by Greg Rucka
"There's the Basij."
"More for propaganda than anything else. But at the same time, they might be willing to make an example of him. I think that's a stretch, Simon. As I said, I think we're being set up."
Rayburn tented his long fingers, rested them against his chin. It was a mannerism Crocker knew well, had seen him do hundreds of times as D-Int when he was sifting facts, trying to reach a conclusion. "To what end?"
"How much time do you have?"
"Moving on Basra?"
"Or something with the Kurds. Or something in Afghanistan. They're remarkably good at occupying our attention in one place while they bury another hundred Silkworm missiles along the Gulf."
"Might even be internal," Rayburn mused.
"Or it could be that they want to hurt us," Crocker pressed. "For the first time in decades we've actually got the start of a viable network in-country, Simon."
"And if we move to lift him, we risk exposing the network."
"Without question."
"To lift him would require Special Section support. You'd send a Minder."
"But the Station would have to prep for the operation."
Rayburn exhaled, brought his fingers down. "I have to present it to C, Paul. I've no choice."
"You know exactly what will happen if you do. We both do."
"I will stress to her your reservations."
"For all the good it'll do."
That earned him a look of reproach. "You've been in this job for too long to be making sullen asides. We both have."
"She's a political C, Simon, she's going to want to make the Prime Minister happy. And this will make the PM happy, with the added bonus that he'll be able to make the Americans happy."
"With good reason. We have an authenticated message from Falcon using an established lift code."
"I want more than that. I want fingerprints, some physical proof that Falcon is who he claims he is."
"Paul," Rayburn said, slowly. "You're not telling me you'd refuse to undertake the operation if the order should be given, are you? I know you, I know you're perfectly capable of sabotaging this before it gets off the ground."
"Iran is the single greatest threat to stability in the Middle East, I've felt that for years," Crocker said. "We handed them Iraq following the invasion, and we've all but handed them Afghanistan. They're deep in Lebanon, they're deep in Gaza. If someone-anyone-can prove to me that Falcon is for real, that this cry for help is legitimate, I will go to Tehran and get him out myself."
"Remember you said that, Paul." Rayburn got to his feet, watched as Crocker did the same. "Because I'll be sharing that with C, as well." He'd been back in his office for all of eleven minutes following the briefing to Rayburn when Kate buzzed him on the intercom, saying that C wanted to see him. He'd gone directly up to the sixth floor, entered her office, and before he could even open his mouth, Alison Gordon-Palmer cut him off.
"Simon has explained your concerns, Paul, and I have to say I share them," C said, much to Crocker's surprise.
"I'm very glad to hear it."
"But as Simon has also no doubt made clear, I must bring this to the PM's attention. He's not an unreasonable man. Our reservations may carry some weight."
"But you doubt it?"
"I do, yes. The one thing you seem to have not taken into account is the American interest, and that is something the PM most definitely will do."
"There's no reason for the Americans to be involved at this point. They shouldn't even know about Falcon."
"But they will, no doubt in short order. And if it comes down to a choice between allowing CIA to lift Falcon or SIS, then I'm sure we're all agreed it should be SIS who takes the prize."
"It would have to be SIS anyway," Crocker said. "CIA doesn't have the backing in-country to mount a lift. They'd have to go for a military extraction."
"Yet another reason why I think we'd all prefer this stay with the Firm."
"If it's going to happen."
"If. Indeed." C shook her head slightly. "Get on to Tehran Station and have them begin prepping the ground for a possible lift."
"I'd rather wait, ma'am."
"I'm sure you would. Unfortunately we don't have the luxury. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't wish to keep the PM waiting." "You're going to have a hell of a time getting him out of the country," Chace told him later that afternoon as she and Poole discussed the operation in Crocker's office. "West you're in Iraq, east you're in Afghanistan, south you're all wet, north, you're not only wet but very cold."
"Gone swimming in the Caspian in December, have you?" Poole asked.
