A Gentleman's Game

by Greg Rucka

  “Fuck my dog, where is it?” Borovsky muttered. “Little piece of turd, where is it?”

  Landau removed his glasses, used the tail of his shirt to clean the lenses. The lenses didn’t need it, but it was something to do instead of becoming impatient. The glasses were plain, black plastic frames designed to hold thick lenses, and Landau knew they were unflattering on him and didn’t care in the slightest. He hadn’t cared what he looked like since Idit died.

  There was a rustle of paper and Borovsky made a satisfied grunt, tugging a thin sheet free. Without his glasses, Landau wasn’t sure if it was a single sheet or perhaps a couple of sheets clipped together.

  “Little shit can’t hide from me,” Borovsky announced, then waited until Landau had his glasses back on before handing the signal over.

  The message had been printed on colored paper, almost a pistachio green, the date stamp from the Signal Officer at the upper left indicating the intelligence had come in just before four that morning. Routing indicated that the message had originated with one of the Cairo cells, but nothing more specific on the sourcing. Landau skimmed it quickly, then reread it again, more slowly, then handed it back to Borovsky.

  “Useless,” Landau said.

  “The fuck you say.”

  “It’s from an informant, it’s bought information. Muhriz el-Sayd hasn’t left Egypt since the Luxor shootings, Viktor.”

  “You think like a train, Noah, you go only back or forward, not sides, you know? Just because he hasn’t left, that’s not he never leaves.”

  “This is not enough to act upon, you know that.”

  “So maybe we get more, huh?”

  “It’ll have to be better than some unidentified informant’s intelligence. It’ll have to be something verifiable.”

  Borovsky grinned. “Well, shit, I can do that, sure.”

  Landau handed the sheet back, picked up his attaché, and left the office without another word.

  •

  Thursday afternoon, this time heading in the opposite direction down the hall, Borovsky stopped him again.

  “I think I’ll make you happy,” Borovsky said.

  “I doubt that.”

  Borovsky laughed, and this time, instead of ushering Landau into his office, he stepped farther out, shutting and locking the door behind him before starting off down the corridor. Landau followed to the elevators and they waited for the second car, and then Borovsky used his passcard to access the second basement level.

  “Where are we going?” Landau asked.

  “SigInt.”

  Landau sighed.

  “You are a big baby, you know that?”

  “I have five operations running right now, Viktor, I don’t have time for this.”

  “How’s that thing in Istanbul? You get the fuckers yet?”

  Landau blinked at him slowly, hoping his expression was enough. Apparently it was, because Borovsky barked laughter.

  The elevator ground to a stop, then opened to the pleasant cool of the subbasement. The guard seated at the checkpoint fifteen feet down the hall got to his feet by the door, his Uzi hanging from its strap on his shoulder, and waited for Landau and Borovsky to approach. The guard knew them from sight, just as Landau knew him, but he asked for their passes nonetheless, then checked them against the computer before logging them in and allowing them to proceed. The magnetic locks on the door snapped back with solid thuds, felt more than heard.

  They made their way down the hall, past the rooms full of computers and communications equipment, to the Signals Intercept lab. Borovsky led the way inside, and they moved through a room of cluttered tables to another door, where David Yaalon sat, headset firmly clamped over his ears, face a sculpture of concentration. He was a young man, not older than thirty, working with a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The room stank of cigarette smoke and coffee and ozone, computers and various blocks of audio equipment built into banks on every wall.

  Landau would have been happy to wait, but Borovsky had other ideas and, with two fingers, rapped Yaalon on the back of his bowed head. Yaalon squeaked in surprise, dropping both pen and cigarette and yanking the headset from his ears, alarmed.

  “Boo,” Borovsky said, and then began barking with laughter again.

  Landau looked an apology to Yaalon, who returned it with a wounded face, then bent to pick up his still-smoldering cigarette and the lost pen. Once everything was back in place, he reached to the console in front of him and pressed three buttons in sequence, apparently shutting down whatever he’d been listening to.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Yaalon said to Borovsky.

