Greg Rucka - The last run

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 cup 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."

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.