"Skinny-dipping, if you must know." She brushed hair back from her face, pondering the map on the wall. "None of the regional neighbors are going to be particularly helpful."
"Even if they were so inclined, they wouldn't," Poole agreed. "They're all scared to death of Tehran shutting off the tap."
"Caspian route would be your best bet. Get Falcon out in the middle of the water for a pickup."
"Provided we can get him that far," Crocker said.
Chace put her index finger on the center of the Caspian, marking an imaginary point. "The Americans involved yet?"
"Imminently, I'm sure."
"They going to try to steal it or support it?"
"C already marked the territory. It'll be ours if it goes through."
"What're you thinking?" Poole asked Chace.
"I'm thinking that there was a circular a couple months back about the United States Coast Guard's involvement in CTAP." Chase dragged her index finger across the water, until she reached the Republic of Georgia. "Training the Georgians, I believe."
Crocker heard Poole make a noise of pleasure that sounded distressingly close to sexual. "Oh, that's very good."
"Like that, do you?"
"Getting the American Coast Guard to pick us up under the cover of the Counter Terrorism Assistance Program? I think that's bloody brilliant."
"And I think you both are getting ahead of yourselves," Crocker interposed. "The Americans aren't involved yet. We have no reason to believe Falcon is who he says he is. And Tehran hasn't even begun to prep the terrain."
"Well, we can give them a place to start with Falcon, at least." Chace flashed him a smile, pulled a folded piece of paper from her jeans pocket, handing it over. "Not quite an address, but it narrows down the location on where Falcon's hiding. Nicky cracked it."
Crocker unfolded the sheet, saw that it was a copy of Barnett's initial signal from Tehran. The substitution code had been worked over in pencil, the string of letters converted into two sequences of eight-digit numbers.
"GPS coordinates?" Crocker asked.
Poole put a finger to the tip of his nose. "He used his name for the key. Hossein Khamenei, with 'H' as zero. Reasonably clever. You can't crack it if you don't know who sent it."
"And these coordinates are where, exactly?"
"West of Tehran, a city called Karaj," Chace said. "Fairly crowded area, too, from what the Iran Desk says, a good place to hide in plain sight. Presumably, that's where Falcon's gone to ground. It does make sense, Boss. He had to know that whatever lift plan he and Newsom established back in the day was dead and buried by now, that we'd have to work up a new one. He leaves us his location so we know where to find him."
"And stays there, one hopes, until the new lift plan is prepared," Poole said. "I like the Caspian exfil, too, Boss. If the Station can fix it so there's a RHIB somewhere near the shore, we can just shuffle Falcon aboard in a life jacket and zip north to the pickup."
"Seaplane," Chace said.
"Helo," Poole countered. "USGS, it'll be a helo."
"Have to do it at night."
"Absolutely, that's a given."
Crocker watched the two Minders at the map, listened to them discussing the relative merits of a pickup via airplane versus helicopter. Although neither of them had said as much, he knew that, as far as they were concerned, the job had already been confirmed
, and Chace assigned to it. It was the logical expectation. The target was of exceptional importance to the Government, and the operation, if it should come to pass with a successful outcome, would reflect well on SIS. By necessity, then, HMG would demand SIS task the best agent for the job. By definition, that would be Minder One.
Crocker had to wonder what it meant that, not a day earlier, he'd accepted her resignation from the Section, and yet here she was, tete-a-tete with Poole, deep in mission planning. Nothing in what she had said to him the day before had indicated regret or even hesitation about her decision to leave. Yet all her actions now were to the contrary, and whether that was simply Chace doing her job, or being caught up in the moment, or in the excitement of an operation in the offing, he couldn't tell.
He was still pondering the question when Kate tapped on his door, then opened it without a word.
"What?" Crocker asked.
She ignored him, leaning past the edge of the door to find Chace. "Tara?"
"Me?"
"There's a Ms. Palmer calling for you from the Emmanuel School. It's about Tamsin."