  “What were you listening to? Someone having a bit on the side?”

  Yaalon frowned, moved his attention to Landau. “You don’t get down here often, sir.”

  “I don’t often have a reason,” Landau said.

  “Ah, but now he does,” Borovsky said, excited. “You play him the intercept from this morning, okay, David? The one with el-Sayd.”

  “I haven’t completed the translation.”

  “Arabic?” Landau asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be able to follow most of it.”

  “You want the headphones?”

  “Speakers will be fine, David.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yaalon swiveled his seat back to the control panel, began using a combination of button presses on the console and mouse clicks on the nearest computer, queuing up the intercept. Landau pulled the nearest empty stool closer, perched on it carefully, waiting. Borovsky had scooped up Yaalon’s pack of Camels and was getting a cigarette going.

  “This came from one of the listening posts in the West Bank this morning,” Yaalon explained. “Normally, we never would pick this kind of thing up, but something must have taken a bad bounce, because we caught most of it, and it’s pretty clear. I already ran the voices through the database, and the matches are ninety-nine point eight and ninety-eight point four, respectively.”

  Landau nodded, then looked to Borovsky for explanation. Borovsky grinned and blew out a plume of smoke.

  “Faud and el-Sayd,” he said.

  Landau registered his surprise by raising an eyebrow.

  “Play it,” he told Yaalon.

  The young man leaned over the console again, depressed a button, and the speakers in the room came alive with a squeal of static, high-pitched enough to make each man wince. Then the noise broke and the voices came through, split with occasional squeaks and scratches on the line, the sound of other conversations on other calls faint in the background, as if parroting what was being said.

  Older voice, male, presumably Faud: “. . . why do you drag your feet?”

  Younger voice, male, presumably el-Sayd: “No, you don’t accuse me. You have my respect and my honor, for you are a learned man, but you do not accuse me of failing in the fight when you yourself cannot be bothered to take up arms.”

  “I do what Allah, praise Him, commands of me.”

  A pause on the line, and Landau was sure he heard someone complaining of stomach problems in one of the background conversations.

  “All around you, your brothers fight,” Faud said. “Your brothers who are destined to become shahid. Would you let them do the fighting for you?”

  Brief static, and then el-Sayd: “—more from us? I’ve already told you what we require, and you can make it happen. I am willing to meet you both, to meet you and your benefactor in person, but I will not risk the journey on a promise alone. I need a proof.”

  A pause before Faud answered, “Do not worship money, my friend. You condemn yourself to Hell in its pursuit.”

  “I fear no Hell. I am a righteous man. You asked why, I tell you why, I do not need to be given a lesson I already learned. You want more from us, we need money. You have access to that money.”

  “I have given you my word—”

  “And I have said I need a proof.”

  Borovsky tapped Landau’s
shoulder, grinning. “Sounds like you, Noah.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand, American. You know the account.”

  “If I arrange it, that will be the proof you require?”

  “If you arrange it, I will meet you and your benefactor in San’a’, you have my word.”

  “Very well. Look to your account before the end of the week. Then look to San’a’, and we shall meet—”

  Burst of static, almost as intense as the first, and then nothing but the ghost conversations lingering on the line.

  “David?” Landau asked calmly.

  “I know,” Yaalon said. “I’ve been trying to clean that last piece up all day, but I’m getting nowhere.”

  “He was about to give the date.”

  “I know, sir.” Yaalon shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  Of course, Landau thought. Everything but the piece we need.

  “Keep working on it,” he said, and slipped off the stool, then headed out of the lab.

  Borovsky caught up with him in the hall, halfway to the checkpoint, clearly pleased with himself. “Huh? What about that, huh? Fucking gold, that’s what that was, Noah, yeah?”

  “There are thirty days in September,” Landau said. “San’a’ is a big city. San’a’ is a big city in Yemen. I can’t mount an operation based on this.”

