely empty, which, for the time being, wasn’t a bad thing. The maid at the bar recognized her and had a lager pulled before Chace even reached her.

  “Jacket potato?” she asked.

  “Just the lager,” Chace said, paying.

  “You’re on your liquid diet again?”

  “What was it the man said? ‘Beer is food, Lewis’?”

  The maid grinned and banged the register, handed Chace her change. Chace took her glass to the table in the corner, put out her cigarette in the ashtray, and promptly lit another. The door opened, and Lankford came in with Poole, and they each hit the bar. Lankford’s manner was easy with the maid, and before they had their drinks, he’d gotten her laughing, twice, and each time honest, and it occurred to Chace that maybe he was better than she’d given him credit for being.

  Poole led to the table, parked opposite her, and stole a cigarette from her pack while Lankford was getting settled. They each took a moment to lower the levels in their glasses.

  “Well, I’m fucked, boys,” Chace told them.

  Lankford nodded, and Poole said, “That was the rumor at the School.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “Counted six,” Lankford said. “Two in cars, radios, maybe controllers. Four on foot, even split men and women, and they were so blasted focused on keeping you from spotting them, they forgot about us.”

  “Two more on motorbikes,” Poole said. “Those are the ones we did see, Tara. Probably double that working you up right now.”

  “Probably,” she agreed, and cleared the smoke from her mouth to make room for more of her lager.

  “Want to explain this, then?” asked Poole.

  “I can’t. Chris?”

  Lankford shook his head. “I got into the office, he told me to park and started scribbling the note. Handed it to me, then said that Nicky and I were to follow, to do what you said, and to lie low otherwise. And that we were on no account to talk to the DC or C or anyone about what was going on.”

  “There you go, Nicky.”

  “You shag Harry or something?” Poole asked. “Why this sudden attention from Box?”

  “Why are you so concerned with my sex life, Nicky?”

  “Might be because you have one,” Lankford observed.

  “Not for much longer,” Chace said. “All right, finish your beer and then shove off. Back to the Pit, do your thing. Assuming Box doesn’t try to grab me between now and darkness—”

  “Not a safe assumption,” Poole observed.

  She continued without pause, glaring at him. “—find me at Paddington at twenty-hundred, and be ready to play. That’s where I want to lose them, and I’ll need you both to run interference.”

  “There’s going to be hell to pay when Kinney realizes
what’s going on,” Lankford said. “He’ll start screaming about SIS operations in London, infringement, all of that.”

  “He’ll be screaming about something else, we do it right.” Chace looked at Poole. “I need my go-bag, can you bring it?”

  “Easy peasy.”

  Chace rolled her eyes, and Poole chuckled. “You want docs? Cash? We’re assuming you’re going to ground here.”

  She thought, then shook her head. “No, too risky. I’ll handle that myself if I have to. But I will take whatever you two have in your wallets.”

  “Don’t you have a bank card?”

  “And let Box find me via ATM? Not on your fucking life, Chris.”

  Both men reached for their wallets, dumped several bills onto the table. Chace counted them up quickly, two hundred and eighteen pounds. With her eighty-seven, enough to buy her way around almost any obstacle. She tucked the bills into her pocket, then came out with the note Lankford had brought from Crocker. She handed it back to him.

  “Get rid of this.”

  “Thought you’d have already done it.”

  “No place to ditch it that Box wouldn’t grab it themselves. Make sure it’s destroyed.”

  Lankford finished draining his glass, rose, nodding. “Right.”

  Poole got to his feet. “Anything else?”

  “One thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Wish me luck?” she asked.

  Poole stared at her for a moment, unsmiling, and the full seriousness of the situation settled on them all then.

  “I would, Tara,” he said. “But I don’t think luck’ll do it.”

  33

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

  16 September 1849 GMT

  “Where’s Chace?” Weldon demanded.

  “She’s not in the Pit?” Crocker said.

  “You damn well know she’s not in the Pit. Where is she, Paul?”

  Crocker scratched at his jaw, finding a spot of stubble he’d missed with his morning razor. “I really have no idea, sir. Perhaps you could inquire of David Kinney? I’m sure he knows.”