"Oh, God," Chace said.
She had already slipped past Kate to the outer office before Crocker could say that it was all right, she could take the call at his desk. From outside, he heard Chace picking up the phone, identifying herself, and he looked sharply at Kate for further explanation.
"No idea," Kate whispered.
All three of them waited in silence for the better part of a minute before they heard Chace set the phone back down.
"She's taken ill," Chace explained, returning. "Been throwing up all afternoon."
"Go," Crocker said.
"I am sorry."
"It's understood."
She turned to leave, but Crocker caught her throwing one last glance back at the map before she was out of the room.
"Caspian route," Chace said to them. "It's the only viable exfil." At twenty-two past eleven the next morning, Poole walked into Crocker's office carrying the latest signal from Tehran Station. The signal included a photograph of a middle-aged, gray-haired Iranian of Persian extraction, sporting a trimmed beard and looking absurdly stoic while a somewhat goofily smiling Caleb Lewis stood beside him.
"The book that Lewis is holding," Poole said. "Falcon gave it to him."
"Message?"
"Same book code, yes. 'Three west and three and third again.' "
"What do they make of it?" Crocker asked, examining the photograph closely and finding nothing in it that would allow him to call the operation off.
"Lewis thinks it's the direction to Falcon's apartment on Nilufar. The signal states that the book used for the code is quite ancient, and wouldn't allow for anything comprehensive with regards to direction. Therefore Falcon is working with what he has."
"Which puts the apartment where?"
"On Nilufar Street, number twenty-two. The apartment in question would be on the third floor, either number 3 or the third apartment on the floor, though if it's the latter, it's so vague as to be useless."
"Then it's the former." Crocker tossed the photograph onto the desk, annoyed by its unwillingness to help him. "Nothing so far has been vague, only inconclusive."
"That was my thinking. You want me to get onto Mission Planning about the initial exfil route?"
"They've worked up a cover?"
"They're holding off until you tell them who it'll be for." If Poole was feeling any expectation or anticipation about the job, or even any desire to take it, he was being as restrained about it as Chace had been the day before. "Tara's at home?"
"She called in this morning to say Tam had been up all night with a fever. She was taking her to the doctor this morning."
Poole nodded.
"Right," Crocker said. "Go bother Mission Planning, Nicky." "We're going to lift him, with the Prime Minister's blessing," C told Crocker after she returned from lunch. "Operation to be initiated at the earliest possible moment. The Americans are aboard, and willing to offer any and all support we might need. You can expect to hear from Mr. Seale before noon."
"Very well," Crocker said.
"Earliest possible moment, Paul. Where are you with the planning?"
"Still waiting to hear from Tehran. Once we have the details, Mission Planning will work on creating a cover for Poole."
"Poole? Not Chace?"
"Chace is home with her daughter today. My intention is to send Poole."
C studied him. "This is a high-value target in a high-threat theatre, Paul. As I understand it, the job should go to the Head of Section."
"And as I informed you Monday morning, ma'am, Chace has tendered her resignation from the Special Section."
"Pending the arrival of a replacement, Paul. And I'll thank you to keep that condescension out of your voice when speaking to me in the future."
Crocker hesitated, then offered the barest nod.
"Poole?" C asked again.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Very well," she said.
Crocker had wondered, at the time, why C had seemed so willing to let him send Poole rather than Chace.
Now, sitting at his desk, feeling both old and tired, the echo of Julian Seale still ringing in his mind, if not in his office, he knew why. The decision had already been made, most likely as part of the terms of the CIA's involvement in Coldwitch. C hadn't fought him because she hadn't needed to.
He raised his eyes to the clock on the wall, saw the second hand sweep time into the next hour, now eleven o'clock. If Seale had gone directly back to Grosvenor Square to report to Langley, then it was long past when Langley would have raised holy hell with the FCO. That Kate still sat at her desk with her paperback, that no phone had rung, puzzled him, and gave him hope that, perhaps, Coldwitch would die stillborn.
