The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  Crocker glared at her, trying to determine if it was loyalty or pity that was keeping Kate at her desk. Then he went back to his chair, to await the inevitable call from C.

  The problem was that Crocker had seen this all before.

  Chace had no sooner finished telling him that Falcon was, potentially, Hossein Khamenei, than Crocker had known there would be an order to lift, an operation mounted, and he was just as certain Chace knew it, too. It was as inevitable as a car crash, and, worse, as potentially fatal for all those involved. As soon as their political masters in Whitehall and Downing Street heard that SIS might, just conceivably, be able to bring a member of the Supreme Leader of Iran’s family to the West as a defector, they would go blind. They would see the result, not what was required to achieve it. What they wouldn’t see, Crocker was certain, was the risk. And once those same men and women in Whitehall and Downing Street set their eyes on this new prize, there would be nothing Paul Crocker could do to stop them.

  But he would damn well try anyway.

  His first act after Chace finished her report was to demand that Kate get him D-Int, either on phone or in person; he had no preference as long as it was done with all due haste. All due haste, it turned out, had been via phone.

  “Paul?”

  “Daniel, do we have anything on Khamenei’s extended family?”

  “We have quite a lot, actually,” Szurko said. “As he has quite a lot of family. But what we have I’m not in love with, if you understand; I don’t trust most of it.”

  “He has a nephew named Hossein?”

  “Yes.” Szurko said it slowly, dragging out each sound in the word. “Should be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Was Sepah in his youth, went to Paris after the Revolution, I think, but came home and went back into harness. Republican Guards, served a bit in the Iran-Iraq War. Not much more than that, I’m afraid. Married, at last report, with children, several of them, but no details. I can dig if you need digging. Do you need digging?”

  “Everything you can, and anything that might indicate if he’s in trouble. And if you can scrounge up a photograph or, better yet, a set of fingerprints, so much the better?”

  “We’re targeting the nephew of the Ayatollah?” Szurko sounded gleeful. “I’ll have the Iran Desk get all over it.”

  Crocker hung up, hoping that Szurko wasn’t as good at his job as he appeared.

  His next act had been to inform the Deputy Chief. He’d made the report in person, heading down the long fifth-floor corridor to Rayburn’s office.

  “We have no confirmation that Falcon is Hossein Khamenei,” Crocker told him. “Newsom is suffering Alzheimer’s, and Chace said he has both difficulty focusing and staying in the present. There’s no way to verify that what he told her is true.”

  “All the other participants are dead?” the Deputy Chief asked.

  “Newsom’s the only one still living, yes, sir. Minder One and Minder Two are going through Archives again for anything they might’ve missed the first time. But given the state of things when Newsom left post, what was happening on Station around the Revolution, I doubt there’s more to find. I’ve already asked D-Int to dig up anything he can on Hossein Khamenei.”

  “Most of the Station records have been purged, if I remember.” Rayburn used his chin to indicate to Crocker that he should take a seat, waited until he had, before adding, “There might be copies surviving in Whitehall. But Khamenei does have a nephew named Hossein, Paul—I remember that from my own days as D-Int. It’s plausible he’s asking to be lifted.”

  “But we’ve no verification he was even one of ours.”

  “He knew the Park-e Shahr drop. He used an established, albeit old, book code. I’d say he was definitely one of ours, at least for a short while.”

  Crocker shook his head, knowing the argument had been feeble, and already feeling that the coming battle was lost. Of all his peers in SIS, it was with Rayburn that he felt he had the best relationship. Not strictly a friendship, perhaps, but certainly they shared a mutual respect that had come from shared time in the trenches, Rayburn working his way through the Intelligence Directorate even as Crocker had climbed the rungs of Operations. When Alison Gordon-Palmer had been named C, she had needed to choose between her D-Int and her D-Ops to fill the position. Ultimately, she had gone with Rayburn, despite unspoken promises to Crocker that the job would be his. It wasn’t a decision that Crocker could find fault with, even as he managed to resent it.

