A Gentleman's Game

by Greg Rucka

  As soon as she entered, every eye went to her, staring, and most of them were overtly hostile. The door at the back opened and a middle-aged man shaped like a tree stump emerged, carrying a tray, and at almost the exact same time the other door opened, on the right, and the man she’d been following emerged, looking much relieved.

  The sirens outside were very loud, the cars coming to a stop.

  That was what did it for her, what threw the switch, made Chace certain this was the place. Somewhere on the other side of that door on the right was el-Sayd, but he wouldn’t be for long, and she had to move, and she had to move now.

  She couldn’t go through, so she went over, stepping on the thigh of a very startled man to get atop his table, and then half-running, half-hopping, knocking over cups and glasses, splashing drinks and spilling food, making her way to the door. Everyone seemed to be shouting at her at once, and as she came down off the last table, driving her good knee into the chest of the man she’d tailed, she heard new voices and new shouting as the police came through the entrance.

  Her Arabic was good enough that, even in the confusion, she understood they were shouting for her, for everyone, to stop. She didn’t.

  Crashing through the door, she found herself at the base of a narrow and rickety flight of stairs. She started up, craning her head, reaching into her coat for the newspaper. Above her, the air swirled with disturbed dust, and she thought she heard footsteps, heavy, a man’s, but, with the noise coming from the café behind her, couldn’t be sure.

  She ascended, two, three steps at a time, her eyes fixed above as the stairs turned at the landing, continued climbing, only glancing down to be certain of her footing. In her hands as she went, she began rolling the newspaper tightly, the wrong way, from the bottom instead of the side, trapping and compressing the spine on one end, hardening its edge.

  On the third floor, she heard a door bang open, and new daylight flooded the stairwell, and she caught a glimpse of a shoulder and head disappearing onto the roof. It was el-Sayd, she was sure of it now, and she remembered how he’d looked to her in San’a’, how big a man he was, and she wished the damn Mossad had given her a gun.

  She sprinted, and her knee hated her but supported the weight, and when she burst out on the roof, he was there, thirty feet away, at the edge. She started toward him, but he’d already made the jump, disappearing, and when she reached the edge, he was already halfway to the next roof. The gap was short, no more than five feet, and the drop was at least that far, if not a couple more, and without hesitating Chace leaped after him. She landed on her feet, and he had already jumped to the next, and she raced after him, hurdling the ledge, sprawling this time, rolling back to her feet, the newspaper in her right hand.

  He heard her tumble, and maybe because she hadn’t said anything yet, maybe because the sound of her hitting the rooftop wasn’t the sound he had expected, el-Sayd glanced back, then stopped cold, surprised. He’d been expecting a cop, Chace realized, not this blond Caucasian woman brandishing a newspaper instead of a weapon, and el-Sayd said something to her in Arabic, curt, and Chace understood he was insulting both her lineage and her anatomy, reaching around behind his back.

  There were fifteen feet between them as he started to bring his gun around, and she closed it before he had his shot indexed to her, both hands on the rolled-up paper, now holding it low, to her right. She brought it up hard, the cruel edge of the hardened spine scything at his wrist, and el-Sayd screamed in surprise. The gun went off, wide, frighteningly loud, and he dropped the weapon, jerking his hand back reflexively. For an instant, he just gaped at her in wild disbelief.

  Chace grinned. Anything could be a weapon, it was just a question of how one used it. There’d been no way the Mossad would arm her, certainly not with all the travel she’d had to do, and trying to locate a gun in Cairo would have been more trouble than it was worth. But a copy of the Cairo Times, with its tabloid format and stapled spine, worked well in a pinch. Rolled in, essentially, the wrong way, the spine became hard as steel, and its edges potentially as sharp. With the right force directed at the right soft tissue, it was as lethal as a knife.

