by Greg Rucka
But they couldn’t risk ignoring her entirely, and that was part of her plan, too.
Chace finished fiddling with the lighters, took the copy of The Telegraph, and crumpled several of its pages, stuffing it into the bag. Then she stuffed the bear, hat and all, inside after it. She got to her feet, slipped back into her jacket, then bent and stuck her hand into the bag a final time, as if reaching around. She counted to five, then withdrew her hand and started resolutely toward the doors back out to the station, taking her time, passing the woman still lingering at the wall without a glance. Chace paused at the newsagent’s again, glancing back in time to see the action in the eatery, six of them all descending on her table, anxious to extinguish the conflagration they were certain was about to erupt.
She turned toward the platforms, making a purposeful beeline toward the second from the left, to where the London-Heathrow Express was waiting, accelerating, almost jogging now. A man emerged from the train, from the doors nearest to her. He was an inch or so shorter than she, broad at the neck and shoulders, and she thought she recognized him from earlier that day, but it could have been from the night before, or from a pub a year ago, or never at all.
When he emerged and turned toward her, she saw his earpiece, almost flesh-colored, and he was already raising a hand to stop her.
“All right, Miss Chace,” he said.
There might have been more he had to say, but she never gave him the chance. Without breaking stride, almost plowing into him, she smiled and raised her right hand as if in greeting before driving it down, index and middle fingers jabbing into the notch beneath his Adam’s apple. She felt the soft skin crush into the thickness of his collarbone, and he gasped, crumpled, already choking, while she put her left hand on his shoulder to guide him down to his knees.
He gagged, pitched forward, and she was past him now, and only then did she pivot left, sprinting for the edge of the platform. She leaped, landing between rails, nearly twisting her ankle on the ties, caught the opposite edge, pulled herself up on the next platform, then repeated it all again until she had vaulted onto the last one and righted herself. She saw the exit forty feet away, and Nicky Poole was there, standing over two men from Box. One of them was flat on his stomach; the other was on hands and knees, vomiting.
“Rabbit!” someone was shouting, and in the noise and echo of the station, the word seemed even more absurd. “Rabbit, she’s gone rabbit!”
Chace ran, flying up the steps, passing Poole again, touching his hand as he held it out to her, taking the radio and earpiece he was holding. She burst through the doors, stuffing them into her pocket, felt the wet air slap her skin. She turned, looking for Lankford, saw another of the boys from Box coming at her, wincing at the lone headlight shining down on her. The man from Box turned, hearing the bike, trying to step out of the way, and Lankford clubbed him alongside the head with the helmet in his hand plus twenty miles per hour, sending him sprawling, before lobbing the helmet her way.
She caught it, swung onto the back of the bike as it pulled up, noting that they’d remembered her go-bag, trapped against the back of the seat with elastic netting. Chace had to sit half on it to fit, wrapping one arm around Lankford’s waist while jamming the helmet down on her head with the other, and he sped them away so quickly, it was as if he hadn’t stopped at all. The bike jolted, hopping down the curb, and the rear tire slid as Lankford drove the wrong way through traffic, slicing between cabs and cars, speeding them away from the station.
Over the engine and the traffic, Chace heard herself, muffled in the helmet, laughing with joy.
35
London—Shoreditch, the Imperial Age
17 September 0204 GMT
The council-flat heavy on the door of the Imperial Age was as sincere a bruiser as any Crocker had met in his time as a Minder, with a head shaved bald that sat low on a thick neck. It was twenty-six minutes before the club closed, and he gave Crocker the once-over at the door, head to toe, before speaking.
“We’re closing up, mate,” the man said. “Don’t waste your money, eh?”
Crocker offered him a tenner, ostensibly the cover charge, but potentially a bribe. “I can do a lot of looking in the time that’s left.”
