Greg Rucka: The last run

"We thought we were lifting Hossein Khamenei," Rayburn said. "When in reality we were lifting Youness Shirazi."

"That must have been his initial plan," Crocker said. "It went wrong in Noshahr, when the shooting started. My suspicion is that Shirazi had intended for Chace to be captured unharmed, at which point he would have freed her and taken Falcon's place in the RHIB for the rendezvous."

"But it went wrong," C insisted.

"Bullets," Szurko supplied, unhelpfully.

"Chace was shot, and she did what she was trained to do," Crocker said. "She ran, and she ran exceptionally well, well enough that Shirazi had to hit the embassy car. Even if he had only been considering defection before that point, as soon as Hossein died, he had to know it was all or nothing, that he wouldn't be able to stay."

"Did Chace actually kill Falcon?" C asked.

"I doubt it, but we've no way to be certain," Crocker told her. "I suspect it was accidental. It certainly would have been the last thing Shirazi would have wanted, because it would have drawn attention to the operation. Again, if everything had gone to plan, he'd have been on board a Coast Guard ship before his own people even began to suspect he'd left the country. He could've been at the Farm, being debriefed, before they'd been able to confirm it."

"Clever for another reason." Szurko was smiling, eyes closed, as if admiring the plan in his mind's eye the way a jeweler examined a particularly well-cut diamond. "Dangling Falcon guaranteed CIA support, it guaranteed that we would send our best possible agent to execute the lift, it guaranteed that we would give that agent the best possible cover and exfil possible, and that we would do everything within our power to support the operation should something go wrong. Which we did."

The room went silent again, broken only by another giggle from Szurko, who then opened his eyes, and seemed surprised to find he wasn't alone. C sank back in her chair, clearly sorting her thoughts, and Rayburn likewise was lost in his own, the tip of his tongue just visible between his lips.

"I have to ask this," C said, finally. "Is it possible this is just another dangle, a means of getting us to further expose ourselves in Iran?"

"No," Crocker said, firmly. "Tehran Station confirms that VEVAK has pulled out the stops, they've actually put surveillance on the embassy itself at this point. I'm certain the next report we get from Barnett or Lewis will tell us that the Republican Guards are out in force, and that there's a nationwide manhunt under way. Pursuing Chace was one thing-if she got away, they materially lost nothing, because all she was to them was a gain. But losing Shirazi, that would be devastating. They will do everything they can to prevent that. They'll mobilize every asset, they'll put up jets, they'll roll tanks if they need to. They absolutely cannot allow him to leave the country alive."

"And by that same logic, there's no going back for Shirazi? He won't turn around and betray Chace?"

"It would be suicide."

She nodded. "Then the real question is this: can we get them out of the country?"

Crocker tried very hard not to smile.

"With your permission, ma'am, I think I can manage it."

They had been driving ever since leaving Natanz, even when Chace had used one of the three cell phones Shirazi had taken from the dead men to call the embassy, to make contact with Caleb Lewis. She was wearing a new manteau, this one black, and a new scarf to hide her hair, also black, both provided by Shirazi.

They had taken the dead men's weapons and their ammunition, and all of the bottles of water in the refrigerator, four of them, and some of the food, mostly dried fruit, but some bread, and a wedge of very pleasantly sour cheese. Then, just before they stepped out of the house, Shirazi remembered the surveillance monitor, and stepped back inside long enough to put two bullets into the hard drive that had recorded the video of Chace in the cell.

Then they were in the car, Shirazi climbing behind the wheel of his own Mercedes-Benz, a new E-Class model this time, as far related from the embassy car Chace had been pulled from as was possible. It was only then, when they were pulling out, that he did anything that might've betrayed his own excitement and fear, accelerating so sharply that the wheels cried, spinning uselessly before catching pavement. Then they were speeding along the road.

"Not that I don't appreciate everything you've done," Chace said, "but where are we going?"

"North, again," he told her. "The Caspian."

"You've got a boat?"

"No, we'll use your route."

"My route's fucked in the ear, mate," Chace said. "There is no route."

He'd slammed the brakes, bringing them to a halt as quickly as they had pulled out. "You had a fallback?"

"Tabriz, and it wasn't prepared," she said. "We're not getting out to the north."

"Your people must have another route." Shirazi looked at her, incredulous. "There must be another route!"

"My people have written me off. Because your people shot me, then arrested me."

Shirazi swore in Farsi, the car idling on the side of the road, and Chace realized he didn't know what to do.

"Turn around," she told him. "Take us south, just keep us moving south."

"There is nothing to the south," Shirazi said, but he put the car back in gear, spun them around. "Only the ocean is south."

"Can you swim?" she asked.

He glanced at her sharply, saw that she was smiling, and then burst out laughing.

"I was right about you," Shirazi told her. "You were the one I wanted all along." After the first call to Caleb, she'd turned off the phone and then rolled down the window, flinging it out of the car. It was useless now, compromised, and as all of the phones were the same model, identical in all respects, she didn't want to confuse herself and use it again by accident. She let the window remain open for a few minutes after that, breathing the cold air, feeling the steady throb of her chest with each inhale, each exhale, but there'd been no real difficulty in breathing, certainly nothing like what she'd experienced previously. Then she'd rolled the window back up, readjusted the scarf around her hair.

"How long until they know what you've done?" Chace asked him.

"They may know already," Shirazi said. "My deputy, Zahabzeh, he went back to Tehran early this morning, against my orders, and with your things. I am sure he told our Minister that you were in custody."

"Tall guy? Beard and mustache? Youngish?"

"Thirty, and yes, beard and mustache and tall."

"He questioned me."

Shirazi glanced at her, hearing something in the tone, then back to the road. "My apologies."

"Yes," Chace said. "He was rather insistent."

"You are all right?"

"I'm bloody aces right now, my friend. I've got a bullet lodged somewhere in my chest, an occlusion bandage covering a hole in my back, and a one-way valve sticking out above my left tit. What could be better?"

"I can think of three things, immediately."

Despite herself, Chace laughed, then wished she hadn't. Laughing made the pain in her chest worse.

"Zahabzeh," Shirazi said. "He is a hard-liner, you would say. Always suspicious, always… self-serving."

"You think he suspected what you were doing?"

"He knew something was not right. We had opportunities to take you before Noshahr, and I told him no, and that certainly made him suspicious. It was only Hossein's death that kept him beside me for so long, his fear that he would be held responsible for it. Now, of course, I have freed him from that, because he will blame me."