A Gentleman's Game

by Greg Rucka

  “So you see we have some room to work,” Crocker said.

  “So I do.” Landau considered, then glanced to Chace, as if begrudging her a reevaluation. “She should sit.”

  “Tara.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Landau waited until she’d taken the seat beside him, then said, “We know that Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari will be visiting Yemen sometime during the month of September, Miss Chace. We know that he will be in San’a’, to meet with a man named Muhriz el-Sayd. Do you know this name?”

  “El-Sayd’s the tactical operations man for the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. Trained under Ayman Al-Zawahiri, and like Al-Zawahiri was educated as a psychiatrist, I believe. Responsible for the murder of seven German tourists in Luxor in ’96, the bombing of the Beit-Shalom school in Elat in ’98, and the attempted bombing of the U.S. embassy in Albania in 2000. EIJ merged with al-Qaeda in late 2001, if I remember correctly.”

  Landau cleared his throat. “We also have evidence tying him to a car bombing in Tel Aviv in May of 1997.”

  “I was not aware of that, sir.”

  “Not many are, Miss Chace.” Landau removed his glasses, held them up to the fluorescent lights above, examining them. “We understand that you are seeking Faud. We have been seeking el-Sayd. Both men are untouchable in their native countries, and for this reason, both men avoid travel if at all possible.”

  He brought the glasses to his mouth, blowing on each lens, then using the corner of his jacket to wipe them clean.

  “Both men are now exposing themselves by journeying to Yemen for a meeting,” he continued. “While we do not wish to assume the purpose behind your recent inquiries into Faud’s whereabouts, I have no such qualms sharing with you ours with regard to el-Sayd.”

  “They want him dead,” Crocker told Chace.

  Chace nodded, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

  “Faud is responsible for the attacks on the Underground,” Crocker told Landau.

  “Yes. So, you see, we have a common purpose, if not a shared target.”

  “Do you have the dates of travel?” Chace asked.

  Landau shook his head. “No. Nor is it likely that we will be able to gather that information by ourselves. But you have paths not open to us. People who would ignore our inquiries will answer yours. And we do have other information that we would be willing to share, things we have learned about Faud’s itinerary.”

  Chace looked a question at Crocker. “It’s certainly very interesting, sir.”

  Crocker thought for a moment, then reached for the intercom on his desk, bore down on one of the keys as he got to his feet.

  “Escort, please,” he told the intercom, and then asked Landau, “How long will you be in town?”

  “Only until tomorrow night,” Landau answered. “I’m staying at the Vicarage Hotel, under the name Simon, if you wish to speak further.”

  “I can’t guarantee an answer for you before you head back to Tel Aviv.”

  Landau shrugged again, as if Crocker had stated the obvious. “Time is pressing, Mr. Crocker. Delays will cost us the opportunity.”

  There was a rustle from the doorway behind Chace, and the discreet clearing of a throat as the escort announced his presence.

  “This gentleman will escort you out,” Crocker said.

  Landau rose, extending his hand to Crocker, and Chace got to her feet as well, to maintain respect. He offered her his hand next, and his grip was firm, the handshake brief.

  “We’ll do everything we can to move quickly,” Crocker said. “Thank you for coming.”

  They waited until they heard the door to the outer office close, then took their seats again. Crocker brought a cigarette to life, then arched an eyebrow as he watched Chace do the same. Without comment, he slid the ashtray on his desk closer to her.

  “He wants us to do both?” Chace asked.

  Crocker shook his head. “He’s offering to have one of his people do both, provided we can get him the dates.”

  “Why doesn’t he go to the Americans?”

  “I’m not sure. The White House has been putting a lot of pressure on the Israelis to play nice, maybe because they still think that peace in the Middle East will lead to the Second Coming of Christ.”

  “You scare me when you say things like that, because I know you’re not joking.”