  El-Sayd lunged at her, and Chace dropped beneath his arms, thrusting the paper up into his throat. She heard him gag, stagger back, and she came out of her crouch, turning, scything the newspaper backhand, jabbing at his right temple. His eyes snapped wide, and she punched with the newspaper a third time, again going for the throat, and this time she felt his trachea give as she crushed his windpipe.

  As he was falling, she hit him again, forehand this time, left temple, for good measure.

  El-Sayd landed first on his knees, then toppled onto his face, his eyes still open wide.

  Chace dropped the newspaper and ran, not looking back.

  43

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

  21 September 1621 GMT

  “Director Intelligence to see you, sir,” Kate said over the intercom.

  “Send him through.”

  “Minder Two is out here as well.”

  “Fine, unless D-Int has a problem with it.”

  The intercom clicked silent, and Crocker finished reading the memorandum he’d been double-checking, scrawled his signature at the bottom, above his neatly typed name. When he looked up, Simon Rayburn was entering, with Nicky Poole close at his heels. From their expressions, Crocker had a good idea what this visit concerned.

  “Simon.”

  “The CIA intelligence was good, Paul. In addition to yesterday’s attempted bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Cairo, MOD informs us that they’ve prevented another suicide run in Basra.”

  “Not that good,” Crocker said. “Cheng said we were the target.”

  “The primary target.” Rayburn smiled thinly. “I suppose the heightened security warned the bomber away. Word out of Cairo is that the Egyptian police are rather vigorously rounding up any and every suspected member of the EIJ they can get their hands on.”

  “It’ll be a half-dozen students with madrassa membership cards,” Poole said.

  “Perhaps.” Rayburn looked at him, then back to Crocker. “Perhaps, but there’s word coming out that Muhriz el-Sayd is dead, killed while resisting arrest sometime yesterday morning.”

  Crocker set down his pen, then reached for his cigarettes, frowning. “Is that confirmed?”

  “It’s been confirmed that he’s dead. How he got that way is still open to speculation. But the Egyptian authorities are claiming it, whatever happened.”

  Crocker grunted, lighting his cigarette.

  “There’s one more thing I thought you’d like to know, Paul. Monique DuLac flew into Cairo night before last via Lufthansa flight 592, from Rome.”

  “You find that yourself, or did that come from Box?”

  “No, all us. I assume you’ll want to notify Cairo.”

  “You assume incorrectly, but I’ll do it anyway.” Crocker exhaled smoke, ignoring Poole’s look of confusion, reaching for the red phone on his desk. Before lifting the handset, he asked, “What’re the details on the Iraq attempt?”

  “MOD reports they identified the bomber and his vehicle before he could reach the security checkpoint. When they tried to warn him off, he accelerated and they opened fire. The bomb detonated shortly thereafter. Other than the bomber, no other casualties.”

  “Twice lucky,” Crocker said.

  “Whatever it is, be sure to thank Cheng for us, will you? They did us a good turn, tipping us. I don’t know where their intelligence came from, but for once it seems worthwhile.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask her, if she ever returns my calls,” Crocker said sourly.

  Rayburn’s smile widened slightly, and then, nodding to Poole, he stepped out of the office, shutting the door after him.

  “Monique DuLac, that’s—” Poole began.

  “Shut up, Nicky,” Crocker said, and lifted the handset, keying the Ops Room. “Who’s on the desk?”

  “Ron’s off, it’s I
an Morris.”

  Crocker nodded, heard the line answered, Morris’s voice identifying himself. “Duty Ops Officer.”

  “Ian, D-Ops. Flash to Cairo Station, copies of signal to DC and C, as follows: ‘Minder One possibly in Cairo traveling under identity Monique DuLac stop. Apprehend and detain stop.’ Have confirmation sent up as soon as you get it.”

  “Right away, sir,” Morris said.

  Crocker hung up, put his cigarette in his mouth, and motioned Poole to the chair. “Lankford in the Pit?”