The man looked at the note, looked at Crocker, then shrugged and stepped out of the way of the door. The door was painted metal, black, but the neon above advertising what was available inside gave it a noxious pink shine. Crocker pushed through, into a ten-by-ten curtained darkness, and was instantly assaulted by the bass and treble that pounded throughout the club. He continued on, through a gap in the hanging fabric, emerged on a broad landing that afforded him a complete view of the club, of the bar running to the left, and the tables on the main floor, arrayed around the base and runway of the stage. The woman currently dancing was naked, white, with black hair, and doing her best to convince the audience that she found her dance pole a fulfilling sexual partner. Smoke and chatter tangled through the music, and most of the tables were occupied with a mix of lads out on the piss and businessmen out for a thrill.
Along the main floor, halfway down on the walls, were mirror flights of stairs, ascending to the first level, a railed gallery with more seats and more individually attentive dancers. Crocker took the flight on the left, feeling hot in the sudden warmth of the club. He removed his raincoat at the top of the stairs, then turned back to look down and check the entrance. He gave it a minute, saw no one else entering and two of the patrons leaving, and took it as confirmation that he was still running clean.
Another set of stairs was back against the wall, with a highly polished brass plaque set on the wall beside it. The sign had an arrow, indicating upward, and the words “VIP Level.” He ascended the stairs, coming to the second floor, and three doors and three more signs. The placards on the doors in front of him and to his left all read “Available,” and the one to his right read “Engaged.”
He opened the one to his right without knocking, stepped into a mock office set, complete with fake windows on two walls that gave the appearance of looking out from a City office building into a London sunset, the sky purple and orange. An executive’s desk was positioned at one wall, its surface empty but for a cardboard computer and telephone set, its chair large, black, and leather. An executive couch, also black leather, was angled to face the “windows,” and its companion coffee table was low and oversized, wider and longer than the real thing. A drinks menu stood on the table, for convenience. There was music playing in here as well, not the raucous bass-driven madness from below, but classical, and Crocker recognized it as Rachmaninoff.
Chace was seated in the executive chair, tilted back, with a naked redhead writhing on the desk in front of her. The redhead had one leg resting on Chace’s shoulder, the other bent beneath her in what Crocker could only imagine was an incredibly painful position, arms braced back to support her. When she arched, her head came back, vivid hair spilling onto the desktop, and she met Crocker’s eyes and gave him a huge and unself-conscious grin, then brought her head up again, whipping her mane around and nearly knocking the cigarette in Chace’s mouth free in the process.
“This is Billy,” Chace told him. “Not with an i and an e, but with a y.”
“Tell him why, Jane,” Billy said to Chace, freeing her leg from Chace’s shoulder and deftly turning on the desk, to present Chace with her rear.
Chace looked at Crocker, her smile thin. “Because once she dances for you, ‘y’ would you want anyone else?”
“Why indeed,” Crocker said.
Chace slapped Billy’s ass with her palm, saying, “Right, shove off, Billy.”
Billy squealed and laughed, swaying her beautiful backside for another moment before slipping off the desk and moving past Crocker to the couch, where her clothes—such as they were—had been scattered. Crocker kept his eyes on Chace, but he noted that Chace wasn’t so concerned and was watching Billy dress with apparent interest. When the woman was finished, Chace produced her wallet and offered her
a handful of bills.
Billy took them, kissed Chace on the cheek, and said, “Come back anytime, Miss Jane Smith.”
“May do,” Chace replied, grinning.
Billy headed for the door in a cloud of jasmine perfume. “We’re closing in ten, so you’ll need to be fast.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Crocker assured her.
Then Crocker and Chace were alone with the music, which had switched to Stravinsky.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Chace said. “You’re the one who picked the rendezvous, not me.”
“You should have been alone.”
“They wouldn’t give me the bloody room alone. As it was, I’m tapped, so I hope you brought some money along with an explanation. All I’ve got now is this.”
She held up a small radio, its leads dangling free, one to the com button, one to the earpiece.
“Clever,” Crocker said.
“It was Poole. They switched on me at twenty-one forty-two, when they realized I had one of their radios, but for a while there I knew everything they were doing.”