Then he heard the door to the outer office open, and from where he sat behind his desk he saw Kate straighten and then quickly get to her feet behind hers, and Crocker knew it was not to be.
"Ma'am," Kate said.
"Go home, Ms. Cooke," Crocker heard C say. "And if you find this office vacant in the morning, try not to be too surprised."
Kate glanced his way, her expression pained, then began gathering her things in preparation of heading home. She was still doing so when C walked into Crocker's office and shut the door softly behind her. Crocker got to his feet, thinking several things at once. The first was that wherever Alison Gordon-Palmer had been prior to returning to Vauxhall Cross, it hadn't been at home, unless she normally spent her evenings at home wearing a ball gown and her best pearls. The overcoat she'd donned to protect her from the cold made her seem all the more surreal, the fairy godmother of SIS come to wreak vengeance.
The second thing he realized was that her dress explained the delay. She hadn't been at home when the word had come down that Crocker wasn't playing ball. That led to the third, the fact that wherever Alison Gordon-Palmer had been that evening, it was clear from her expression that she would much rather still be there than here, and that she was as close to furious as Crocker had ever seen.
When she spoke, her voice was soft, and dangerously controlled. "I've just returned from being summoned to Downing Street, where the Prime Minister asked me why the President of the United States had felt it necessary to telephone him and inquire as to whether or not SIS was planning on lifting Falcon. When I told the Prime Minister that Coldwitch was to commence shortly, he said to me that he had been led to believe otherwise. He said to me that one of my Senior Directors had told COS London that there would be no Operation: Coldwitch, because he was refusing to brief or clear to run the agreed-upon agent for the mission."
"Poole-"
"Shut up, Paul," C said with such venom that Crocker was certain he could feel it pushing through his own veins. "Do you understand what I'm telling you? Do you understand that I was dressed-down by my Prime Minister less than an hour ago, made to look a fool, made to appear incompetent? Do you understand that you managed to do the same to the
PM himself? Do you understand that you not only humiliated us, you humiliated the service?"
"I'm trying to protect the service," Crocker said.
"I am eager to hear how that can possibly be the case."
"If we send a Minder into Iran, if it's a trap-"
"And you have proof of that?"
"I have too many convenient explanations! I have an asset who's risen from the dead, an asset who, it turns out, is such a prize we're willing to shoot first and ask questions later! I have everything that makes this look irresistible, but the one thing I don't have is the time to check the facts!"
C stood motionless, and Crocker heard his own voice fading, the embarrassing desperation in it.
"Seale said CIA support was contingent on Chace being allocated," Crocker said, trying again. "Didn't it occur to you that's because they're suspicious, as well, that they don't want to risk any of their own people being caught and paraded on Iranian national television?"
"Of course it did," C said. "But that is neither here nor there. I told you that all consideration was given to your reservations, and that despite them, the operation was to go forward. From that point, your duty was to facilitate the operation, not to stonewall it, not to sabotage it. But since you couldn't have your way, you decided it would be best to try to undermine Coldwitch. In so doing, you caused embarrassment to myself, HMG, and the Service."
"That was not my intention."
"Paul, I know what your intention was. And now I'm going to tell you what you will do."
C stepped forward to the desk, lifted the handset for the red circuit and, with acute deliberation, pressed the button for the Ops Room. She put the phone to her ear, but not before Crocker heard the Duty Operations Officer identify himself.
"This is C. Hold for D-Ops." She lowered the handset, covering the mouthpiece with her free hand. "You will direct the Duty Ops Officer to bring Minder One in for immediate briefing. Then you will call COS London and tell him that Coldwitch is go, and you will do him the courtesy of inviting him to attend Minder One's briefing, as we have nothing to hide from our partners, and desire the CIA to be involved in every stage of the operation. Upon completion of briefing, you will contact Tehran and inform them they are now hands-off until rendezvous at the Noshahr safehouse.