  “Thirty years he runs silent, then he suddenly asks to be lifted?” Crocker said. “That doesn’t sound plausible to me. That sounds like he’s been flipped. We’re being set up.”

  “Did you ask Daniel if there was any reason to believe Hossein might be about to have the skids put under him?”

  “He’s checking. According to Chace, Newsom indicated that he might be homosexual, but she advises that may be Newsom’s own machismo speaking, rather than known fact about Hossein. When I checked with D-Int, he didn’t mention it.”

  “Would his homosexuality be enough to have him executed?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Shi’a Iran isn’t Sunni Al-Qaeda; they’re not running a fundamentalist agenda despite what their mouthpieces are crowing. The Revolution ended in ’81, when Khomeini realized he couldn’t control the country with religion alone. Since then it’s been less about religion per se than about expanding their power base.”

  “There’s the Basij.”

  “More for propaganda than anything else. But at the same time, they might be willing to make an example of him. I think that’s a stretch, Simon. As I said, I think we’re being set up.”

  Rayburn tented his long fingers, rested them against his chin. It was a mannerism Crocker knew well, had seen him do hundreds of times as D-Int when he was sifting facts, trying to reach a conclusion. “To what end?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  “Moving on Basra?”

  “Or something with the Kurds. Or something in Afghanistan. They’re remarkably good at occupying our attention in one place while they bury another hundred Silkworm missiles along the Gulf.”

  “Might even be internal,” Rayburn mused.

  “Or it could be that they want to hurt us,” Crocker pressed. “For the first time in decades we’ve actually got the start of a viable network in-country, Simon.”

  “And if we move to lift him, we risk exposing the network.”

  “Without question.”

  “To lift him would require Special Section support. You’d send a Minder.”

  “But the Station would have to prep for the operation.”

  Rayburn exhaled, brought his fingers down. “I have to present it to C, Paul. I’ve no choice.”

  “You know exactly what will happen if you do. We both do.”

  “I will stress to her your reservations.”

  “For all the good it’ll do.”

  That earned him a look of reproach. “You’ve been in this job for too long to be making sullen asides. We both have.”

  “She’s a political C, Simon, she’s going to want to make the Prime Minister happy. And this will make the PM happy, with the added bonus that he’ll be able to make the Americans happy.”

  “With good reason. We have an authenticated message from Falcon using an established lift code.”

  “I want more than that. I want fingerprints, some physical proof that Falcon is who he claims he is.”

  “Paul,” Rayburn said, slowly. “You’re not telling me you’d refuse to undertake the operation if the order should be given, are you? I know you, I know you’re perfectly capable of sabotaging this before it gets off the ground.”

  “Iran is the single greatest threat to stability in the Middle East, I’ve felt that for years,” Crocker said. “We handed them Iraq following the invasion, and we’ve all but handed them Afghanistan. They’re deep in Lebanon, they’re deep in Gaza. If someone
—anyone—can prove to me that Falcon is for real, that this cry for help is legitimate, I will go to Tehran and get him out myself.”

  “Remember you said that, Paul.” Rayburn got to his feet, watched as Crocker did the same. “Because I’ll be sharing that with C, as well.”

  He’d been back in his office for all of eleven minutes following the briefing to Rayburn when Kate buzzed him on the intercom, saying that C wanted to see him. He’d gone directly up to the sixth floor, entered her office, and before he could even open his mouth, Alison Gordon-Palmer cut him off.

  “Simon has explained your concerns, Paul, and I have to say I share them,” C said, much to Crocker’s surprise.

  “I’m very glad to hear it.”

  “But as Simon has also no doubt made clear, I must bring this to the PM’s attention. He’s not an unreasonable man. Our reservations may carry some weight.”

  “But you doubt it?”

  “I do, yes. The one thing you seem to have not taken into account is the American interest, and that is something the PM most definitely will do.”

  “There’s no reason for the Americans to be involved at this point. They shouldn’t even know about Falcon.”