  “Not nearly as much as they scare me. There are some very strange ideas coming out of Washington these days. God only knows what they’ve got cooking with the Egyptians.”

  Chace frowned. “El-Sayd’s a terrorist, a known one. EIJ is on the list.”

  “You know damn well none of that matters in the face of politics. And that’s precisely Landau’s problem at the moment. The Mossad makes inquiries into el-Sayd’s travel, the CIA will know what they’re up to. We make inquiries about Faud, it avoids the problem.”

  “How’d he know we were after Faud?”

  Crocker cracked a tired smile. “Nothing nefarious. Rayburn put the word out to all the Friends as soon as conops came down that we were looking for him.”

  “Well, in that case Faud definitely knows we’re after him,” Chace said drily. “You trust Landau to do the job?”

  “Are you asking if I think his people can take out both Faud and el-Sayd?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without question. But he won’t get a chance. If we get the dates, I’m sending you.”

  “Not to be contrary, but why not let them have it?”

  “Are you saying you don’t want it?”

  “Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to understand the thinking.”

  “Two reasons,” Crocker said. “Unless Rayburn pulls a miracle out of his network, I’ll have to go to Cheng to get the information. Then I’ll have to pass it to Landau. At which point Landau hits both Faud and el-Sayd, and the CIA wonders how it was the Mossad knew where and when to strike. The distance between that question and us is the distance between here and Grosvenor Square. That’s one.

  “Two, Faud’s the target, not el-Sayd. El-Sayd is a bonus, and if we pull it off, the Mossad will owe us, and by extension, the Israelis. I can use that, and I’m not about to let the opportunity pass us by.”

  Chace took it in, nodded her understanding. “It’s mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought I was going to have to arm-wrestle Poole for it.”

  “It’s Yemen, it’s September, tail end of the holiday season,” Crocker said. “I’ll get on to Mission Planning, but we can place you as an Italian tourist, one of those women who take a danger tour in hopes of being kidnapped by local tribesmen.”

  Chace rolled her eyes, not so much at the suggested cover as at the viability of it. Perhaps it was because she already had enough adrenaline in her life, but the thought of paying money for the chance to be abducted in some Arabian Nights scenario held absolutely no appeal for her. It didn’t alter the fact that Crocker was correct, however; European women, and for some reason Italian women in particular, had been making such trips exactly as described. They would be cordially abducted from tourist spots outside of San’a’ by local tribes, then ransomed back to the Yemeni government in exchange for various concessions such as new wells for a village or road repairs. By all reports, the abductees were treated very well by their hosts, who knew a good game when they saw one. Chace had even heard of firms that sold tours with precisely this scenario in mind.

  “I should brush up the Italian, then,” Chace said. “You know that Landau will be expecting us to take the job from him.”

  “I’m sure of it. But he came anyway, which means he can live with that, as long as the job gets done.”

  “Two for the price of one,” Chace mused.

  “Think of it as a fire sale,” Crocker said.

  14

  London—U.S. Embassy, Grosvenor Square

  2 September 1818 GMT

  “Why was Noah Landau in to see you?” Cheng asked
Crocker.

  “I answered that when I made the request on Tuesday,” Crocker said. “The Mossad trapped a phone call between Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari and another—unidentified—party, where Faud discussed plans to visit Yemen sometime this month. Mossad knew we were after Faud, they gave the information to us.”

  Cheng rocked the pen between her index and middle fingers faster, making the movement into a blur, scowling at him. Then she stopped and rammed the pen back into the mug on her desk that she used as its holder. The mug, Crocker noted, had the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency stenciled on its side.

  “In person?”

  “We had other things to discuss.”

  “Why didn’t he go to Rayburn?”

  “Who says he didn’t? And after Rayburn, he came to me.”

  “You’re a fucking liar.”

  “I don’t need to take this abuse from you,” Crocker said mildly. “I’ve got a C and a Deputy Chief who are more than eager to do the same thing. They’re better at it, by the way.”

