The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  Crocker came on the line with a characteristic growl.

  “I need written permission to draw the personnel files of Thurman, Andrew, and Newsom, Jeremy,” Chace told him.

  “Who the bloody hell are they?”

  “They were the Station One and Two for Tehran just prior to the Revolution.”

  “This is about Barnett’s signal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll clear it.”

  The runner was waiting for them when Chace and Poole returned to the Pit, two massive files in his hands. Chace signed for the documents, handed over the one for Jeremy Newsom to Poole, and was about to settle in at her desk to read up on Andrew Thurman when she saw that the file had a “DECEASED” stamp across its face. She tossed it aside, and she and Poole each took half of the substantial Newsom file, trading papers back and forth as they read.

  Jeremy Newsom was an old warhorse. He’d started in the Army in 1953, in the Prince of Wales’ Division, the Sherwood Foresters, promoted to Sergeant while fighting against the communists in Malaysia. Recruited by the Firm at the height of the Cold War, he’d been sent to Oxford, where he’d studied Oriental Language and Culture, as it had then been called. His initial Station famil had been Cairo, followed by turns up and down the Persian Gulf, from Kuwait to Bahrain to Oman, with years spent in London in between, working a variety of Desks both in-house and in Whitehall. Security reports, evaluations, and commendations filled the rest of the folder.

  From what Chace read, Newsom had been a good officer, if not an admirable family man. He had married while in the Army, and Chace found five separate Security notices regarding Newsom’s liaisons with different women. Two had occurred while he was stationed in London, each with women working in the Firm itself, but it seemed that Newsom had developed the habit of taking up with some female member of the embassy staff while on Station. From what Chace could gather, none of the relationships had been compromising to SIS, but they exhibited a lack of judgment, and she suspected this was why Newsom had never been posted as a Head of Station.

  His final field job had been Tehran. Following the Revolution, he’d been binned back to London and put onto the retirement track, which he’d accepted early. There was a note as to the effect that he and his wife, Mary, divorced just prior. Security audits continued intermittently over the next ten years, at which point it had been determined that any information Newsom had was so out-of-date as to be of no value to the opposition. The last entry was five years old, stating that Newsom was now living with his eldest son in Southend.

  “Southend in December,” Poole said, reading her mind. “Better dress warm.”

  Jeremy Newsom sat deep in an old lounge chair, wearing baggy black slacks and a bulky, hand-knitted sweater, watching Grandpa in My Pocket on BBC2. Chace held in the doorway at first, not wanting to disturb the old man, and for several seconds she did nothing but take in the room, the occupant in his chair, the voices on the television, the space in general. Pale winter sunlight slanted through a window to her right, and from some unseen duct, forced, hot air was feeding steadily into the room, raising the temperature to a few degrees above comfortable. There were no books anywhere that Chace could see, and no photographs, just a couple of framed, banal paintings, flowers and trees, and two hand-drawn pictures that she assumed had been done by one of the Newsom children, tacked to the wall beside the narrow bed.

  “Mr. Newsom?” Chace said. “My name’s Tara Chace.”

  The old man didn’t move, didn’t appear to hear her, and Chace took a step inside, closing the door gently behind her.

  “I’m with the Firm, sir.”

  “You’re not Dot.” Newsom brought his head around slowly, and Chace saw that his face was lined and long and sad, his blue eyes remarkably pale.

  “No, sir, my name’s Tara.”

  Suspicion, then, but just for a moment, almost immediately eclipsed by a delighted smile, fed by false recognition. “Jaanum,” he whispered. “Oh, pet, I thought you’d gone.”

  The word, perhaps Arabic, perhaps Farsi, had no meaning to Chace, but she saw that Newsom was now struggling to get out of the chair, using both hands on the armrests and still unable to manage it, and she moved to him quickly, dropping to her haunches. Newsom responded, stopped trying to rise, instead now leaning forward and gazing at her with such relief and adoration it made Chace’s heart ache. He reached out with one hand, touching her hair.

