by Greg Rucka
Wallace was still on the bed and he’d removed his shoes, but that was all, and she laughed.
“You’re a daft old man, Tom Wallace,” Chace said, and she climbed onto the bed, took his face in her hands, and kissed him with all the hunger she’d been holding in for six years.
•
They made love twice before dawn, the first time with the clumsiness of desire, the second time with purpose and passion. They dozed together until the wake-up call shocked them back to consciousness at half-past six, and made love a third time before heading to the shower again. Her knee felt better, and the green and yellow on her arm had become yellow and blue, which translated as progress. They dressed, packed what little they had unpacked, checked out, and made it to the airport by eight.
“Three times, one night,” Wallace murmured to her in the taxi. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“I’d have stopped with two,” Chace said, “but you seemed so insistent.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised. I’m an old man.”
“Not so old.”
“Old enough.”
“They say sex keeps you young.”
Wallace feigned thoughtfulness. “Guess I should be having more of it, then.”
“Guess so,” Chace said.
“Speaking of young.”
Chace looked at him, not understanding. “I’m not that much younger than you.”
“You’re young enough, but that’s not what I am referring to.”
It took a moment’s thought, then Chace grinned and tapped her upper left arm with the fingers of her right hand.
“Depo-Provera,” she said. “Every twelve weeks.”
•
They flew coach on Air France flight 1620, departing Charles de Gaulle at ten twenty-five, landing at David Ben Gurion International Airport four hours and forty minutes later exactly, at sixteen-oh-five hours local. They came off the plane and into the heat of the day, cleared customs quickly, and were arrested the moment they stepped outside the terminal.
38
London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of the Chief of Service
17 September 1404 GMT
Crocker found Barclay in the small sitting area away from the desk, in his armchair, loading the bowl of his pipe. On the table before him were a tea service, china and silver, and a short stack of reports that he’d apparently been going through. Crocker approached, waited respectfully, folder in hand, to be acknowledged.
Barclay took his time about it. He finished filling the bowl, then set the pipe, short-stemmed and stubby, on the table. He closed the jar of tobacco, placed it back on the stand at his side, then took up his book of matches. He retrieved the pipe, put it to his mouth, sucked experimentally, gauging his work thus far. The match flared and the flame jumped higher as he drew it down into the pipe. The clouds of smoke that rose were blue and smelled of latakia and Cavendish.
When the pipe was going, Barclay discarded the match in the wide ashtray beside the service tray, then extended the same hand to Crocker, waiting to be handed the report. Crocker gave him the folder, a blue one marked for internal distribution.
“You may sit,” Barclay said, opening the file against his knee, beginning to read. He didn’t look up. He’d yet to look at Crocker at all, in fact. “Help yourself to tea.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Crocker took the couch, fixed himself a cup, dropping two sugars in, stirring. Pages rustled as Barclay turned them, drawing on the pipe. It didn’t take him long to finish, to close the folder and set it beside the others on the table.
“All Stations notified?” Barclay asked.
“As per the Deputy Chief’s directive, as of oh-nine-oh-one this morning.”
“You listed her as AWOL, not rogue.”
“All we know is that she failed to report for work today,” Crocker explained.
“I know what you did, Paul.” Barclay took the pipe from his mouth, examined it in his hand. It was black briarwood, aged and well used.
Crocker didn’t say anything. A denial was possible, he supposed, a flat-out defiance to C’s face, but Crocker knew Barclay well enough to know that it wouldn’t work here.
“She’s put one of Kinney’s in the hospital,” Barclay said. “Were you aware of that?”
Crocker wasn’t, and it surprised him; he’d have expected the number to be much higher. “Then Kinney’s been lucky.”
“Certainly the woman receiving treatment doesn’t think so. She cracked two of her ribs, Paul, and may have caused internal injuries as well as a concussion.”
“She restrained herself,” Crocker said.
“I know,” Barclay said. “So did Wallace.”
Crocker nearly showered tea all over the table. “I’m sorry, sir?”
“You didn’t know?”
“She’s with Wallace?”
“Apparently, yes. The Deputy Chief received a call from Jim Chester at the School. Apparently, Wallace has gone missing, failed to turn up for his classes this morning. Chester sent a man round to his flat in Lee-on-the-Solent, found his car gone and the flat locked up tight.”
“According to his last Personal and Intimates, he was seeing a woman in Portsmouth.”
“Chester contacted her. The woman informed him that her relationship with Wallace ended three weeks ago.”
“May only be a coincidence.”
“Yes, I considered that as well. But the gentleman from Box in the room next to Chace’s victim positively identified his assailant as Tom Wallace.”
“Where did this happen?”
“Ashford International. They took the Eurostar; they could be anywhere in Europe by now.”
Crocker nodded, agreeing. Germany or France, most likely, but that would only be their first stop. “I dispatched the Geneva Number Two, Alasdair Gerrard, to the residence of Minder One’s mother, Ms. Annika Bodmer-Chace, this morning. Gerrard reported back that Ms. Bodmer-Chace hasn’t had any contact with her daughter since the winter of last year. Gerrard has the residence under surveillance. It’s possible she’s headed there.”
