The last run (queen and country)

by Greg Rucka

  He stepped off the bridge, turning south once more, now walking along the Albert Embankment. He could see the SIS Head-quarters in the distance, the absurd cubic pyramid of tinted and mirrored glass, as distinctively unsubtle a work of modern architecture as ever beheld. From this angle, at this distance, its nickname of Legoland had never seemed more appropriate.

  Seccombe had been trying to tell him something at the end, Crocker realized, had been trying to warn him, perhaps, that this was the last favor, the last back-channel chat they would be having. Another person ringing the death knell for Paul Crocker's career.

  Crocker shook it off, producing his pass as he approached the gate. The watch logged him back in, and he crossed the enclosed courtyard to the entrance, showed his pass a second time, then, inside, swiped it through the reader as he passed through the metal detectors. He couldn't count the number of times his career had been threatened. Frances Barclay, Gordon-Palmer's immediate predecessor as C, had practically made a sport of it, in fact. Yet Barclay was gone and Crocker was riding the lift back up to his office as he had done hundreds, even thousands of times before.

  There would be fallout from Coldwitch, Crocker had no doubt. But he couldn't worry about that now, wouldn't allow himself to be distracted. For C, for Seccombe, for Seale and the CIA, Coldwitch was over, was bust.

  But not for Crocker.

  Not until he could bring Tara Chace home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IRAN-SHEMIRANAT COUNTY, TEHRAN PROVINCE, NOWJAN

  11 DECEMBER 1639 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  The news came over the radio between the second and third roadblocks on the Karaj-Chalus highway, leading at the top of the hour. Caleb, riding in the passenger seat while MacIntyre held the wheel, reached out and turned up the volume, listening closely to the rapid-fire Farsi now coming from the speakers. The report concluded, Iran pop music returning, and Caleb rolled the knob until the radio clicked off.

  "They're reporting the death of the Supreme Leader's nephew," he told MacIntyre. "Hossein Khamenei, shot dead by foreign agents in Noshahr during an abortive abduction attempt early this morning."

  MacIntyre glanced to him, his expression flat, then put his attention back to the road.

  "Falcon," Caleb said. "Jesus Christ. That's what she meant when she said he came from the right family."

  MacIntyre shrugged, disinterested, slowing, and Caleb saw out the windshield yet another line of cars and vans all at a standstill, turning the two-lane road through the Alborz, yet again, into a single-file car park. They came to a stop, and Caleb rolled down his window, pulled himself half out, to get a better look. A switchback ahead of them reversed the road one hundred and eighty degrees, turning it north again, and perhaps thirty meters below them he could see the actual roadblock itself, the police cars and officers. He slid back into the car.

  "At least an hour," Caleb said. MacIntyre shrugged again, then switched off the ignition. The drive from Noshahr down to Tehran would've normally taken no more than four, perhaps five hours with the winter weather in the high pass and the planned detour in Nowjan, but, by Caleb's watch, they were now into the seventh hour of their journey.

  "Stop looking at your watch."

  Caleb dropped his wrist. "We're going to be late."

  MacIntyre chuckled.

  "It's not like she's got somewhere else to be, Mr. Lewis," he said. They cleared the third roadblock at seven minutes to six in the evening, with night falling. Just as with the prior two checkpoints, both MacIntyre and Caleb were required to produce their documents, and just as before, the officer who took them immediately summoned his supervisor as soon as he realized their nationality. Caleb did the talking all three times, the conversations in Farsi all remarkably similar.

  "British?"

  "With the embassy in Tehran, yes."

  "Where were you in the north?"

  "Chalus and Noshahr."

  A frown or a scowl, and then, "Just a moment," and the supervising officer would step away, speaking into his radio, and for three or four minutes Caleb and MacIntyre would wait. Then the supervisor would return, peering past them, trying to see if anything was hidden in the car. Sometimes there would be more questions, had they seen anything unusual, had they been approached by anyone, were they carrying anything, and in all cases Caleb's answers were the same, no, no, no, until ultimately they would be waved through.

