Greg Rucka - The last run

"I like the placement of the safehouse," Seale said, after a moment. "That's, what, five klicks from the airport in Noshahr?"

"Just over four, yes."

Seale gulped the rest of his coffee, then got to his feet, craning his head for a better look at the map. "It's a sweet-looking operation, Paul. Your boys and girls really outdid themselves on this one."

"They damn well better have. Coast Guard is aboard?"

"Langley cleared it with the White House earlier today. Orders forthcoming."

Crocker made a last, halfhearted attempt to stab at an asparagus spear, just as limp as the cucumber, then gave up and dumped the remains of his dinner into the trashcan beside his desk. "I'll want confirmation."

"Obviously." Seale checked his watch. "When's Chace due to brief?"

"She's not." Crocker slid off the desk and began folding up the map. "The job belongs to Poole. He briefed this evening, will be on his way to Tehran at dawn."

Seale put a hand down on the desk, trapping the map, and Crocker was forced to look at him. "You can't do that. Paul, you can't do that, the terms of our involvement are that you send Chace. That's direct from Langley, this has to be handled by your most senior operations officer."

"You're moving up my list, Julian."

"This isn't a joke. The job has to go to Chace."

"Poole can do it just as well as she can."

"That may be, but those aren't the goddamn terms, Paul! Jesus, are you trying to kill the operation? It's Hossein Khamenei, it's not some fucking clerk in the post office, it's a high-value target of incredible intelligence value. You have to send your senior operations officer, you have to send Minder One."

"She's put in her resignation from the Section. I've accepted it. She is not, therefore, the senior Minder. And get your fucking hand off my fucking desk, Julian."

Seale stepped back, glaring at him, and Crocker fought the map closed, fuming. The demand that Chace be the agent of record for Coldwitch was yet another of the many things he didn't like about the Tehran job.

"Why the hell weren't we told about this?" Seale asked.

"Because no one fucking asked me!" Crocker roared. "Because no one has listened to a word I've said for the last twenty-four hours! Ever since Chace made her report I've been fighting against this operation, and at every turn I've been either ignored or overruled."

"If I have to go back to Langley and tell them that she's not doing the job, that it's going to Poole, it'll scuttle the whole damn operation."

"Good."

Seale stared at him. "Is this about Chace or you?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Are you trying to end your career? Or protect hers?"

"I'm trying to protect my agents."

"So you're saying that even if Langley does approve Poole, you'll find a way to scuttle that, as well? And again if they agree on Lankford?"

"Too right I will."

"Have you lost your mind?" Seale asked after a moment, and Crocker thought he was genuinely curious. "They'll fire you, you realize that? They'll fire you and they'll fill that Desk with someone who, I don't know, believes in the radical notion of following their fucking orders!"

Crocker took his seat, looked up at Seale, now glowering down at him. "Hossein Khamenei is bait. That's all he is. You've got to see that."

Seale rubbed his eyes, and seeing that Crocker was still at his desk, that this wasn't a bad dream, turned his attention to the bust of Winston Churchill in the corner. It was a small bronze, capturing the former Prime Minister during the height of World War Two, one of only two decorations that Crocker kept in his office. The other was a black-and-white silkscreen print of a Chinese dragon, which hung on the wall opposite the door.

"Of course he's bait," Seale said, finally. "But he's a hell of a piece of bait, Paul. He's an irresistible piece of bait. And if we can pull him, it'll be worth the price."

"Not to me."

For several seconds the two men stared at each other. They'd never managed to become friends, but for the past several years had managed the pretense of professional courtesy, if not camaraderie. Crocker found himself again wishing for Seale's predecessor, Angela Cheng. It wasn't that Cheng had been more capable than Seale, but with her, Crocker had shared a fundamental understanding, that politicians were not to be trusted, that it was their duty to protect their respective services, the CIA and SIS, and their agents. Even when they argued-and they had argued often-they had stood on the same side.

From Seale's expression now, Crocker knew that wasn't the case.

"Get me an escort out," Seale said.

Crocker stabbed his intercom, Kate answering immediately. "Mr. Seale needs an escort out of the building."

"Yes, sir."

"They'll make you send Chace." Seale reached the door to the outer office. "And if you don't do it, they'll fire you and then they'll replace you with someone who will."

He stepped out, and Crocker waited until he heard the escort arrive and then depart again with Seale before getting to his feet. Kate was still at her desk, a paperback novel open in one hand, chewing on the end of a pen.

"She is technically still Minder One," Kate said, not looking up.

"Did you press a drinking glass against the door?"

"Didn't need one. You two were loud enough, the whole floor heard it."

"Go home, Kate. It's almost nine."

"You're done for the day?"

"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.