  “Spun of gold.” Newsom spoke softly, almost whispering, stroking her face with his fingertips. “Always so dolly, not like Mary. You were always so, jaanum. I thought you’d gone.”

  “No, I’m here.” Chace took hold of his hand, pressed his palm against her cheek. “Falcon has come alive, Jeremy. Do you understand me?”

  “No, we don’t talk about that, eyes only and all that nonsense, you don’t ask, I don’t ask. Your business is yours. Mine is mine.” His hand remained against her cheek, his palm soft and dry. The smile faded. “I had to leave, I’m sorry, jaanum.”

  “It’s all right, I understand. But now you’re back. I need to know about Falcon.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “In Tehran,” Chace said, and when Newsom grimaced, she added, “It’s all right, Jeremy. You can tell me.”

  “They killed Robin, you know. Shot him dead as soon as that old bastard came home from Paris. Eagle, Swallow, too, anybody they could lay their hands on. I knew it, nobody listened. They said, they said, how bad can it be? But we told them, he won’t give it up, he’ll take over. It’ll be a backlash, we’ll never get our foot in again.” Newsom’s hand moved along her face, and he smiled once more, drawing his thumb lightly over Chace’s lips. “God, I could kiss you for days, love.”

  Chace moved his hand gently, taking it in both of hers, returning his smile and feeling guilty. He so obviously was beyond competence, so clearly imagined her as someone else, and yet he had the answers she needed, was, perhaps, the only person yet living who did.

  “Tell me about Falcon. Please, Jeremy.”

  “Falcon? Low-value, military, not worth your time, really. Fled after the Revolution, lost him, then. Probably to Paris, they always run to Paris.”

  “Who was he?”

  “No, you can’t ask that.”

  “But it’s been cleared, all the way from the top. You can tell me.”

  He pulled his hand from hers, suddenly, looking at her with alarm. “I don’t know you. Go away.”

  “My name’s Tara. I’m with the Firm.”

  “Fucking Russians.” He shoved her back with his foot, forcing Chace to drop to her knees to keep from falling over, then kicked at her again. “Go away!”

  “Mr. Newsom—”

  “Go away, you fucking whore! Fucking Russian whore!”

  On the television, the show had ended, and in the pocket of silence she could make out footsteps rushing up the stairs. Newsom had twisted himself about in his seat, now resolutely staring out the tiny window, at the view of the rooftops across the lane. Rain had begun falling, and a sheet swept past, driven by the wind off the North Sea.

  Chace got to her feet, reaching the door just as Dorothy Newsom opened it, catching it before it could come wide. The woman started into the room, but Chace shifted herself enough to block the entrance.

  “It’s all right,” Chace told her.

  “I heard shouting.”

  “He got agitated. It’s all right.”

  Dorothy Newsom peered past her, sucking on her upper lip, to see her father-in-law. She looked up at Chace. “I think you had better go, miss.”

  “A few more minutes, Mrs. Newsom, please.”

  “You’re upsetting him!”

  “I don’t mean to. But I need a few more minutes, please.”

  “Da?” Dorothy called past Chace. “Da, are you all right?”

  “Dotty? Where’s my tea, love?”

  “You’re all right?”

  “I’d love a cuppa, Dotty. Can I have a c
up of tea?”

  “I’ll go fix it for you, Da,” Dorothy answered, then, reluctantly, and with a look rife with suspicion, backed away from the door, turning away only when she had reached the top of the stairs.

  Chace closed the door again and went back to Jeremy Newsom’s side. He was still seated as she had left him, still staring out the window, but his posture had relaxed. From her pocket, Chace removed her Security card, the pass that allowed her access to Vauxhall Cross.

  “Mr. Newsom?”

  “What did you say your name was? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it.”

  “Tara Chace, sir. From the Firm.” She held out the card for him to examine, and he took it in his hand, turning it in the light before staring up at her again. For the moment, he seemed entirely present, and she pressed on. “We’ve received a message from Falcon, but we don’t understand it. We need your help.”

