Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  That was just on the outside.

  What was going on inside the house was harder to determine, but Chace had been able to confirm a few facts there as well. She knew that Ruslan and his son, Stepan, were inside, because she’d seen them on multiple occasions. Most frequently, she’d caught glimpses of them through the windows of the front room, barely for more than one second at a time. On Sunday afternoon, though, father and son had emerged to play in the backyard, engaging in a game of chase-me-catch-me-tickle-me-do-it-again. Stepan’s delight had been loud enough to echo off the walls surrounding the yard, shrieks of toddler joy that had Chace thinking of Tamsin, and what of her daughter’s life she was now missing.

  When Ruslan and his son had come outside, they’d been accompanied by two more men, and neither of the guards had bothered to conceal the weapons they were carrying. The fact that they were so overt about their weaponry hadn’t alarmed Chace; what they’d been carrying, however, had. Each was armed with a Heckler & Koch MP-5K, carried in hand. As far as submachine guns went, they could hardly have chosen better. The weapons, and others like them, were sometimes called room-brooms for their ability to quickly and efficiently clear small spaces of opposition. At close range, the guns would lay down a stream of fire that could only be described as lethal.

  And once inside the house, Chace would be at very close range indeed.

  In the time she’d been watching, she’d seen the shift change inside the house three times, but had yet to see any of watchers who had entered leave again. Like outside, the interior seemed to be guarded by teams of two, but she was uncertain just how many teams were actually being employed. Her best guess put the number at either three or four, which meant another six to eight armed men inside the house. She found herself praying it was the lower number. Six would be extraordinarily difficult to manage silently, without a fair amount of luck added to what Chace feared were her rusty skills; eight would be impossible, because it led directly to the second complication.

  She had no doubt that the guards’ orders were very clear: Ruslan and his son were not allowed to leave the building.

  Should they try to do so, they would be killed.

  Which meant that if the guards thought they were going to lose their prisoners, they were liable to shoot father and son themselves, and be done with it once and for all.

  Third complication, then. She had to get inside quietly.

  Fourth complication. She had to neutralize the guards just as quietly. Six to eight guards, and they would have to be taken out before they could raise an alarm, before they could react.

  Fifth complication. She had to get herself, Ruslan, and Stepan out again. And Stepan, being all of two years old, would have to be carried, because he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to keep up if they ran for it. Ruslan would have to carry him, to keep Chace’s hands free for the wet work.

  Sixth complication. Not only did they need to get out of the house, they had to get out of the city, and far enough away that Porter could bring in the helo undetected for the lift, but close enough that it could be managed in a timely fashion.

  Seventh complication. She had to do all of these things alone.

  Eighth complication. She had to do all of these things soon.

  Because the eighth complication was the man named Ahtam Zahidov. His arrival at the house on Monday morning had come as a surprise, as much as to the guards on watch as to Chace, who recognized him from the photograph Riess had shown her, and it had caused an immediate flurry of activity. The arrival had provided an answer to another of her questions, however—Zahidov’s presence confirmed for Chace that Ruslan was being held by his sister Sevara’s forces, and not by the official NSS.

  Zahidov had arrived in a late-model Audi A4, driving it alone, and pulling up to the front of the house. The car was a glossy black, well cared for, and Chace’s first thought upon seeing it was that she’d very much like to steal it; the A4 was a good car if one had to get someplace in a hurry, and it would be a much better escape vehicle than the Range Rover, the engine of which was beginning to give her serious doubts.

  Then Zahidov had emerged, and two of the guards—one from the house, one of them walking his beat farther up the block—had rushed to greet him, and that was when Chace had given him a second look through her binoculars. Through eyes strained with fatigue and overuse, it had taken several seconds before the recognition had come, and Zahidov had all but entered the house before she’d truly realized who he was.