  “Give me a chance,” Cheng retorted. “I’m just getting started.”

  “Do you have something for me or not, Angela?”

  “I have something for you. It’s got a point at the end, and it’s headed straight for your crotch.” Cheng brought her hands up to her head, ran her fingers through her hair, making it fall back in sheets, clearly exasperated. “Your opposite number in the Mossad doesn’t just fly from Tel Aviv to pass over information that could just as easily have come from their resident. Noah Landau doesn’t meet with you simply to drop good news in your lap.”

  “He felt the information should be presented in person.”

  “He wanted to cut a deal.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  Cheng shook her head vigorously enough to again send her hair into the air. “But it makes me wonder what he wants in exchange.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is if it affects American interests in the region.”

  “How is our taking out Faud going to hurt American interests in the region? I’d think it would help.”

  “If that’s all you do.”

  Now it was Crocker’s turn to play exasperation. “It’s all I’m planning on doing. Provided, of course, that your people have learned when Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari is going to be in San’a’.”

  The stare Cheng fixed him with was cold with her frustration. Then she sighed and opened the folder resting before her on the desk.

  “We don’t have anything reliable coming out of Jeddah,” Cheng said. “But we’ve got a couple of people in place in Yemen, and there’s been activity. One of our boys spread some money around and learned that a VIP from Saudi is scheduled to arrive the week of the fifth. We can’t be certain it’s Faud, but given the Mossad intel, it seems likely.”

  “That’s this Sunday.”

  “I know,” Cheng said pointedly.

  “The week of the fifth? Nothing more specific?”

  “We’re assuming that Faud’s keeping the details vague as a security precaution. Yemen is hot right now, you know the drill. You’ve got advisers in country, we’ve got advisers in country, the whole place is jumping with the black balaclava set.”

  Crocker frowned. “You’d think Faud would be avoiding the place.”

  “Why bother?” Cheng said. “He knows we don’t have evidence to charge him with anything, and he knows the Yemeni authorities wouldn’t dare touch him.”

  She closed the folder, handed it over to Crocker. “You can read this one yourself, but it stays here. I’ll have a copy sent to you via the JIC.”

  “I’ll make sure Simon knows it’s coming,” he said, taking the folder and settling back in the chair. The chairs in Cheng’s office were infinitely nicer than the ones in his own, and he resented how much more comfortable he found them. He flipped the folder open, read the brief assessment inside, determining that it was exactly as Cheng had described. He closed it again, sighed, and pulled himself out of the chair.

  “Who’re you sending?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “Stop lying to me. Is it going to be Chace?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.”

  “It should be Chace,” Cheng said. “She’s the best you have.”

  •

  “Poole,” Weldon told Crocker early the next afternoon.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “Send Poole to Yemen.”

  Crocker clenched his fists, forced them open again, grateful that he was holding them behind his back as he stood in front of the Deputy Chief’s desk. Outside the windows, London was blanketed in gray, a weak rain drifting down.

  Weldon returned his attention to the proposal Crocker had brought to his desk, flipping through the three pages detailing what, Crocker hoped, would become Operation: Tanglefoot. He had spent much of the previous night drafting the document, much to the annoyance of his wife, Jenny, who was left alone to entertain his parents. He’d handed the proposal to Kate first thing that morning, and she had promptly typed it up and then submitted it for approval to the requisite department heads. When Weldon flipped to the last sheet, Crocker could see Rayburn’s signature next to his own.

  Two of the signature lines remained blank. One for the Deputy Chief, one for C. Without signatures from both, the operation would never happen. Or at least never happen with proper authorization.

  It wasn’t beyond Crocker to play out of bounds. He’d mounted operations without approval before, but it was always a risky proposition, and he never did it without a compelling reason, at least to him. But in this instance, there was simply no reason to try and circumvent the chain of command. Conops had come down with the PM’s blessing, and unless things had radically changed in the last three weeks, there was no reason to think that HMG had changed its mind about the fate of Dr. Faud.