Barclay shook his head, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully. After releasing three more plumes of smoke, he said, “What did you tell her?”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“No more nonsense, Paul.” Barclay glanced at him, then away. “You’re extremely clever, and that’s the reason you’re still in this job and not packing up your office or opening a station in Iceland. I cannot prove, of course, that you ordered her to run, nor can I prove that you directed Poole and Lankford to assist her. Both shall claim, if asked, that they were acting on orders from their Head of Section, rather than from D-Ops, and that they had no idea that what they were doing might be against the best interests of the Service. Neither can I prove that you removed travel documents for Chace under the work name Dorothea Palmer. Or that you supplied her with two thousand pounds from the Ready Fund. I cannot prove any of it.”
Barclay moved his gaze back to Crocker, and the stare was vicious.
“That does not mean, however, that I do not know those things to be true.”
Again, Crocker didn’t respond. There was nothing to say to it anyway. He wondered if, despite C’s words, he wasn’t going to be wandering Whitehall before the end of the day, trying to find new employment.
“Now,” Barclay said. “What did you tell Chace?”
“Nothing, sir. She came to me yesterday morning. She said that Box was targeting her for some reason, and did I know why. I assumed she was under another random security check and therefore could neither verify nor deny it. She left my office, and that was the last time I saw her. It wasn’t until last evening that the Deputy Chief informed me of the reasons for the surveillance, and by that time, she’d already gone rabbit.”
“You’re saying the CIA didn’t inform you?”
“Why would they, sir?” Crocker asked. “As I understand the situation, it’s in the Americans’ interests that Chace be rendered t
o the Saudis as much as it is in ours and the Israelis’.”
Barclay’s eyes narrowed as he thought on that, then he nodded slightly. “Why indeed. But why go to Wallace? What is she planning?”
“I wish I could tell you.”
“Do you?”
Crocker stared at Barclay. “She’s the Head of the Special Section, sir. She’s one of the best, if not the best Special Operations officer working in the world today. My Minder Two has just over a year’s experience under his belt, and my Three is still so new there’s packing material stuck to his clothes. Without Chace, our covert action capability is crippled. It’s bad for the Service.”
“So you’re saying, had she stayed, you would have rendered her to the Saudis willingly?”
“Of course not. I’d have done everything I could to keep her.”
“At the expense of the Government’s agenda?”
“As I tried to explain to the Deputy Chief, the Government’s decision is grotesquely flawed. And the problem still remains, sir. If Chace is apprehended and delivered to the Saudis, no agent working for us anywhere in the world will ever trust us again. Once they find out—and they will find out—our credibility will be shattered. How can we expect our agents to put their lives at risk, knowing that, when expedient, we’ll abandon them to their enemies?”
“That expediency is part of our mandate,” Barclay said.
“Not at the risk of cutting our own throat.”
“Where’s she heading?”
“I have no idea. She knows how to run, we’ll have a damn hard time finding her. And with Wallace it’ll be twice as hard, because he’s as good as she is. Whatever she’s up to, we won’t know until we get the after-action distribution.”
“I see.” Barclay sucked on his pipe, realized it had gone dead. He leaned forward, tapping the bowl into his palm, then dumping his palm into the ashtray. The pipe went back in its stand beside the tobacco jar. “Is that all you have to say on the subject?”
“There’s nothing more I can add, sir.”
“Very well.” Barclay settled his stare on Crocker again. “Then let me say this: HUM-AA is planning an offensive, an offensive that we could very well bring to a halt before it begins by delivering Chace to the Saudis. There appears to be no mean average of fatalities for suicide bombings, but assuming that HUM-AA knows what they’re doing—and from our personal experience, that seems a safe assumption—they will certainly target critical services and installations. There will be people murdered, probably dozens, perhaps hundreds. Men, women, children. British, American, Israeli. Civilians, civil servants, soldiers.
“Lives we could have saved, had we delivered one person,” Barclay concluded. “Had we delivered Chace.”
He leaned forward, took up the papers on the table, settled back in the chair. He waved his free hand at Crocker, not bothering to look up.
“You may go, Paul,” Barclay said.
39
The Red Sea
18 September 2159 Local (GMT+2.00)
The boat was small, with a cramped cabin that, out of respect, Sinan and Matteen had surrendered to Nia for the duration of the voyage. The crossing from Saudi to Egypt wasn’t far, at least not considering the distance they had already covered to reach this point, but it was slow going, and the captain of the vessel, a small Egyptian named Kasam who seemed interested only in the money to be made from this venture, had no desire to hurry.
There were quicker routes into Egypt, to be sure, but none as safe, at least according to Abdul Aziz. Going west from the Wadi-as-Sirhan would have allowed Sinan and the others to travel through Jordan, then down through the Gaza and the Sinai, into Egypt. But Gaza would have been a problem, and Abdul Aziz had been quite clear with Sinan before they had departed.
“Succeed,” he had told Sinan. “For the Prince’s memory, for Nia’s place in Paradise, but most of all, for Allah.”