  “Still doing his penance,” Poole confirmed. “I just finished with mine. The next time the Deputy Chief wants to punish us, sir, perhaps you could ask him to let us clean the toilets. Be marginally more exciting than spending two days helping Records move dead files from one end of the building to the other.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

  “We’d appreciate it, sir.” Poole scratched at his chin, then asked, “You don’t think Cairo’s going to grab her, do you?”

  “Doubtful. If she did el-Sayd yesterday, she’s well out of the country, probably back in Israel. Until that’s confirmed, I won’t order Tel Aviv to move. I’m not ordering any Station to move until Simon comes in here and gives me a reason to.”

  Poole thought about that, knitting his brow. “D-Int’s in our corner, then?”

  “Was there something you wanted, Nicky?” Crocker asked, annoyed. “Or is this simply a social call?”

  “Lankford and I were wondering if, perhaps, there’s a Special Operation in the offing, that’s all.”

  “Were you?”

  “Thinking maybe someplace like, I don’t know, Jordan?” Poole’s smile was hopeful, friendly. “And if we had to pass through Tel Aviv, well, maybe we could give someone a hand, if they needed it.”

  Crocker almost smiled. Almost.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Well, maybe one will come up,” Poole suggested.

  Crocker shook his head.

  Poole sighed, rose from the chair.

  Before he reached the door, Crocker said, “We’ll get her back.”

  Poole gave him a smile. “Oh, yes, sir. Never doubted that for a moment.”

  He left Crocker to wonder if he’d been lying.

  •

  At twelve past eight that evening his intercom went off again, and it surprised the hell out of him, because he thought Kate had left for the day.

  “Angela Cheng is coming up from Reception.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “Wanted to see if you needed anything.”

  “You, rested. Go home.”

  “What about Cheng?”

  “Send her in as soon as she arrives, then go home.”

  “I obey, master.”

  Crocker glared at the intercom, then got up, pulling on his jacket. He moved around the desk, paced, thinking. Cheng had been dodging him—and he was sure that was what it was, dodging—for the last five days, ever since they’d met for lunch and she’d returned to her office at Grosvenor Square. Five days, more than enough time for Crocker to go over everything that had happened and question the motives of everyone involved. Some of them were transparent, nothing more than they had appeared at the outset—Kinney’s, C’s, Weldon’s.

  But Cheng, he had realized, was playing him.

  It had been a nagging suspicion since his meeting with C the previous Friday, three days earlier, and it had continued to dog him over the weekend, even as he was scuttling around the house, trying to catch up on the legion of chores his wife had left to his care. It was just possible that Cheng had given him the warning about Chace out of altruism, that everything she had said about her concern for the Special Section was true.

  But it was far more likely that Cheng was pursuing an agenda of her own.

  That, in and of itself, wasn’t nearly as upsetting as it was annoying. They both had their loyalties, and they both understood completely that working together—as they did most of the time—was done for expedience and mutual gain. But there were always going to be times when the gains at stake weren’t mutual and would require one using, distracting, abusing, or bypassing the other. Never with malice, and rarely with glee, but it happened, and it was one of the reasons why, as much as Paul Crocker respected Angela Cheng, as much as he actually liked her as a person, their friendship would always be a limited one.

  What bothered Crocker now was that he still couldn’t see why he was being played, and he wasn’t entirely certain how. He’d been working the puzzle for three days now, harder and harder, and there was no answer, and he suspected that was because he was missing a piece.

  He’d be damned if Cheng was going to leave his office without giving it to him.

  •

  “Paul, sorry I’ve been so hard to reach.” Cheng grinned at him, slipping off her raincoat, then looking back to Kate as she closed the door to the outer office. When it was shut, she turned to Crocker, adding, “Been dancing on my Ambassador’s strings.”

  “Better than dancing with your Ambassador. He’s a happily married man.”

  “There’s no such thing as a happily married man.”

  “Spoken like a confirmed bachelorette.”

  “You’re not a man, Paul, you’re a machine.” Cheng dropped into the nearest chair, smoothing her skirt, and her grin blossomed into a smile. “I hear our two tips paid off for you boys big-time today.”