  “But they will, no doubt in short order. And if it comes down to a choice between allowing CIA to lift Falcon or SIS, then I’m sure we’re all agreed it should be SIS who takes the prize.”

  “It would have to be SIS anyway,” Crocker said. “CIA doesn’t have the backing in-country to mount a lift. They’d have to go for a military extraction.”

  “Yet another reason why I think we’d all prefer this stay with the Firm.”

  “If it’s going to happen.”

  “If. Indeed.” C shook her head slightly. “Get on to Tehran Station and have them begin prepping the ground for a possible lift.”

  “I’d rather wait, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure you would. Unfortunately we don’t have the luxury. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t wish to keep the PM waiting.”

  “You’re going to have a hell of a time getting him out of the country,” Chace told him later that afternoon as she and Poole discussed the operation in Crocker’s office. “West you’re in Iraq, east you’re in Afghanistan, south you’re all wet, north, you’re not only wet but very cold.”

  “Gone swimming in the Caspian in December, have you?” Poole asked.

  “Skinny-dipping, if you must know.” She brushed hair back from her face, pondering the map on the wall. “None of the regional neighbors are going to be particularly helpful.”

  “Even if they were so inclined, they wouldn’t,” Poole agreed. “They’re all scared to death of Tehran shutting off the tap.”

  “Caspian route would be your best bet. Get Falcon out in the middle of the water for a pickup.”

  “Provided we can get him that far,” Crocker said.

  Chace put her index finger on the center of the Caspian, marking an imaginary point. “The Americans involved yet?”

  “Imminently, I’m sure.”

  “They going to try to steal it or support it?”

  “C already marked the territory. It’ll be ours if it goes through.”

  “What’re you thinking?” Poole asked Chace.

  “I’m thinking that there was a circular a couple months back about the United States Coast Guard’s involvement in CTAP.” Chase dragged her index finger across the water, until she reached the Republic of Georgia. “Training the Georgians, I believe.”

  Crocker heard Poole make a noise of pleasure that sounded distressingly close to sexual. “Oh, that’s very good.”

  “Like that, do you?”

  “Getting the American Coast Guard to pick us up under the cover of the Counter Terrorism Assistance Program? I think that’s bloody brilliant.”

  “And I think you both are getting ahead of yourselves,” Crocker interposed. “The Americans aren’t involved yet. We have no reason to believe Falcon is who he says he is. And Tehran hasn’t even begun to prep the terrain.”

  “Well, we can give them a place to start with Falcon, at least.” Chace flashed him a smile, pulled a folded piece of paper from her jeans pocket, handing it over. “Not quite an address, but it narrows down the location on where Falcon’s hiding. Nicky cracked it.”

  Crocker unfolded the sheet, saw that it was a copy of Barnett’s initial signal from Tehran. The substitution code had been worked over in pencil, the string of letters converted into two sequences of eight-digit numbers.

  “GPS coordinates?” Crocker asked.

  Poole put a finger to the tip of his nose. “He used his name for the key. Hossein Khamenei, with ‘H’ as zero. Reasonably clever. You can’t crack it if you don’t know who sent it.”

  “And these coordinates are where, exactly?”

  “West of Tehran, a city called Karaj,” Chace said. “Fairly crowded area, too, from what the Iran Desk says, a good place to hide in plain sight. Presumably, that’s where Falcon’s gone to ground. It does make sense, Boss. He had to know that whatever lift plan he and Newsom established back in the day was dead and buried by now, that we’d have to work up a new one. He leaves us his location so we know where to find him.”

  “And stays there, one hopes, until the new lift plan is prepared,” Poole said. “I like the Caspian exfil, too, Boss. If the Station can fix it so there’s a RHIB somewhere near the shore, we can just shuffle Falcon aboard in a life jacket and zip north to the pickup.”

  “Seaplane,” Chace said.

  “Helo,” Poole countered. “USGS, it’ll be a helo.”

