by Greg Rucka
Chace checked her pockets, found the folding knife and snapped it open. The car immediately beside the Samand was another Peugeot. She dropped to her knees behind it, experienced another sharp surge of pain from her back as she did so, a warning that seemed to both climb and fall at once. Her breathing was, at least for the moment, steady and sure, but each inhale, each exhale, came with a constant discomfort.
As quickly as she dared, she unscrewed the bolts holding the license plate to the Peugeot. Then she moved to the next car in the line, a Sarir, and removed its rear plate. She did the same to a Suzuki Vitara, and to a Miniator, and a Mercedes-Benz, and finally to a Citroen Xantia, all parked in a row. She closed the knife, took her collection of plates back to the Samand, and set them on the floor of the passenger's seat before cracking into the ignition and hot-wiring the car.
The original exfil plan had been to the west, via Tabriz, and it made good sense; good enough sense, in fact, that Chace was certain anyone searching for her would see it, as well. From Tabriz, one could run to Iraq, to Turkey, to Azerbaijan, to Armenia, and every single one of those borders would be monitored, watched, guarded. With the ruined pharmacy, the dead policemen, the abandoned cars, and now with the license plates, her trail would only confirm the suspicion: she was running to the west.
So not west. But a run east was out of the question, too far and too long and ultimately ending in western Afghanistan, where the Republican Guards had made strong inroads with the local populace. Given the state she was in, the pain still cruelly riding her, taking to the Caspian wasn't any more viable; the RHIB was gone, and even if she could secure another vessel, even if she could somehow avoid the airplanes and boats that would surely be patrolling the coast, there was still the threat of the weather. "Drowning" was just another word for asphyxiation.
Which left south, back to Tehran.
Chace put the Samand into gear, and feeling her chest twinge, pulled out of the lot, turning east, then south.
Back into the heart of enemy territory.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
LONDON-VAUXHALL CROSS, OPS ROOM
11 DECEMBER 2359 HOURS (GMT)
The silence had come upon Alexis Ferguson calling to Crocker, "Tehran Station, update on Coldwitch," all activity ceasing instantly, all movement, all motion, coming to a stop. Crocker felt the weight of every gaze in the room as he crossed the floor, took the offered headset, and pressed it to his ear.
"D-Ops," Crocker said, and then he listened, aware that the room was listening with him, to him, as Lee Barnett in Tehran told him that everything he had feared had been true, that he had been right all along. He took it all in, staring at a point beneath the toes of his shoes, and when Barnett concluded, he asked the one question that hadn't been answered already. "Minder One?"
"No idea, sir," Barnett said. "Lewis thinks she's still at large, but believes she may be injured. He confirms it was Youness Shirazi who came to the safehouse, which has to mean that VEVAK is all over this, they'll be turning out the Sepah, the Basij, everyone and everything."
"But it means they haven't caught her yet."
"I'd think it's only a matter of time."
Crocker considered, looking up at the map, the clock above it reading the current time in Iran. To his left, he heard Nicky Poole speak, asking for maps of northern Iran, times of the next available flights, and that broke the silence, the death-watch, and the room came alive again even as Crocker continued staring at the map on the wall.
"Sir?"
"Find out what the hell happened, Lee," Crocker said. "And see if we can't get confirmation on Minder One, if she is wounded, if they've taken her."
"Working on it, sir."
"Notify immediately with any new information, no matter how small. I'm handing you back to MCO. Keep the line open."
"Understood."
Crocker handed the headset back to Lex. "Open line."
"No matter how small, yes, sir."
Crocker strode across the room, heading for Duty Ops. "Ron, call C at her home and inform her that Coldwitch has gone bust. Tell her that we have reason to believe Minder One is running in the open, still at liberty, but no word on disposition of Falcon. Soon as she arrives in the building, I want to know. And someone get me a line to Grosvenor Square."
"Yes, sir. Here, sir."
"Julian?"
"What's our status?"