  This third time, though, Caleb thought they had been detained longer than before, and he wondered if it had been deliberate, if they were being intentionally delayed. When Barnett had reached him late that morning, directing him to stop in Nowjan before returning to Tehran, the call had come over Caleb's cell phone. Barnett had used open code, never mentioning Minder One nor anything directly incriminating at all, and the whole of the conversation couldn't have lasted more than thirty, perhaps forty seconds at the most. But that could have been long enough for VEVAK to have overheard what was said, and it wouldn't take a genius to understand their meaning.

  Seven kilometers past the roadblock, MacIntyre turned them off the highway, west, down a narrow unpaved road into a valley between the mountains. Full dark had descended, and within the car, the only view of the world was via the headlamps, and one of them, it turned out, was broken. The car was an older Benz, a four-door, and Caleb thought that once in its life it had quite possibly been grand, perhaps even used by the Ambassador himself, but that would have been twenty years ago now, at least, and every rock and dip in the uneven ground translated clearly through the chassis, into his spine.

  By the map, it was only three and a half kilometers from the highway to Nowjan, but that implied a straight line. The truth was over three times the distance, the road-if it could be called that-twisting north, then south, then west, then east, then west again, repeated curves and turns through the valley. The Alborz rose on both sides of the car, steep, showing the pale glint of snow high along the slopes.

  They hit pavement abruptly, the ride smoothing as the road straightened, descending further, and ahead of them, Caleb could now see Nowjan, a handful of lights burning in homes that clung to the hillside. They passed an orchard, trees bare from winter, another house, and then they were rolling into the tiny town square, the mosque on their left, a squat building ahead of them. MacIntyre turned the car about slowly, and their single headlight revealed a faded portrait of Khomeini painted on one nearby wall.

  There was absolutely no one about, absolutely no movement that Caleb could see at all. He turned in his seat, looking to one of the houses, saw its lights wink out, go dark. The thought that they had just driven into a trap asserted itself, called his fear up to duty once again. They were too late, the delays had cost them. Minder One had come and instead of Caleb and MacIntyre and their old Benz she had been met by Shirazi and the Sepah, they had already taken her away. Or they were holding her now, watching as the Benz made a second turn around the square, as it came to a stop, waiting to spring upon them when the moment was right.

  MacIntyre reached out, touching his elbow, not speaking, and Caleb turned to see that he was indicating something ahead of them, to the right. A shadow moved, indistinct, began shambling towards them in the darkness. Caleb saw the pistol in its hand, felt the fear surge, trying to become panic, and then he saw the pale face, realized it was Minder One, and he was out of the car before he could think about it, moving towards her even as she brought the pistol up in both hands and pointed it at his head.

  "It's all right," Caleb said. "It's all right."

  She wobbled, the pistol remaining trained on him for an instant longer before she brought it down, as if the effort of leveling the gun had taken all the strength in her arms.

  "Late," Chace mumbled. "Thought they'd got you."

  Caleb moved in, taking the pistol from her hand, laying his other arm across her shoulders, trying to support her. She made a noise of pain as his arm came down, her elbow shooting out, catching his ribs, and he released her, more surprised than hurt.
She was bent at the waist, hands on her thighs, stray hair dangling from beneath her makeshift maqna'e.

  "Back," Chace managed. "Hit me in the back."

  Feeling like a fool, Caleb reached out for her again, this time taking her arm. "Let's get you in the car. Get you out of here."

  She nodded weakly, straightening with obvious pain as he took hold of her. MacIntyre had emerged from the Benz, had the rear door open, looking around at everything but the two of them. With care, Caleb led her to the back of the vehicle, helped her climb inside. He closed the door, moving around to join her in the backseat.

  "Let's go," he told MacIntyre.

  "Don't have to say that twice, mate."