  “Have to do it at night.”

  “Absolutely, that’s a given.”

  Crocker watched the two Minders at the map, listened to them discussing the relative merits of a pickup via airplane versus helicopter. Although neither of them had said as much, he knew that, as far as they were concerned, the job had already been confirmed, and Chace assigned to it. It was the logical expectation. The target was of exceptional importance to the Government, and the operation, if it should come to pass with a successful outcome, would reflect well on SIS. By necessity, then, HMG would demand SIS task the best agent for the job. By definition, that would be Minder One.

  Crocker had to wonder what it meant that, not a day earlier, he’d accepted her resignation from the Section, and yet here she was, tête-à-tête with Poole, deep in mission planning. Nothing in what she had said to him the day before had indicated regret or even hesitation about her decision to leave. Yet all her actions now were to the contrary, and whether that was simply Chace doing her job, or being caught up in the moment, or in the excitement of an operation in the offing, he couldn’t tell.

  He was still pondering the question when Kate tapped on his door, then opened it without a word.

  “What?” Crocker asked.

  She ignored him, leaning past the edge of the door to find Chace. “Tara?”

  “Me?”

  “There’s a Ms. Palmer calling for you from the Emmanuel School. It’s about Tamsin.”

  “Oh, God,” Chace said.

  She had already slipped past Kate to the outer office before Crocker could say that it was all right, she could take the call at his desk. From outside, he heard Chace picking up the phone, identifying herself, and he looked sharply at Kate for further explanation.

  “No idea,” Kate whispered.

  All three of them waited in silence for the better part of a minute before they heard Chace set the phone back down.

  “She’s taken ill,” Chace explained, returning. “Been throwing up all afternoon.”

  “Go,” Crocker said.

  “I am sorry.”

  “It’s understood.”

  She turned to leave, but Crocker caught her throwing one last glance back at the map before she was out of the room.

  “Caspian route,” Chace said to them. “It’s the only viable exfil.”

  At twenty-two past eleven the next morning, Poole walked into Crocker’s office carry
ing the latest signal from Tehran Station. The signal included a photograph of a middle-aged, gray-haired Iranian of Persian extraction, sporting a trimmed beard and looking absurdly stoic while a somewhat goofily smiling Caleb Lewis stood beside him.

  “The book that Lewis is holding,” Poole said. “Falcon gave it to him.”

  “Message?”

  “Same book code, yes. ‘Three west and three and third again.’ ”

  “What do they make of it?” Crocker asked, examining the photograph closely and finding nothing in it that would allow him to call the operation off.

  “Lewis thinks it’s the direction to Falcon’s apartment on Nilufar. The signal states that the book used for the code is quite ancient, and wouldn’t allow for anything comprehensive with regards to direction. Therefore Falcon is working with what he has.”

  “Which puts the apartment where?”

  “On Nilufar Street, number twenty-two. The apartment in question would be on the third floor, either number 3 or the third apartment on the floor, though if it’s the latter, it’s so vague as to be useless.”

  “Then it’s the former.” Crocker tossed the photograph onto the desk, annoyed by its unwillingness to help him. “Nothing so far has been vague, only inconclusive.”

  “That was my thinking. You want me to get onto Mission Planning about the initial exfil route?”

  “They’ve worked up a cover?”

  “They’re holding off until you tell them who it’ll be for.” If Poole was feeling any expectation or anticipation about the job, or even any desire to take it, he was being as restrained about it as Chace had been the day before. “Tara’s at home?”

  “She called in this morning to say Tam had been up all night with a fever. She was taking her to the doctor this morning.”

  Poole nodded.

  “Right,” Crocker said. “Go bother Mission Planning, Nicky.”

  “We’re going to lift him, with the Prime Minister’s blessing,” C told Crocker after she returned from lunch. “Operation to be initiated at the earliest possible moment. The Americans are aboard, and willing to offer any and all support we might need. You can expect to hear from Mr. Seale before noon.”