  “You’re very pretty,” Newsom said. He examined the card. “What happened to the red pass?”

  “They stopped using it. This is a new one, computer chip inside it, all the fancy security measures.” She took her pass back, stuffed it again in her pocket. “ ‘The grapes are in the water.’ Do you know what that means?”

  “You say you’re from the Firm. What Directorate?”

  Chace was about to say “Special Section” when she realized that he’d never believe her. He would certainly never believe that a woman had been named Head of Section.

  “Ops Room staff,” she said. “Research Desk.”

  “Bet the Minders like seeing you there. Helps them remember what they’re fighting for.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s the lift code,” Newsom said, abruptly. “Hossein’s in trouble, he’s asking to be lifted.”

  “Falcon is Hossein? Hossein who?” The old man stared at her, blinking, and Chace realized he was slipping away again. “What was the lift plan?”

  “Something … something about a boat, in the north. Boats and goats in the north. What did you say your name was?”

  “You called me jaanum.”

  He brightened. “I’ll divorce her, I promise. Just you and me, my love. I could kiss you for days.”

  “Why would Hossein—Falcon—want to be lifted now, Jeremy? Why after thirty years?”

  Newsom laughed. “Finally pissed the old fucker off, that’s why. Limp-wristed bastard, Falcon was. Uncle’s not going to protect him anymore, I’d imagine.”

  “Who’s the uncle? Military? Government?”

  “I hate the rain.” He was looking out the window again. “The Ayatollah.”

  “The Ayatollah’s dead.”

  “Is he? Evil bastard, good.”

  “Hossein Khomeini?”

  “No.”

  “Jeremy, listen to me, this is important. Falcon is Hossein Khomeini?”

  “No. You’re saying it wrong.”

  Chace stared at him. “Khamenei?”

  “That’s right, jaanum.”

  A gust of wind smashed drops against the little window. On the television, a high-pitched boy’s voice started singing some nonsense.

  “What was the lift plan, Jeremy?”

  He didn’t answer, still watching the rain. Chace put a hand on the old man’s shoulder, and when that didn’t work, moved it to his face, gently turning him by his chin to look at her. She tried to keep the urgency from her voice, but knew she was failing.

  “You’ve got to remember,” she insisted. “What was the time-table? The details? From drop-cleared until activation, what was the delay?”

  He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut, suddenly frightened.

  “Where was he to go to ground? What was the pickup? You’ve got to remember!”

  “Tehran.”

  “He was to go to ground in Tehran? He was to stay in the city? What was the pickup, Jeremy? Falcon’s in the open, do you understand? He’s running, he’s reached out to the Firm for a lift. You’ve got to tell me! How long from drop-cleared until the lift? Dammit, the clock’s running, how much time do we have?”

  She saw tears rising in his eyes, realized that what she’d feared, that she was losing him, wasn’t what was happening at all.

  “I can’t remember,” Jeremy Newsom sobbed. “God help me, I can’t remember.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TEHRAN—198 FERDOWSI AVENUE, BRITISH EMBASSY

  7 DECEMBER 1550 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  It was the first time that Caleb Lewis had ever received flash traffic from London, the communications cabinet suddenly bleating, loud and insistent, and it took him by such surprise that he actually jumped in his chair. For a moment he didn’t know what the sound was, where it was coming from, and his mind flashed that perhaps it was an embassy alarm, that something was happening in the chancery, that perhaps he and Barnett and God only knew who else were about to be arrested and charged with espionage.

  Then Barnett was up and out from behind his desk, unlocking the cabinet, and Caleb understood. By the time Barnett had the doors open and his key in the console, Caleb was standing over his shoulder, and together the two men watched the monitor and printer come alive together. They read the message as it decoded, character by character, on the screen, neither of them speaking, and when it had completed Barnett reached for the printout, tore it free from the feeder and handed it back to Lewis, then quickly typed the one-word response London had demanded.

  Confirmed.

  Barnett removed his key, closed and locked the cabinet, and only then did he look at Lewis.

  “We’re in the shit now, son,” he said.