  She was watching, at that point, from a rooftop a block and a half away. It was her seventh or eighth observation post—she couldn’t remember how many she’d used any longer, yet another sign of her fatigue—and when Zahidov vanished into the house, she had a moment of panic.

  Fucking hell, she thought. I’ve waited too long. I’ve waited too long and now the Big Bad Heavy has come to fix things for his lady friend once and for all.

  And if that was the case, it was over, the whole damn operation was a bust. She wouldn’t be able to get there in time. Forget the fact that she wasn’t ready, that all she had on her was the Smith & Wesson she’d purchased at the bazaar, forget that the rest of the weapons and explosives were still hidden in the back of the Range Rover. Forget the fact that it was broad fucking daylight, forget all of it. Even if she ran and somehow managed to survive a frontal assault on the house, she was certain she’d arrive just in time to find the bodies of Ruslan and Stepan cooling in puddles of their own spilled blood.

  It was the broad-fucking-daylight factor that made her reconsider, that calmed her, that allowed her to recognize she was becoming irrational. Zahidov wouldn’t execute Ruslan and his son in their home, not in the middle of the day. He had complete control over them, he had armed guards on them. If he was going to murder them, he wouldn’t do it there.

  No, he’d take them someplace else, use his NSS muscle to bring them to a cell someplace, perhaps, or drive them outside of the city, in the hinterlands, and kill them there.

  Chace forced herself to calm down, checking her watch and noting the time. She rubbed her eyes, feeling them sting, then resumed peering through the binos. They weren’t the best set of optics she’d used, not even close, but they served. She’d found them at a camera store on Abdukhamid Kayumov Saturday morning, and bought them solely because they were the most powerful set on sale.

  Thirty-six minutes later, Zahidov emerged from the house, and this time, Chace was ready, and settled the optics on him immediately, tracking him for the duration of his walk from the front door, down the path to the street, to the car. He stopped before getting into the vehicle, exchanging words with the two watchers who’d exited with him.

  Chace put him at five ten, maybe five eleven, perhaps one hundred and eighty pounds, perhaps lighter. His manner was calm, even self-confident, and whatever he was saying, he felt no urge to say it quickly, or with any apparent volume. He was, Chace thought, surprisingly handsome, a fact that Riess’ photo hadn’t managed to capture.

  Then Zahidov finished speaking, climbing behind the wheel of the Audi again, pulling away down Uzbekiston. The two watchers exchanged another few words, then each returned to their posts.

  Chace yawned. She’d been sitting in the cold on the tarpaper rooftop for three hours. Her legs ached, and her lower back. When she flexed her fingers, they were stiff.

  Tonight, Chace decided. It’ll have to be tonight.

  She broke down her gear, such as it was, stowing the binoculars and its tripod in the duffel bag she’d brought, then making her way to the edge of the rooftop. She checked the drop, confirming that the way below was clear, and then, seeing no one watching her, began her descent to the alleyway, using a drainpipe as a makeshift pole.

  It was a twenty-minute walk back to where she’d parked the Range Rover, and she found the vehicle where she’d left it, unmolested. She threw her bag in the passenger seat, and had to try three times before the engine caught and the car started. She made her way back to the Sayokh
at.

  In her room, she removed her coat and sweater and boots, and then gave up on the rest, collapsing on the bed, the Smith & Wesson close at hand, partially for the security it provided, and partially because of its importance to the coming events. The pistol had been one hell of a find, because it hadn’t quite been what she’d thought it was at first blush. Not simply the S&W Mk 39, but rather a modified version of the same, the Mk 22 Mod 0, also called the “hush puppy.” It was Vietnam-era, not the most reliable gun in the world, but wonderfully silent, not only equipped with a silencer to eliminate the sound of gunfire, but also with a slide lock, to keep the actual mechanical operation of the gun quiet as well. She’d test-fired the gun at the market before purchasing, and been stunned that it still worked. The Uzbek vendor had offered to sell it to her cheap.