"We've been fucked," Crocker said. "Best guess right now is that Hossein was bait all along. No confirmations, but we've reason to believe Chace is still at liberty, though she may be wounded."
"Falcon?"
"Not a word, no idea. Is USGS still en route to the RZ?"
"Last I heard. You want me to tell them to abort?"
"Not if there's a chance in hell of Chace making it in time."
"Is there?"
"Again, no idea. Can you beat the bushes on the Iraqi side of the border, see if your lot has intercepted any traffic, anything that can put light on this? We're in the dark."
"I'll get on it now. You want me to come over?"
The question threw him, Crocker uncertain if Seale was simply offering professional courtesy or something more, something that might approach sympathy. The question was enough to make him think of Chace, of Tamsin, and of the visit he would have to make if Coldwitch had really become the nightmare it appeared to be. That Coldwitch had failed was already understood, but until Seale had offered company, Crocker hadn't allowed himself to believe Minder One was lost.
"Your choice," Crocker said.
"Fifteen minutes," Seale told him, hanging up. "Just how bad is it?" C demanded.
The question was one that Crocker had spent much, if not all, of the last eight minutes pondering, while waiting for C's arrival, and although he'd begun to describe the edges of understanding, he'd yet to reach its center.
"You want the worst-case scenario?" he asked.
"No, Paul, what I want are facts." She shrugged the coat off her shoulders, let it fall onto her chair as she turned to face him from behind her desk. The haste and the hour, Crocker thought, both were telling on Alison Gordon-Palmer's face. "Speculation later, for now, what do we know?"
"Very little. According to the Station Number Two-lad named Caleb Lewis-he and one of our Security personnel, Adrian MacIntyre, dispatched Chace with Falcon to the exfil point directly as ordered."
"They were supposed to go out tomorrow night, weren't they?" She took her chair, indicated for Crocker to take one for himself.
"Initially, but weather in zone made that unviable."
"Continue."
Crocker sat, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Lewis reports that shortly after he and MacIntyre completed their sterilization of the safehouse, they heard helicopters making overflight, and within a minute of that a team of VEVAK security personnel presented themselves at the location and demanded entry. They claimed they were seeking a foreign agent and had reason to believe that agent was in the house."
C's eyes narrowed. "They knew the location of the safehouse."
"Gets better-or worse, depending on your point of view. Lewis reports that the team was led by Youness Shirazi."
"I don't know the name."
"Not surprising; we don't have much on him."
"Significance?"
"Shirazi is the director of VEVAK's counterintelligence group. Lewis reports that Shirazi addressed him by name, made the request to enter and search. Lewis refused, citing diplomatic grounds."
"Did he just?" C managed a bare smile. "A stance on principle?"
"Perhaps. It was only Lewis and MacIntyre in the house. Shirazi pressed the issue, Lewis said he could not make the decision to allow them entry, Shirazi in turn told him to speak to someone who could. Lewis rang up the Station Number One-"
" 'Budgie' Barnett, yes."
"Barnett told him to grant entry. Lewis made to allow Shirazi and his men to search the premises, but instead found them in the process of departing. The conclusion that Lew
is reached, and with which I agree, is that between him contacting Barnett and relaying permission to enter, Shirazi got a lead on Chace in another location, and was able to discount the safehouse. It was around this time that Lewis overheard enough conversation between Shirazi and his deputy to ascertain that Chace may have been wounded."
"And no mention of Falcon at all?"
"None whatsoever."
"Yet every indication that a manhunt is under way for Chace as we speak."
"Yes, ma'am."
C gazed at him thoughtfully, then closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose between forefinger and thumb. Her brow creased, and Crocker had to wonder if her head was hurting as much as his now was. For fully half a minute she remained silent before speaking again.
"So you were correct, Paul. We were set up."
"I'm not certain," Crocker said.
Her eyes opened in surprise. "Chace was ambushed at the exfil point with Falcon. She managed to escape, Falcon told… Shirazi, is it?… told Shirazi the location of the safehouse."
"But why wait?" Crocker asked. "If it was a setup, they were tracking Falcon. Why wait? Why not take him at the safehouse?"