  Caleb looked up from the signal in his hand, the one he’d already read through three times with mounting apprehension and comparable confusion.

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “It means, Caleb, that there’s a Minder in our future.”

  The signal was unequivocal. Tehran Station was directed to, with all dispatch, effect the following:

  First, they were to establish surveillance of the block of apartment buildings on the southern side of Nilufar Street, between Bustas and Aras Avenues, in Karaj, some twenty kilometers west of Tehran. Once established, they were to locate and identify Falcon, and, if possible, initiate contact. All caution and care were to be taken to avoid detection.

  Second, the Station was directed to, with all haste, secure a safehouse in the north of country, in Chalus or Noshahr. The safehouse was to be stocked for three-to-five occupants for a duration of seventy-two hours, including sleeping arrangements, food, beverages, toiletries, and clothing. Additionally, a vehicle was to be provided for the location, in good condition and with current tags and registration. Upon acquisition, the Station Number One was to assign one of the embassy’s Security detail to the location to standby.

  The necessary equipment to provide proof of identity to London was to be furnished at said location.

  The signal concluded by saying that Tehran Station had twenty-four hours to accomplish these goals.

  “It’s a lift?” Caleb asked. “They’re lifting Falcon?”

  “How it looks,” Barnett said, spinning the combination on the office safe.

  “But we don’t know who Falcon is!”

  “Presumably London does.”

  “Then why don’t they bloody tell us that, instead of ordering us to make the identification? How are we supposed to identify him if we don’t know who he bloody is?”

  “That’s the trick. Presumably, Falcon knows we’ll come looking and hang a flag of some sort. You’ll want to take a camera with you.”

  “Me?”

  “Unless you’d rather be the one to drive up to Chalus and secure the house and car, Caleb, yes.”

  “Brilliant, so I’ll just hop over to Karaj and drive around this block until I see someone who I think is Falcon?”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barnett was into the safe now, pulling out stacks of cash, most of them Iranian rials, a few of Euros,
and setting them on his desk. From the top shelf, he removed a Nikon digital camera and companion lens. He set the camera beside the money, grinned at Caleb around the cigarette in his mouth.

  “No, you find a static position, someplace with a view of the whole block, if possible. Should be a café, something, someplace you can park your arse and take in the scenery. It can be in the open so long as you don’t make a nuisance of yourself, I’d think. If I’m reading the signal right, Falcon is going to want you to spot him.”

  Caleb massaged his brow, feeling for an instant off balance and still horribly, horribly confused. He understood what the signal was telling them, understood that when Barnett had said a Minder was coming for a visit, there was a lift in the offing, and from the instructions for the safehouse, that it would be a defection rather than an abduction. He even understood that this was a direct result of the message from Mini’s drop in the Park-e Shahr, that London had identified Falcon as a high-value asset, one that London was willing to pull out all the stops to secure.

  So Falcon was important. Important enough that London was willing to risk a lift out of Iran, something that, to his knowledge, hadn’t been attempted for years, even decades, now. But if London knew who Falcon was, why were they ordering Barnett and him to provide proof of identity at the safehouse, something that wouldn’t be possible until after Falcon was in hand? It was arse-backwards, it didn’t make sense.

  Barnett shut the safe door, spun the combination, then stabbed out his Silk Cut in the crowded ashtray on his desk. He replaced the cigarette with a new one, leaving it to wait, unlit, while he held out one of the stacks of rials for Caleb.

  “Five thousand,” he said. “Try not to spend it all in one place.”

  The traffic, always bad, was fuck-awful out of Tehran, with almost constant gridlock, horns, and a new smattering of chilling rain that had the benefit of holding back the heavy smog that so often blanketed the valley south of the mountains. Once, Karaj had been a refuge from the bustle of the capital, where the well-heeled had retreated to get away from the city. Some such signs remained, including the spiral-roofed palace built in 1966 by the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation for Shams Pahlavi, the Shah’s sister, and the ancient Zoroastrian temple, Takht-e-Rostam.