  Caleb climbed in beside Chace. MacIntyre started the Benz again, swung them around and back onto the road the way they had come, accelerating, driving in darkness until they were off the pavement once more, and only then switching on the headlamp. The car rocked and jumped, Chace swaying with every motion, and Caleb understood she could barely keep herself upright. He reached out for her, and only then saw that she was still holding the pistol, and he stopped, not knowing what to do with it.

  "The pistol," he told MacIntyre. "What do I do with it?"

  "Fucking hell." MacIntyre reached back with one hand. "They stop us and see that thing, we're done. Give it here."

  Caleb handed it over, and MacIntyre leaned to his side, stuffed the weapon into the glove compartment, snapped the door shut again.

  "They search the car-" Caleb started to say.

  "They search the car, Mr. Lewis, a hidden pistol will be the least of our worries."

  Beside him, Chace made a croak that Caleb understood was meant to be a laugh. Her head pitched forward, as if she'd fallen suddenly asleep, then jerked back, and she mumbled something he couldn't make out. Caleb reached out for her once again, taking her face in his hands, trying to see her eyes in the darkness of the backseat, and she let him. Her skin was damp and cool, her eyes open, but he couldn't make out her pupils.

  "She's in shock," Caleb told MacIntyre.

  "Can you do anything about it?"

  "Not unless we stop."

  "We're not stopping, Mr. Lewis."

  Chace mumbled something else, and Caleb caught the word "not" and the word "stop" and he nodded at her, saying, "We're going to get you to the embassy. We're going to get you somewhere safe."

  She closed her eyes, leaning forward, putting her weight into his hands. The car turned, hopped back onto paved road, back on the highway. The Benz accelerated, and Caleb, not knowing what else to do, brought Chace's head against his shoulder, then, gingerly, wrapped his arms around her, supporting her against him. He listened for a sound of protest, of pain, but she made none, just relaxed into him further.

  "Safe," Tara Chace murmured. They hit their last roadblock just north of Karaj, east of Vasiyeh, and Caleb had his papers in hand when the officer came to collect them, shining his flashlight around the interior, settling it on Chace, half-asleep and half-unconscious, Caleb still with one arm around her. The moment the beam hit her, the officer turned away from the vehicle, shouting out, and quickly the car was surrounded by men. Caleb could see one of the officers already speaking on a radio, another with a cell phone in his hand, dialing.

  "Get out of the car," the officer ordered.

  "This woman is ill," Caleb said. "We're taking her to our embassy for medical care."

  "You must get out of the vehicle now."

  In the front seat, MacIntyre didn't move, his hands still at the wheel, staring fixedly ahead.

  "We are British embassy personnel," Caleb said. "As such, we are accorded diplomatic privileges and rights. This vehicle belongs to the embassy, and as such is an extension of the chancery, and to be considered British soil."

  The officer reached for the door.

  "Don't do it," Caleb warned. "You open that door, you will initiate an international incident. You will violate British sovereignty, potentially committing an act of war, and you will certainly destroy the reciprocal protections enjoyed by your government in its embassies and missions around the world. Your actions. You will be responsible."

  Head still against his shoulder, Chace moved, resting her cheek to his chest. Outside of the car, the lead officer stood, hand extended, uncertain, the others around him. Caleb glanced quickly out the front, saw that the one on the radio had lowered it, scowling, that the man on the cell phone was still speaking, now turning away from them. Caleb returned his look to the officer at the door, glaring at him.

  The officer stepped back without a word, turned, moved to join the one speaking on the phone. The phone came down, a hushed exchange, another scowl in their direction. The phone came up again.

  "We're there?" Chace murmured.

  "Not yet," Caleb told her. "Soon. Just hold on."

  The officer was motioning at them, and for a second, Caleb thought he was ordering them out of the car again. Then the others surrounding the car stepped back, and he saw that they were being waved through. MacIntyre shifted the Benz back into gear, the car moving forward, and Caleb looked back as they began driving away, saw the one with the phone still speaking on it, the other officer writing in a notebook in his hands. Then the roadblock and the police and all of it were out of sight, the Benz speeding south, next turning east onto the Karaj Highway, back towards Tehran, until, finally, they were deep in the city traffic, slowing again, stopping and starting at the lights on Jamhuri Avenue.