"Mr. Lewis' excuse. Diplomatic privilege at the site."
Crocker grimaced, shook his head slightly. "But they could have taken everybody at the house, there were only four of them there. Arrest our three and what would we say? You can't do that, that's our safehouse? Lewis could only claim embassy involvement after the fact."
"Paul," C said slowly. "What are you getting at?"
"I don't know." Crocker shook his head again. "It's not… something's not right. Shirazi was on the ground in Noshahr. The Head of Counterintelligence doesn't go into the field, he has a deputy for that, he has men for that. Why was he there?"
"I think it's clear," C said. "Your initial assessment of the situation was the correct one. Falcon was never more than bait, the object of the exercise was to lure and then capture an SIS officer. The object of the exercise was to capture Chace."
"But there were other opportunities. When she made the pickup in Karaj, for instance. The safehouse. Anywhere along the Karaj-Chalus highway. If they were watching Falcon, they could've picked their moment. Why did they wait?"
"You're overcomplicating it, Paul." C rose, picking up her coat. "And now I have to go and brief the Prime Minister. They'll need to begin formulating a response."
Crocker stood, waited until C had donned her coat. "Which will be?"
"Denial," C said bluntly. "We'll deny all of it."
"Even Chace?"
C stopped, looked at him. "Will she let them take her alive, do you think?"
"If she's been wounded, she may not have a choice."
"Hmm." C turned away, opening the door. "Unfortunate. It would make things much easier for us if she died."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IRAN-CHALUS, NAMAK-CHALUS MANUFACTURING
11 DECEMBER 0423 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
"More blood." Zahabzeh shone the beam from his flashlight slowly over the driver's seat of the abandoned police car, lingering at a point high on the upholstery, roughly shoulder level to where the driver would have been seated. "Hers?"
"Probably." Shirazi held up a palm, shielding his eyes, and the beam dropped. Zahabzeh slid back, out of the car, clicking the light and straightening up, his expression as pinched now as it had been half an hour earlier, outside of the pharmacy on Hasankeif.
"What now?" Zahabzeh asked.
Shirazi turned away, not bothering to answer, thrusting his cold hands deep into his pockets. It was always coldest before dawn, and tonight, for so many reasons, had been very, very cold. Around him, local militia scurried through the lot, checking cars, overseen by a middle-aged commander who was far too excited to have his men mobilized by VEVAK. Another police car sped past on the road, Route 22, heading north, and Shirazi watched its progress. The road ran northwest out of Chalus before curving to run along the Caspian shore, west for almost two hundred kilometers before it would begin curving southward, towards Rasht.
It wasn't the best place to have dumped the vehicle, Shirazi decided. Only two directions in which Chace could have gone, east or west, and heading east, back the way she came, would have been an act of madness. West, Rasht, her choices would be limited again, north to continue following the Caspian, to Arbadil, or south and over the Alborz once more, down into the plains. Both routes would take her towards Tabriz, and from there she could have her choice of any of three borders. Well-guarded, well-monitored borders, but there were always gaps.
She was in a car, Shirazi was certain of it, her third in the last ninety minutes as far as he knew, this one another Samand. Had that been intentional, too? Chace could hardly have done better in pursuit of anonymity; the Samand was as ubiquitous in Iran as a mosque. And the license plates, that she'd had the presence of mind to take several of them, made him admire the woman all the more. One car, one plate, that would be easy enough for a roadblock or a checkpoint or a patrol to remember. But ask the militia to remember five or seven different ones? Better to not even ask them at all.
Zahabzeh had moved off, speaking into his radio, and Shirazi heard Faradin's reply, that they were finished at the pharmacy, coming to join them now.
"No," Shirazi interrupted. "We will meet them at the airport."
The order was relayed without comment, and Shirazi motioned for the militia commander, speaking on a radio of his own now, to join him. "We have the roadblocks?"
"Yes, sir, at Mo'allem Square and again at the foot of the highway, before it climbs into the mountains. Another east of Noshahr, and two more along the Beltway."