  “It’s too quiet,” he’d explained. “No one wants it.”

  Chace shut her eyes, half smiling at the memory.

  She really wanted Zahidov’s Audi. The car would be reliable, unlike the Range Rover; she didn’t imagine Sevara Malikov-Ganiev’s Lover and Head Thug to be a man who drove an ill-maintained car. It would be fast, which was never a bad thing, and would handle well. Best of all, it was familiar to the guards at the house. In Zahidov’s Audi, she could drive right up to the front door before anyone became suspicious.

  She tried to focus on ways to acquire the car, to think of a plan of attack, but being prone was having an immediate effect, and her thoughts were already splitting into pre-slumber dysfunction. Behind her closed eyes, she saw the hotel room, and then Val, as if she were standing there, at the foot of the bed. Tamsin was in her arms, twisting at the sight of her mother, straining to reach out for Chace.

  Chace fell asleep, her last thought not of Ruslan or Stepan or Zahidov’s Audi, nor of her daughter, hopefully safe and warm in Barnoldswick, hopefully still able to remember and recognize her mother.

  Chace fell asleep thinking of the sheer number of men she would have to kill when she woke up.

  CHAPTER 18

  London—Vauxhall Cross—Office of D-Ops

  20 February, 1356 Hours GMT

  “Julian Seale for you,” Kate said over the intercom.

  Crocker set aside the notepad he’d been working on, flipping it over to keep his writings from prying eyes, taking up the handset on the telephone. He poked the blinking light with an index finger, then answered.

  “Crocker.”

  “Paul, can you come out to play?”

  “In the park, you mean?”

  “Preferably.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Better in person, I think.”

  “Ominous.”

  “Hoping you can answer a couple of questions for me, that’s all.”

  “Thirty minutes,” Crocker told him. “Statue of Achilles.”

  “And I hope there’s nothing significant in that,” the American said, and hung up.

  Crocker replaced the phone, then stowed his papers in his desk, rose, and pulled his coat from the stand by the door. He stepped into the outer office, pulling it on. Kate looked up from her work.

  “I’m going out. Should be back within the hour.”

  “If anyone asks?” Kate prompted.

  “I’m meeting Seale.”

  She affected surprise. “And are you meeting Mr. Seale?”

  “Does it matter?” Crocker snarled, heading out the door and into the hall. “If anyone asks, that’s what you’re to tell them.”

  The door closed behind him before he could hear Kate’s reply.

  Crocker made his way down the hall, frowning. Seale asking for a meet in short order wasn’t necessarily alarming; he could have requested it to address any number of things. It could simply be an after-action debrief between the two of them regarding the Morocco job; Lankford had returned from Casablanca, none the worse for wear, late the previous night, and Crocker had already read and approved his report of the action. It had contained nothing remarkable. The operation had been precisely as Seale had claimed.

  But making his way to the lift, Crocker already knew it wasn’t Morocco that Seale wanted to talk about.

  He hit the button for the lift, waited, and entered the car to find Alison Gordon-Palmer, a single folder tucked beneath her right arm, the only other occupant. The DC flashed him a smile in greeting.

  “Down or up?”

  “Down,” Crocker said.

  “As am I. Simon and I are about to have words with the China Desk.” She indicated the folder beneath her arm.

  “Seale,” Crocker said, by way of offering his own destination.

  “Probably wants to know why Chace is in Tashkent, I imagine.”

  “That’s my fear as well.”

  “It was bound to happen. The Americans are more than a little touchy about Uzbekistan. If they think she’s tromping through their garden on official business, and if they think we’re actively keeping that fact from them, they’re going to want to know the reason.”

  Crocker nodded, canted his head slightly, measuring his tone. “I didn’t know you knew it was Chace I’d sent to Uzstan.”

  “I can count, Paul. And as of this morning, you still had three Minders in the Pit, one of them affixed to his desk by a chain about his ankle. No one else you could send, really.”