  Caleb thought they were going to make it, he really did.

  Right up to the moment the van rammed them in the intersection at Vali-ye Asr.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IRAN-TEHRAN, JAMHURI AVENUE/VALI-YE ASR

  11 DECEMBER 2107 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  When the call came, Shirazi almost missed it.

  He'd been working out of his office since the Minister's departure, was still coordinating Republican Guards and Basij search teams along the Alborz, when Zahabzeh returned from Chalus with Parviz, Kamal, and Javed in tow. They had nothing by way of good news. Several times already, false alarms had reached them, though this last had seemed more promising at its outset. An officer manning one of the roadblocks out of Chalus, at the mouth of the highway, had seen a salmon-colored Samand peel away from the traffic jam waiting to clear the checkpoint. He hadn't gotten a good look at the license, only a partial; but the partial had matched enough of one of the stolen plates that Zahabzeh had ordered another canvas of Chalus, believing that Chace had again reversed direction, was trying to run back to the north.

  But if she had, there had been no sign of her.

  "This woman is injured, exhausted, alone," Zahabzeh complained. "She has no friends, no support. How is it we can find no sign of her?"

  "She's extremely good," Shirazi said.

  "Or maybe she's dead," Javed suggested. "Pulled off somewhere, and her wounds finally caught up to her. She could be dead, and that's why we haven't found her."

  None of them liked that suggestion, and the looks Javed received as a result turned him quiet for several minutes, before he offered to go out and bring in some food. Shirazi told him that it was a fine suggestion, and that Kamal and Parviz should go with him.

  After they had left, Zahabzeh asked the question he'd been waiting on since returning. "What happened?"

  "The Minister was here when I arrived. He informed me that the Supreme Leader knew about his nephew's collusion with the British, and had known for quite some time. He took my initial explanation of the situation as an attempt to protect Hossein's memory, on behalf of the Ayatollah."

  Zahabzeh's grin was rife with relief. "Thanks be to God."

  "It's not ideal, but it could have gone far worse. The belief now is that Hossein had sold himself again to the British, that we got wind of the plot, and attempted to capture the spy with Hossein. The Minister stated that our intention was admirable, if poorly considered."

  "Meaning we should have obtained clearance first."


  "Correct."

  Zahabzeh thought, scratching at the stubble on his face. Shirazi expected he looked the same; none of them had been given a chance to shave, let alone bathe or change clothes, in over twenty-four hours now. "If so… then the Minister knows exactly what we were trying to do, just not how we tried to do it. Do we have official clearance now? Retroactively?"

  "Provisionally, I think, on the successful capture of the spy. They already have plans for what they'll do with her, I think. He wants her brought in alive. He was very clear on that point."

  "Of course."

  "And he was clear on what would happen to us if we failed."

  Zahabzeh grunted. Nothing more on that point needed to be said.

  They moved to one of the conference rooms, and Shirazi ordered a radio set brought in, and more phones, as well as maps of the country, thus transforming the space into a makeshift command post. Javed returned with the others, bringing kubide for all of them, and they ate hungrily. The phones rang regularly, and twice within the first hour came calls reporting the missing Samand, and each time Shirazi took the handset from Zahabzeh, only to learn that, on closer inspection, there had been some sort of mistake, an overreaction, an error.

  This continued into the night. Shirazi was plotting all of the possible sightings thus far on the master map he'd hung on the wall, working the old-fashioned way with thumbtacks and a ruler, when one of the phones on the conference table began ringing again. He didn't bother to turn to it, letting Parviz answer it. The plots on the map were ridiculously irrational, many around Chalus, which was regional, but at least one as far east as Gorgan, which would have put Chace heading into the Balkans, and another as far south as Rafsanjan, over eight hundred kilometers from Chalus, an impossible distance for her to have covered already.

  "Sir?" Parviz said, and then repeated it, the second time unable to keep the excitement from his voice. "Sir! We have her!"