Chace tossed the radio to him and Crocker caught it with both hands, carefully wrapped the leads around the unit, then stuffed it into his raincoat pocket. He tossed the raincoat onto the arm of the couch, went into his suit jacket, came out again with an A4 envelope in his hand. Chace hadn’t moved from behind the desk, and it occurred to him that she was having fun with the role reversal. He dropped the envelope in front of her, beside the hollow telephone.
“You came clean?”
She pointed her chin at his raincoat, indicating the radio. “Last I heard, they were looking for me at Heathrow, Gatwick, and Waterloo. I’ve been clean since I left Paddington.”
He nodded, frowning, watched as Chace picked up the envelope, then put her cigarette in the ashtray, which looked to be the only real thing on the desk at the moment.
“What the hell is going on, Boss?”
“Open it.”
He needn’t have said it; she already had, dumping the contents of the envelope onto the desk and quickly going through them. There was a British passport, a Gold American Express card, and two thousand pounds in twenties and hundreds. Chace flipped open the passport, her expression clouding, then checked the name against the one on the Amex.
“So I’m Dorothea Palmer, am I?”
“It was the only set I could grab without being caught,” Crocker said. “And when I’m asked about it by the Deputy Chief, I’ll tell him you stole it.”
“He’ll cancel them immediately.”
“Which is why you need to be out of the country no later than noon tomorrow.”
Chace replaced the bills and documents in the envelope, then dropped the envelope in the small brown duffel that was resting beside her chair. It gave Crocker a minor satisfaction. At least Chace had her bag.
“My suggestion? Tel Aviv, make contact with Noah Landau.”
“To what end?”
“To be briefed on a terrorist training facility in the Wadi-as-Sirhan, Tabuk province, Saudi Arabia.”
For the first time, Chace looked confused. “Why?”
“Because you need to destroy the camp.”
“Alone?”
“Unless you can find some support, yes, alone.”
“Well, support, that would take the challenge out of it.”
The joke wasn’t worth the courtesy laugh, and even if it had been, they didn’t have the time.
“So how large is this camp, then?” She tried to force the smile again, and again it didn’t convince.
“Sixty plus, half veterans, half raw, give or take another two dozen Palestinian recruits working on their martyrdom degrees. It’s the HUM-AA faction, Tara, the same lot Salih was funding, the same lot Faud was inciting.”
“The same lot that hit us here.”
“Yes,” Crocker said. “It’s complicated and it’s political, but the short form is this: that camp has to go. The Saudis won’t touch it unless they get you. And Downing Street has decided that sacrificing one SIS officer to achieve that end is the most expedient way to do that.”
“Box was going to give me to the Saudis?”
“Correct.”
She looked away from him, out toward the fake skyline. “What were they waiting for? They could have taken me anytime today.”
“They didn’t receive authorization until half-nine,” Crocker said. “Otherwise they’d have picked you up earlier.”
Chace bit her lip, thinking. “Blind luck,” she said.
“What?”
“I lost them at eight. Any later, I’d not have lost them at all.”
“Blind luck,” Crocker agreed. “You’re going to need more of it. The only way out I see for you is to remove the Government’s reason for rendering you to the Saudis in the first place. That’s the camp.”
She turned her head, studying him. The mask was slipping again, and he could read on her face the conflicting emotions at work: the anger and the fear. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you’ll be pursued.”
“I could disappear.”
“No, Tara. I’ve been ordered to list you AWOL if you don’t report for work tomorrow. You’ll be PNGed in the Service, you’ll have no access to SIS or any of its assets. Further, I’ll be directed to find you. As will the CIA and, most likely, the Mossad.”
“I stay at liberty until this camp of yours is rolled up—”
“You’ll still be a rogue SIS officer.” Crocker shook his head. “No, you’ve got three choices, that’s it. You can stay, and end up in the loving arms of Saudi Arabian justice. You can bolt, and spend your life running persona non grata. Or you can take the camp yourself. That’s it.”
Chace stared at him, and it seemed to Crocker that he’d never seen her like this, suddenly naked and vulnerable. The mask was gone, and the betrayal and hurt in her eyes made him feel that he’d failed her all the more.