  Weldon let the sheets drop back atop one another, then tilted back in his chair to look Crocker in the eye.

  “Send Poole,” he repeated. “You don’t know how long it will be before Faud shows, and you’ll want your Minder in country by tomorrow, latest. Could be a week whoever it is finds himself left there, twiddling his thumbs. Poole can go with military cover, it circumvents the weapon issue, and it will make it easy for him to stay unnoticed and to deploy. Should make his egress easier as well.”

  “I disagree, sir. Military personnel working in Yemen are almost universally being surveilled by one force or another—”

  “It shouldn’t matter. They won’t know who he is.”

  “They’ll know he’s British, and if he’s spotted around the scene after the assassination—assuming it goes off—it’ll splash back on us.”

  Weldon’s mouth twisted. “That’s a valid point.”

  “I certainly thought so.”

  “There’s no need to get testy, Paul.”

  “I don’t appreciate being second-guessed in this fashion, sir. I am the Director of Operations, operational planning is my purview, not yours.”

  “And mine is oversight. Something you could stand a little more of, I daresay.”

  Crocker continued to stare over Weldon’s head, out the window, watching the rain fall.

  “If you send Chace, she’s going alone?”

  “As detailed in the proposal, yes, sir.”

  “Why no backup?”

  “Conops specified concealment of origin. Two Minders are that much more likely to be made.”

  It was a lie, but Crocker had no intention of letting Weldon know that he was relying on Landau’s people for backup. The thought of working with the Israelis on an assassination of a Saudi religious figure in Yemen would cause the Deputy Chief to break out in hives.

  Weldon grunted, reached for his favorite fountain pen, black lacquered with mother-of-pearl inlay, and slowly unscrewed its cap as he reviewed the proposal a final time. When he reached the last page, he laboriously signed his name, then capped the pen, replaced it,
closed the folder, and handed it to Crocker.

  “You should take it up to C.”

  “Very good, sir,” Crocker said, leaving Weldon to his fears, and the rain at his window.

  •

  Barclay, like Weldon, kept Crocker waiting, his chin resting on his steepled hands while he read the proposal. He read it slowly, very slowly, as Weldon had, and Crocker was certain Barclay did it to annoy him. When he was finally finished, he lowered his hands and gazed levelly at Crocker.

  “Now tell me what you’ve neglected to include in this proposal,” Barclay ordered.

  “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “Of course you do.” Barclay tapped the pages before him. “I know you, Crocker, I know every one of your little tricks, and all of your back-alley games. You don’t meet with the head of the Metsada in my building at three in the morning and not cut yourself a deal on the side. Now, I want you to tell me what the Israelis wanted in exchange for their information, and I want it now.”

  “Landau asked for the meeting as soon as he arrived, sir. As he was leaving for Tel Aviv the next day, I couldn’t exactly ask him to call again later.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Barclay snapped. “Landau left on El-Al flight thirty-seven at seventeen-twenty hours on Tuesday the thirty-first. He could have met with you at any point during the day, and he didn’t. I don’t like it when you’re here in the small hours, I never have. It means you’re in your kitchen, cooking something likely to make me ill to the stomach.”

  Crocker fought off a smile at the thought of his C doubled over and vomiting in the executive lavatory.

  “Either you tell me about the deal you cut with Landau, or I withhold my signature,” Barclay said.

  “If I may remind you, sir, the proposal for Operation: Tanglefoot has been prepared in response to HMG’s issuance of conops, dated Tuesday, seventeen August—”

  Barclay slapped both palms down on his desk violently, half-starting out of his chair. “Who the hell do you think you are? You stand there and condescend to me, telling me about conops issuance when I’ve been fielding calls from the Prime Minister twice a day for the last month, demanding to know what we’re waiting for, telling me to get on with it?”