  Borovsky clapped a hand down on Landau’s shoulder, stopping him. The mirth had vanished. “You can’t let this go, Noah.”

  “And I can’t act on it. Not with this, not yet.”

  “Go to the Americans, they have sources. They can find el-Sayd’s plans, when the fuckbagger will be traveling.”

  “And they’ll know why we’re asking the minute we ask, and they’ll never give it up,” Landau replied.

  “Muhriz el-Sayd needs killing.”

  “No one knows that better than I do, Viktor.”

  Borovsky scowled, then seemed to remember his hand was still on Landau’s shoulder and let it drop away. “Maybe there’s a trade?”

  “We have nothing the Americans want.”

  “But the British, they’re looking for Faud,” Borovsky said. “They hold Faud responsible for the murders on the Underground, Noah. They’ve been asking the Friends for any news of Faud. And Faud and el-Sayd will be together in San’a’.”

  Landau thought about it and the first look didn’t reveal any flaws, and so he looked again and still saw none.

  “Yes, they will,” he agreed finally.

  “They can help.”

  Landau nodded slowly. “Yes, I think maybe they can.”

  Borovsky’s smile returned, bigger than ever. “Then there is no problem. We kill Faud for the British, or they kill el-Sayd for us, everyone will be happy.”

  “Everyone except Faud and el-Sayd,” Landau said.

  “Terrorists.” Borovsky spat on the floor. “Let them drown in their own fucking blood.”

  13

  London—Soho

  30 August 0129 GMT

  It was in the dizzying race of thoughts that always seemed to come to her in those seconds building to climax that Chace admitted to herself that old habits really did die hard, and none of hers were willing to go into the grave just yet. It made her laugh aloud, and beneath, inside her, the young man named Jeremy stopped moving, his hands slipping from her hips and his face flooding with concern. Chace bit her tongue to keep from laughing again, bowed her head to his ear.

  “No, don’t stop, Jeremy,” she whispered. “You’re doing fine.”

  She ran her tongue along the side of his neck to prove her sincerity, tasted his sweat. He moaned, and she rocked her hips to encourage him further, and that did it, his hands returning to her, roaming once more. He opened his mouth and told her that he thought she was so beautiful, that he thought she was so sexy, and Chace didn’t care what he thought, and it made her irrationally and passionately angry. To silence him, she kissed him, hard, then bit his lip, pulling on it with her teeth, taking him harder, trying to steal both his breath and her own.

  She’d found him at the White Horse pub, Soho, off her normally beaten path, but she’d decided to try it for a quick drink and to check out the scene after work. There had been Jeremy, in a gaggle of his friends, all of twenty-five, skin like coal and claiming to be an editor. He’d been charming, reasonably witty, looked healthy, and been easy on the eyes. It had taken less than two minutes before Chace knew she could have him if she wanted.

  Whether it had been her intent upon entering not to leave alone, she still wasn’t certain. But when eleven o’clock had rolled around, pleasantly lit on Chimay White, she’d slipped one arm around Jeremy’s waist and let the fingers of her free hand touch his throat, then whispered in his ear, “I hope you live alone.”

  “Or else?” Jeremy had stammered.

  “We’ll have to rent a room.”

  He had lived alone and, even better, nearby.

  •

  She was hungry and aggressive and demanding, trying to drive away her thoughts of Wallace, of what had almost happened between them. Jeremy did his best to keep up, but when Chace’s pager went off at three minutes before two and she showed no signs of answering it, he took it as an excuse and withdrew from her, then collapsed beside her on the bed.

  “Maybe you should get that?” he asked.

  Chace slumped into the pillows, feeling her heartbeat rattling in her breast. The pager went off again, and with its trilling, the night revealed itself to her for what it was, and she felt heat rushing into her face. She pushed herself up quickly, twisting to the side of the bed, catching Jeremy in the corner of her eye, stripping off his condom. The pager was still affixed to her belt, and her belt still affixed to her jeans, and she gouged at it with her thumb until it was silent, then read the message, certain she knew what it would demand of her, that it would be the DOO calling her to the Ops Room.

