Greg Rucka: The last run

"He smart?"

"Smart enough."

"Does he know you well? Well enough to guess what you're thinking?"

"No. He doesn't know me at all."

Now it was his tone that caught, made Chace look at him again, more closely. "How long have you been planning this?"

"For years, Miss Chace."

"You can call me Tara."

"Then you must call me Youness."

"Years?"

"Ten years now, I should think. Once the reforms began rolling back. But it was only in my mind to do it, an idea, not a plan, then. After the Green Revolution, that was what made me realize it was time to act. The election, you know, was a complete fraud. I am still somewhat surprised that anyone thought it would be otherwise. We are a police state, Miss Chace, not an Islamic Republic. There is no rule of law, only a rule of power."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Ah, well, I am not sure I am explaining myself very well." His shoulders lifted, dropped again in an exaggerated shrug. "It is the difference between the reality and the promise. The promise brought people into the streets, particularly our women, you see, because they believed what they had been told. But the reality brought the Basij into the streets, with their sticks and their batons, with the Republican Guards holding their leash, and the two could not coexist. They cannot coexist. Until the promise is realized, I cannot, before God, serve the reality."

Chace nodded, not speaking. They were racing along the road, and if it had been any other country, she would have suggested Shirazi slow down, to try and not draw attention to the vehicle. But it was his country, and he knew it, and if nothing else, she couldn't argue with wanting to put as much distance between themselves and Natanz as possible. The landscape was radically different from what she had seen in the north, along the Alborz, much more like the deserts of the American Southwest, bare and hard, bathed in gold by the setting sun.

"Do you believe in God?" Shirazi asked her.

Chace thought of Tamsin. Then she thought of Tom Wallace, and the way he had died in Saudi Arabia.

"I want to," she answered. Chace called the embassy again just past five-thirty in the evening, thinking that enough time had surely passed by now for Caleb to have relayed her initial message to London, and for London to have responded, to have prepared an exfil plan for her and Shirazi. She debated with herself before making the call, however, worried about the exposure, afraid that she was being too hasty. If Shirazi was correct, the search for them was certainly on by now, and there was a good chance that any conversation would be overheard. Having to call a third time would only create greater risk.

She dialed the number from memory, asking again for Caleb Lewis, and the call went through much more quickly than it had the first time, which she took as a good sign. That Lewis answered before the phone had finished its first ring she took as even better.

"It's me," Chace said.

"Your father called," Caleb Lewis said. "He has the following message for you: delighted you have acquired rare cougar. Stand by to record the following."

Chace swore silently, with her free hand began searching around her in the car, yanking open the glove box, then the compartment in the armrest beside her. Shirazi shot a worried glance her way, and she saw that he had a pen clipped to his breast pocket, reached out and plucked it free, clicking its end. She bared her arm, wedging the phone.

"Proceed."

"First sequence, F-T-R-E-A-F-L-T. Second sequence, E-Y-E-I-E-Y-R-A. Third sequence, R-R-E-L tomorrow. Confirm."

"Confirmed."

"Dad says you know it like you know yourself."

She grinned. "Understood."

The line went dead, and Chace switched off the phone, lowered the window, and winged the mobile out of the car. She closed the window again, examined her arm, began decoding the message with the pen, still writing on her skin. It was dark enough in the car now that halfway through the process she was forced to turn on the interior light, but once she did, the work was completed quickly enough.

Chace stared at what she'd written on her arm, then clicked the light off again, offering the pen back to Shirazi, who shook his head, vaguely amused by the gesture.

"They have a plan?"

"Yes," Chace said. "Exfil location and a time. Do we have GPS?"

"I had hoped to use yours, but Zahabzeh took it."

"The car doesn't have one, the sat nav?"

"See for yourself."

Chace leaned forward, grimacing as she did so, fiddling with the control dial for the display on the center of the dashboard. She brought up the map screen, and instead of seeing a display of Iran, instead found a message in Farsi.

"Translation?"

" 'That feature has been disabled in this vehicle,' " Shirazi told her. "But we're near Yazd, and I was thinking it was time we switched vehicles there. We should be able to find an Internet cafe, or, at the least, a store with a map. The coordinates, what are they?"

"To the west of here, near the border with Iraq, I think." Chace read the numbers off her arm in the weak light. "Know where that is?"

"Not precisely. You are correct, though, it would be near the border. They'll take us overland?"

"Possibly."

"That does not give me comfort. The border is well guarded since the war, will be even more so with Zahabzeh looking for us."

"I can call them back if you like," Chace said. "Tell them it's not going to work for us."

Shirazi's laugh, this time, was more forced. "No, no. That would be even less wise." They dumped the car outside of Yazd fifty-six minutes later, Chace standing watch while Shirazi removed the plates, locking them away in the trunk. He had a satchel, a shoulder bag, and he put the water and food and two of the pistols inside of it, he and Chace each carrying another, concealed. When she saw the bag, Chace had a good idea what it carried, and a glimpse inside while Shirazi was loading it confirmed it; it was his go-bag, stacks of rials and American dollars, some clothes, and several reams of paper. A rainbow flash of light caught her eye, the refraction from a CD.

"What's on the disk?" she asked.

"Disks," Shirazi said, zipping the satchel closed and slinging it over his shoulder. "And every personnel file I could lay my hands on. This way. Keep your eyes down, try to conceal your face, and do not speak. I will do the talking."

Chace lowered her eyes as much as she dared, Shirazi taking her by the elbow, and together they walked along the streets of Yazd, bustling with dinner-hour traffic. The further south in Iran one went, the more conservative the country became, and here, wherever she looked, Chace saw women wearing the chador, hiding everything but their eyes, and even with her manteau and maqna'e, she felt underdressed and exposed. Shirazi set a brisk pace and, shuffling to keep up, despite her long legs, Chace felt a burn in her chest, joining the ever-present background ache.

There were soldiers at the corner ahead of them, nearly a dozen that she could see, milling around a vehicle, and Shirazi turned them left, heading east along a narrow street, past ancient mud-brick buildings. The lane twisted, wandering, and she was having trouble catching her breath now, was about to tell Shirazi they had to stop, to slow down at the least, when they emerged suddenly into a newer part of the desert city, hearing music, bright lights shining from windows opposite them. Shirazi halted.

"This will do." He pointed, and she followed the line from his hand, almost laughed when she read the sign painted over the door of the building opposite them. Farsi and English, and the English told her it was an Internet cafe, THE FRIENDLY CAFE, and the irony was practically absurd. Shirazi glanced about the street, then looked at her. "You must wait outside, here. Stay in the shadows."