"And the boats are still out, you're still patrolling the water?"
"They can stay out for another three or four hours, if you need. But the helicopters are low on fuel, they need to land."
"Soon as they can, put them up again. I want them to the west." Shirazi pointed, sweeping his hand to follow the curve of the roadway, up towards the water. "Careful attention along the sides of the road. She'll need to pull off someplace, somewhere. She needs to rest." Shirazi put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Your involvement in these efforts will be noted. As will your discretion."
"You may rely on me."
Shirazi nodded, turning away and moving back to his car, where Zahabzeh was waiting for him. They started out of the lot, turning back towards the heart of Chalus, and Shirazi sank back against his seat, removed his glasses, and closed his eyes. A wash of fatigue ran down his back, made him shudder involuntarily, though he doubted he could sleep, even if he wished to.
The pharmacy had been informative, he reflected. The desperation apparent at the scene, and the murder of the two policemen. Clearly, Chace had been wounded, badly enough that she had been willing to crash her Nasim through the front of the store. Yet her behavior at the plant had been anything but, which could only mean that, whatever the injury, she was now managing it. He wondered at the nature of the wound, if it would slow her down appreciably.
Too many variables.
Shirazi had worked so hard to limit variables, and all it had taken was one fool who had thought Hossein's life was in danger to destroy months, even years, of planning. That Chace hadn't been murdered as well was small consolation to him. She had been so close, she had almost been in his hand, and at the last moment, he had lost her. The taste was still bitter in his mouth, as bitter as it had been when they had reached the safehouse in Noshahr. Even before Caleb Lewis had answered the door, Shirazi had known she wasn't there.
A blond, Western woman, injured and fleeing in Iran. How hard could it be to find her?
And they had to find her, there was no question of that. Even if everything that had come before this night had been in pursuit of Shirazi's agenda alone, Hossein's death implicated them all.
The situation had, to say the least, changed. Hossein Khamenei had lain dead on the ground, his upper torso on its side, his hips turned so that his lower body lay skyw
ard, his mouth open, the wound that had killed him shining black in the side of his neck. Steam had still been rising from the blood leaking out of his body when Shirazi had reached him. More shots had rung out amongst the trees, and he'd heard the car, seen Zahabzeh with one of his men attempting to chase the vehicle down even as it fled. Zahabzeh's other man lay on the ground, only eight, perhaps ten meters from Hossein, his face swollen, eyes wide in death.
"Enough!" Shirazi shouted. "Enough! Regroup on me!"
"The spy-" Zahabzeh yelled back.
"On me!"
Javed and Parviz had caught up to Shirazi by then, breathless from their sprint, clouds of mist every time they exhaled, and Zahabzeh had returned with the other, Kamal, each still holding his weapon. Zahabzeh was reloading the small pistol in his hand, the little Russian PSM that he always had with him.
"I hit her." Zahabzeh's face shone with excitement, zeal, even in the poor light. "I hit her, at least once. She won't get far."
"You fucking fools!" Shirazi pointed to Hossein's body, glaring furiously at Zahabzeh, then Kamal. "You goatfucking fools, what have you done?"
"She was…," Kamal said. "She was going for his neck-"
Shirazi slapped him hard, across the cheek, feeling himself vibrating with fury, and the silence that followed was awful. "He's dead. He's fucking dead. The Supreme Leader's nephew is dead, do you understand me? Do you understand what I am saying to you?"
"The spy." Zahabzeh looked up from Hossein's body, and Shirazi saw that he, at least, understood how their world had changed in the last thirty seconds. "We can… it was the spy, we all agree it was the spy. He was murdered by the British spy before we could rescue him. A… it was a kidnapping attempt, that's what we'll say. She was trying to abduct him, we moved in to make a rescue, and she killed him."
"It was me," Kamal whispered. He was a young man, only in his early twenties and baby-faced, and now his expression struggled to become that of a man's. "My shot. I take… I will take the responsibility."