  But it wasn’t, and the message she read was both surprising and troubling.

  She began pulling on her clothes, dressing with a practiced speed that came from being naked in front of a stranger too many times before. Jeremy, lying on the bed and above the mussed covers, didn’t move, watching, perspiration shining on his skin in the weak light that dripped in from the street.

  When her belt was fastened and she was pulling on her shoes, Chace said, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

  “Nah, it’s no trouble.”

  “I had a lovely night,” she lied.

  “Me, too.” He pushed himself up on an elbow, smiled. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

  She had her jacket on by then and was halfway to the door.

  “No,” Chace said.

  •

  She waited until she hit Regent Street before digging out her mobile to make the call, and Crocker answered on the first ring.

  “Why the hell aren’t you at home?” he demanded.

  “You said I couldn’t leave London, you didn’t say I—”

  “I bloody know what I bloody said. Where are you now?”

  “Regent Street.”

  “Where none of the tube lines are up and running as yet.” She heard the whistle of his breath as he exhaled cigarette smoke. “Come in. Now.”

  “Am I bound for parts unknown?”

  “Now,” Crocker repeated, and hung up.

  •

  The first thing that surprised her when she reached Crocker’s office was that someone had made coffee, and since Kate was presumably at home and asleep, Chace was forced to conclude that it had been Crocker himself. Unless he’d forced someone on the janitorial staff to do it, which wasn’t out of the question but somehow seemed even more implausible.

  The second thing was that Crocker wasn’t alone, and as Chace entered the inner office, she immediately regretted stopping to fix herself a cup of her own.

  The man seated opposite Crocker rose immediately when she entered. She read him as hovering near forty, tanned skin that, beneath Crocker’s fluorescents, made him look
almost a dusky orange. His hair was brown, cut close, the narrow shape of his face broken by a pair of broad black-framed eyeglasses of the kind favored by rocket scientists and fashionably nerdy software engineers everywhere. His suit looked both uncomfortable and inappropriate, better for fall or winter than the dying days of summer, and hung loosely on his frame. Perhaps five foot seven, maybe five eight, and when he rose, his arms dangled at his sides, loose, as if he was unsure of what to do with them.

  Crocker indicated Chace and told the man, “Tara Chace.”

  “So I see,” the man said, and the accent gave him away as Israeli.

  “Noah Landau,” Crocker explained to her. “Mr. Landau runs the Metsada Division of the Mossad.”

  “You would call it like your Special Operations Division,” Landau offered.

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Landau barely nodded, looking her over, taking his time to do it. Chace resisted the urge to brush at her hair and hoped to God she had managed to get her clothes on right way round. His eyes were brown, Chace noted, and seemed smaller behind his thick lenses.

  He maintained the survey for several seconds before returning to his seat and facing Crocker once more.

  “Sorry to get you out of bed,” Crocker told her. “But I thought you should hear this, as you may end up going as backup on the operation.”

  “Her?” Landau asked.

  “She’s Head of Section, Mr. Landau. She’s the best I have for this kind of job.”

  “I would not presume to dispute that. But we are talking about Yemen, and a European woman in Yemen will attract notice.”

  “She won’t be running deep. In and out, provided we can fix the dates of travel.”

  “Deep or not, she will need an adequate cover. I don’t want your support for my agents to be taken into custody before the operation is completed. And an English woman traveling in Yemen alone? I think it would raise suspicion. You speak Arabic?”

  The last had been directed to her, so Chace answered, saying, “Words and phrases, sir. No fluency.”

  Landau looked back to Crocker, shrugged.

  “Tell him what you are fluent in, Tara.”

  “I can pass as native in French and Italian. My French is best, but the Italian is a very close second. My German and Spanish are both fluent, not native, and my Russian is passable.”