Rocking on the waves of the Red Sea, looking at the star-filled sky and the empty night all around them, success seemed very far away. Kasam ran his boat without lights—Sinan wondered if, in fact, the boat even had lights—and with roughly another hundred kilometers to go before reaching the shore, there was nothing to see. The only noises came from the diesel engine belowdecks, wheezing and grinding, and the slap of the water against the hull.
Sinan turned from the prow, squinting to see through the darkness. He could barely make out Kasam at the wheel, behind the cabin, moving every so often, adjusting their course. Matteen had settled on the deck only a few feet away, was already asleep, and Sinan marveled at his friend’s ability to steal rest whenever and wherever it presented itself.
Sinan couldn’t, knew that he wouldn’t be able to do it, not until they were safely in Cairo.
He looked to the cabin, wondering if Nia was sleeping, thinking how extraordinary it must be to know the hour and moment of your death was approaching, and to know, in your heart of hearts, that this was a good thing, as it should be. Was she impatient, anxious to be on her way to Paradise?
They hadn’t truly spoken since leaving the Wadi-as-Sirhan, not even in the interminable ride in the truck to Tabuk before taking the plane to Jeddah. Crammed in the cab of the vehicle, Matteen at the wheel, with Nia wedged between him and Sinan, the drive had been silent, each of them in his own thoughts. When Nia had nodded off to sleep, she had rested her head against Sinan’s shoulder, and through her balta he had felt the warmth of her, smelled the fragrance of her, and his dream had returned to him.
Sinan moved to the door of the cabin and knocked lightly. When he heard no response, he opened it and stepped inside. It was even darker in the cabin than out, and he stood for several seconds, trying to find Nia in the room, feeling the gentle sway of the boat.
“Sinan?” she asked hoarsely. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
Only when she moved did he see her, the outline of her shape as she pushed herself up from where she’d been lying on the floor.
“I wanted to see if you were all right,” Sinan said.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I.”
“I want to. I’ve been trying to.”
“We’ll be ashore soon, and then we’ll go to Cairo, to the hotel. There’ll be a bed there, you’ll be able to sleep then.”
Nia shifted, sitting upright. “Would you sit with me?”
Sinan hesitated.
“Please?”
He moved closer, took a seat on the floor. He could see her smile, and it seemed a look of gratitude to him.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
The smile faded and her look took distance. She turned her head away, as if trying to see through the walls all the way across the water to their goal.
“Nia?”
“I’m just tired, Sinan.”
And then she shifted and lowered her head into his lap without a word, resting it upon his thigh and closing her eyes. He felt her hand, small and warm, take his, her fingers closing around his own.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.
He put his hand lightly to her head, surprised himself by gently beginning to pet her hair.
“I’m glad I’m here, too.”
“I’ll miss you, Sinan,” she murmured. “When I go, I’ll miss you.”
“We will see each other again.”
“I know,” Nia said. “In Paradise.”
He felt the weight of her head grow against his thigh as she relaxed, falling asleep.
In Paradise, Sinan thought, and he continued to stroke her hair.
40
Israel—Tel Aviv, 12 Ben-Yehuda Street, 2F
18 September 2310 Local (GMT+3.00)
As far as safehouses went, Chace thought they could have done a lot worse, even with the four Mossad heavies keeping them under lock and key.
There was a sliver view of the Mediterranean through one of the apartment windows, lights shining off the water. There was food and beer in the refrigerator,
including two steaks. The furniture was used, not terribly comfortable, but entirely serviceable. The bedroom had a queen-size mattress on a companion box spring on the floor and the bed had been made up. There was soap, shampoo, two disposable razors, a tube of shaving cream, and towels in the bathroom. The air conditioner worked, even if the radio and television didn’t.
She assumed they were bugged to the gills, certainly audio, probably video, and she guessed that was why those particular appliances wouldn’t function. No background noise, nothing to hide a conversation behind.
When they’d been arrested, the policemen hadn’t offered any explanation, and neither Wallace nor Chace had offered any resistance. Their arrest hadn’t been expected, but it wasn’t directly alarming, and when they had been driven to the safehouse rather than to the police station, both had been reassured.
Once inside, two of the heavies handled the physical search, going through their bags, then their clothes. They’d been polite enough about it, careful, and had avoided the extremes in that neither Chace nor Wallace had been asked to undress. The other two had kept watch, and nobody had said anything. Then the four had left, locking them inside, and Chace was certain they were at positions next door and in the hall.
There was nothing to do but wait.
So they cooked the steaks and had them for an early dinner, then went to the bed and lay down side by side. Why squander the time pacing when sleep was available? Wallace didn’t touch her, and Chace thought he was trying to be discreet, not wanting to reveal anything more to the watchers than was already known, but after lying like that for most of a minute, she decided what the hell and reached around for Tom’s arm, pulled it around her waist. He rolled toward her, slipping his other arm beneath the pillow where she was resting her head, and she could feel his breath on her neck, calm and steady, and it transferred to her, and that was how they slept.