  “But I didn’t tell you.”

  She shook her head, her manner still mild.

  “Seccombe did,” Crocker said, answering his own question.

  “He’s very interested in the progress of the operation.” Alison Gordon-Palmer smiled slightly, and the elevator came to a stop. As she stepped out of the car, she said, “You’ll inform me if Chace stumbles across any MANPADs, won’t you, Paul? I know the PUS would be grateful for any such news.”

  Then the doors were sliding closed, and Crocker was descending again, wondering how much lower he was likely to go.

  Seale was waiting at the foot of the statue of Achilles, hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, squinting up at the enormous figure. Erected in 1822 and weighing in the neighborhood of thirty-three tons, it had caused something of a stir when it was unveiled as London’s first public nude. The statue has been cast from French cannon captured at Vitoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, and Waterloo, and was dedicated to Wellington and the men who had served under his command. At eighteen feet tall, it was one of the more impressive pieces of public sculpture to be found in any of London’s parks, at least by Crocker’s estimation.

  “Don’t you love how the only armor he’s wearing is on his feet and shins?” the American asked. “Aside from the shield and whatever that is he’s got over his cock, I mean.”

  “He was practically invincible,” Crocker said. “He could afford to stroll the battlefield naked.”

  “Thing is, the greaves, they’re only on the front of his shins,” Seale mused, staring at the massive bronze. “No protection around the back. You’d think he’d have had something to cover his tendons.”

  “Pride.”

  “Before the downfall.” Seale turned away from the statue, his hands still deep in his pockets, and motioned with his right elbow to the branching path beyond him. “Shall we walk?”

  Crocker almost smiled. When Cheng had said the same thing, his response had invariably been “I’d rather be carried.” Somehow, he didn’t think his relationship with Seale allowed for that kind of levity just yet, so he nodded, falling into step with Seale as the other man set the pace.

  They walked without speaking for almost a hundred yards or so, each giving the other time to check the immediate surroundings for unwelcome eyes or ears, finding nothing. It was overcast, with drops of rain spattering down at irregular intervals, adding to the growing chill and the coming darkness. Not for the first time, Crocker wondered how much longer he’d be permitted to entertain this particular idiosyncrasy before someone from Internal Security or, worse, from Box came to have a chat with him about the dangers of discussing official business in one of Her Majesty’s parks.
/>
  “Why’s Tara Chace in Tashkent?” the American asked him.

  And another point for the Deputy Chief, Crocker thought. “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s her name, right? She’s the one Fincher replaced?”

  “No, I know who she is. She’s in Tashkent?”

  Seale glanced at him, annoyed, then went back to watching their surroundings. “Woman named Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle checked into the InterContinental in Tashkent on the sixteenth. Was met that night by an FSO from our embassy, in her room. He was there for several hours.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chace, Crocker thought. You didn’t.

  “It’s a common name.”

  “I know, and it wouldn’t be a thing, but COS Tashkent got wind of it, got a description of Miss Carlisle, ran it back through Langley. And Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, it turns out, was once-upon-a-time the work-name of Chace, Tara Felicity, formerly your Head of the Special Section. He got a description as well, and it matches. COS Tashkent wired COS London with the inquiry.”

  Seale stopped, turned to face Crocker.

  “So now COS London is inquiring. The CIA wants to know, Paul. Why didn’t you tell us you’ve got an operation running in Tashkent?”

  “Why’s your COS Tashkent watching one of your FSOs?”

  Seale shook his head. “You first.”

  Crocker freed his pack of cigarettes from inside his coat, taking his time to pick one, then to light it. Taking the time to think. In all honesty, he was surprised Chace had made it this far before being made; he’d half expected to hear similar news via Tashkent Station, asking the very same thing and more than a little irate at the thought of an ex-Minder in their midst with no forewarning. That it had come from the CIA instead, and through these channels specifically, gave him something else to worry about.