  “Iraq and Cairo, you mean?”

  “No, Arsenal and Aston Villa. Yes, Iraq and Cairo.”

  “Marginal payoffs,” Crocker said. “We weren’t able to take them alive.”

  “Then you’re just too slow. We caught two ourselves, both in Baghdad, and the Israelis caught another trying to get in through Gaza.”

  “Five for five, Angela?”

  “When the network works, it works well.”

  She continued to smile at him, and suddenly Crocker could see through it, and he wanted to kick himself for taking so long to do so.

  He turned to his desk, smiling in return, and said, “If you have anything more along those lines, Simon would love to hear it.”

  “Oh, I think we’ve done our part.” Cheng grinned at the joke, then shifted in her chair, uncrossing her ankles and leaning forward, and Crocker watched the mirth give way to concern, and he almost believed it. “Any word on Chace?”

  “She was in Cairo yesterday, funnily enough,” Crocker said.

  “Cairo? Strange place to go if you’re trying to lie low.”

  “She wasn’t trying to lie low, she was trying to kill Muhriz el-Sayd.”

  Crocker thought she did a good job of acting surprised, almost as good as her job of trying to pump him for information.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, she didn’t?”

  “Hadn’t you heard?”

  “Do I look to you like I had?”

  Crocker chuckled. “Egyptian authorities are claiming he was killed while resisting arrest. But since Chace was in Tel Aviv with Wallace as of the eighteenth, I think it’s more likely she did the job. I haven’t asked Landau yet. I suppose I can wait until I hear from Chace herself.”

  A flicker crossed Cheng’s face, and Crocker saw it, and saw they were getting close now.

  “Chace has got Wallace with her?”

  “She was in Egypt alone, as far as we know. Not sure where Wallace is now, but they’re certainly working together.”

  “You’re in touch with her?”

  “I wouldn’t confirm that even if I could, Angela, you know that. I’ve declared her AWOL, we’re doing everything in our power to bring her in.”

  “Liar.”

  “Professional, too.”

  “You know what she’s doing? What she and Wallace are planning?”

  Crocker shrugged.

  “What’re they planning, Paul?”

  “I suppose you’ll find out, along with the rest of us.”

  And then Crocker smiled at her, to let her know that they were once again on the s
ame playing field. He might not have figured out exactly the how and the why, but he was certain enough, just as he was now certain he held information Cheng wanted.

  How badly she wanted it was the next question.

  Cheng’s expression went to neutral and she sat back, inhaling through her nose, looking away from him to the blank walls of the office. Crocker thought that she was asking herself the same question.

  “Can you get a message to her?” Cheng asked after a moment.

  Crocker didn’t answer, waited.

  Cheng waited, too.

  He won.

  “They run at the camp, it’s suicide, Paul. Please tell me they’re not going to try to take the camp by themselves.”

  “All right, they’re not going to try to take the camp by themselves.”

  “Dammit, Paul!”

  “Why do you care if they want to fall on their swords, Angela?”

  “Because I don’t want to see you lose more people. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but your Special Operations capability has taken a hit two or three times in the last couple of years. I’d like to see you stay in the game.”

  “So it’s concern, is that it?”

  “Self-motivated concern, yes.”

  “That’s why you showed me the pictures of the camp, told me why Box was closing in on Chace? So I’d warn her, so she could go to ground until this whole thing blows over?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Cheng raised an eyebrow at him. “What’d you say?”

  “Bullshit, that’s the word, isn’t it? Or is that too American coming from me, would you have preferred I said ‘utter twaddle’?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that the Company has a man inside HUM-AA, in the Wadi-as-Sirhan. That’s where your intel’s coming from, why you’re suddenly coming up with gold after offering nothing but lead for the last several months. That’s why you tipped me to Box’s intentions, so I’d spark Chace to run. And if Chace runs, she can’t be handed to the Saudis; if she isn’t handed to the Saudis, the camp—and your mole—stay secure. That’s what I’m talking about, Angela.”