“I’ve taken the liberty of sending a signal to Landau through channels,” he added softly. “He’ll expect you on Monday the twentieth.”
She didn’t say anything, didn’t even acknowledge with a nod or a look, just stared at him.
There was a knock at the door and a voice, male and South London, called, “We’re closing it up.”
“We’ll be right out,” Crocker said.
“You were supposed to protect me,” Chace said.
“I am protecting you,” he snapped, stung. “If Weldon or C knew I was here, they’d roast me alive. They’ve tied my hands, Tara. This is all I can offer.”
“I can’t do this, Paul,” she said softly. “Eighty men in that camp? I can’t take them alone, there’s no way I can do that. You need SAS for that, not me. Give me Lankford and Poole, I can make a go of it, but alone—”
“Lankford and Poole are out of it now. SIS is out of it. You’re alone, Tara.” He glared at her, repeating himself. “You’re alone.”
He’d hoped to spark her anger. It didn’t come.
Instead, Chace looked away again.
“I’ve done everything I can, Tara,” he added more gently.
She nodded, then rose from the chair, straightening her jacket. She checked her watch and he saw her making a calculation of some sort in her mind. Then she moved to the door.
“I trusted you, you bastard,” Chace said to him without looking.
“You still can.”
She whipped around, shouting at him, her cheeks flushed with heat and her eyes shining with fury. “You were supposed to protect me!”
“I am doing everything I can.”
“Do more!” She spun back, yanked the door open. “You’ll hear from me, one way or another. You’ll hear from me.”
He watched her start out, moved slowly to follow.
“Good luck,” Crocker offered, and even he heard the weakness of the wish as he said it.
“Fuck you,” she told him, and disappeared down the stairs.
36
Saudi Ara
bia—Tabuk Province, the Wadi-as-Sirhan
17 September 0507 Local (GMT+3.00)
Nia’s hair had been soft and thick and had flowed over Sinan’s stomach and thighs like a whisper, and where her skin had touched his a warmth had blossomed so gently, so different from the jagged heat of the desert that he’d heard himself gasp with the pleasure of it. She had put fingers to his lips, closing his mouth, silently urging him to stay silent, and her lips had grazed his throat, and then he had felt the other heat of her, the grip of her as she mounted him. The rush came all at once, flooding out of him, and it was only then, feeling his seed cooling on his belly, that he realized he was dreaming and forced himself awake.
Matteen snored on his cot, visible in the wash of predawn light seeping into the tent. From outside, Sinan could hear the steps of the sentry as he passed.
He shivered, feeling cold and ashamed, then threw back his blanket. The earth was hard beneath his feet, still warm from the radiation of the day. He pulled off his shirt, then found his canteen and spilled water onto the sleeve. He used the wet cloth to wipe himself clean, then set about changing, wishing for the first time in months that he could shower. With the Prince there had been hot and cold running water, bathrooms with marble and gold, and he had hated it. In the camp, the only water was for drinking.
He would have done anything to be clean then.
Matteen coughed in his sleep, rustling, and Sinan grabbed his boots and his Kalashnikov, slipping out of the tent. The sentry who had passed him by was on his way back and stopped at the sight of him, and Sinan raised his hand in greeting. The sentry nodded and continued on his rounds.
Standing, Sinan pulled on his boots, then made his way from beneath the canopy of camouflage netting, out into the wider base of the wadi. The walls of the little canyon were shallow here, and he scrambled up the side, then settled himself on the ground, sitting with his rifle across his lap. To the east, the sky was beginning to glow with the sunrise, and the stars were already beginning to fade.
He hated himself for the dream, for the weakness it exposed. It wasn’t real, of course, it hadn’t been real, but that his head would indulge his body while he slept, tease him with a dream of what he could not have, made him angry. At Nia, first, for making him think these thoughts, feel these things, and then at Abdul Aziz, for bringing her to the camp in the first place. But these faded, because he saw them for what they were.
