Greg Rucka: The last run

Traffic was thicker near the heart of the city, end-of-the-day commuters, one shift returning from the refineries as another went out to continue feeding the petrobeast. Caleb kept his eyes open for a place to stop, somewhere he and MacIntyre could get a meal. He finally parked outside a cafe just south of downtown. They exited the car, and while Caleb went inside to buy them each a cup of chay, MacIntyre stayed behind and searched the Khodro.

When Caleb returned, MacIntyre was holding a small, black square in his hand. "What should I do with it?"

Caleb set his tea on the roof of the Khodro, took the tiny tracking device, then tossed it underhand into the road. Traffic had crushed it to bits before he'd had a chance to pick up his tea again.

"You hungry?" Caleb asked. "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat." They found a downscale food stand another two kilometers south, closer to the forest of palm trees that grew all along the banks of the river. Water flowed past Abadan to the east and the west, river channels that had been artificially deepened and widened to accommodate the loading of pure light crude. The soil closest to the banks was lush and, even now, in winter, green. They ate outside, MacIntyre keeping one eye on their car, Caleb watching the people around him. For the first time since reaching Iran, for reasons he could not explain, he felt relaxed, and chatted cheerfully with the vendor who made their dinner.

Then MacIntyre said, "Mr. Lewis," and Caleb turned to see a black van pulling up, double-parking beside their Khodro, two jeeps with soldiers accompanying it. The soldiers stayed put, but out of the van came Farzan Zahabzeh, followed by two others. Zahabzeh turned back to them, spoke something Caleb couldn't hear, but its meaning was clear enough, and when he reached their picnic table, he was alone.

"Mr. Lewis," Zahabzeh said, in English. "I wish to speak with you."

"Have you eaten?" Caleb indicated the bench opposite him. "The chelo mahi is outstanding."

Zahabzeh shook his head, dismissing the offer and the pleasantry together. He looked meaningfully at MacIntyre, then back to Caleb. "I should like to speak with you alone."

Caleb shrugged, and MacIntyre got to his feet, went back to where the car was parked, leaning against it, watching them.

"We want Youness Shirazi," Zahabzeh said, after a moment. "You want your agent back. Let's make a deal."

Caleb didn't answer, looking at the man opposite him. While he'd seen him before, could remember him perfectly from the night in Noshahr when he'd tried to enter the safehouse, he didn't look quite the same. Caleb suspected it was mutual, and not solely because of the bruise he was now sporting at the side of his head. But the weight of what had transpired in the last two days-God, was it only two days?-clearly sat much more heavily on the man opposite him.

"You are planning to rendezvous with her," Zahabzeh said. "That is obvious; that is the only reason you can be here."

"I'm here to monitor the cleanup of the Hadi," Caleb said.

"We are past playing games. I am offering you a deal. We take our man, you take yours, and that will be the end of things. We will reset the board. We will forget everything. Even Hossein."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," Caleb said. "I'm here to report on the oil spill in the Gulf. That's all."

Zahabzeh made a noise, anger breaking free of its confines, and Caleb saw the man's body tense before Zahabzeh was able to force himself to relax again. He got to his feet.

"Youness Shirazi is a traitor," Zahabzeh told him. "He will be executed for what he has done. Anyone assisting him is either a traitor or an enemy of Iran. If the former, they will be shot. If the latter… we will do what we must to protect ourselves."

He turned, returning to the van, not bothering to look at MacIntyre, not bothering to look back.

Caleb watched as Zahabzeh and his men loaded up once more, pulled away. One of the jeeps went with them, but the other one drove halfway down the block before stopping. The soldiers within remained seated, but he could see them watching him.

He thought about that for a bit, then decided he wanted to finish his dinner. It was full dark by the time he was finished, and when they headed to the car, he told MacIntyre it was time for him to drive. They settled into their seats. MacIntyre started up the Khodro, driving easily, heading northward again. The jeep that had remained parked, watching them, pulled out to follow.

"We're going to have to get a boat," Caleb said. "And we're going to have to lose them before we do it."

"How lost do we want them to be?"

"Whatever it takes," Caleb said.

MacIntyre nodded slightly, downshifting. Caleb checked the mirrors, then the windows. He didn't see the van, and he didn't see the second jeep anywhere. It was possible that Zahabzeh had backed off, had even turned his attention elsewhere, but Caleb doubted that, particularly the latter. Yes, they were close to the border with Iraq, so close, in fact, that the river flowing past the western side of the city served to mark it, but Zahabzeh was still counting on them to lead him to Shirazi and Chace. If he'd backed off at all, it was only to make them think it was safe to run.

Caleb checked his watch, saw that it was forty-eight minutes past eight in the evening. Less than two hours until the rendezvous. An hour at most to get the boat, another hour to reach the pickup. There wasn't a lot of time.

They had entered a traffic circle, and Caleb realized that MacIntyre was now beginning his second loop, accelerating. A horn blared. In the mirror, he saw the jeep coming up behind them, trying to keep pace. They went around a third time, fast enough that the tires protested, and then a fourth, the squeal from the wheels louder, the grin on MacIntyre's face making him look like a boy deep in mischief. Cars ahead of them, behind them, were pounding their horns, and the Khodro was bleating at them in return, and they rounded the circle a fifth time. Now the jeep was ahead of them, not behind.

MacIntyre wrenched the wheel hard, right, and the rear of the car broke free, tires smoking even more furiously than before, and they shot west, accelerating, and turned, turned again, and again. Caleb saw the speedometer brush past a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour, swiveled in his seat to look back, and they were braking again, hard, turning again, and the jeep was nowhere to be seen.

They headed east, towards the river, driving quickly, and then the road narrowed as they passed into thick palms growing deep alongside the banks. MacIntyre turned them south, skirting the shore, killing their headlamps and slowing, and they could see boats moored along the water. Caleb reached for his backpack, pulled the GPS unit out and switched it on, taking a reading.

"Keep going south."

"We'll need a boat."

Caleb shook his head. "Not yet. Keep going south."

They continued following the river. Somewhere above them, they heard a helicopter drone, rotor pitch fading as it moved away, west.

"Mr. Lewis, we need to stop, find someone who'll sell us his boat."

"We're not going to buy a boat," Caleb said. "We buy a boat, there's nothing to keep the guy who sells it from taking our money and then calling Zahabzeh."

"Steal one, then."

"Can you pilot a boat?"

"No, sir."

"Neither can I." Caleb leaned forward in his seat, catching lights shining on the water. "Stop here. Get our things."

MacIntyre did as ordered, Caleb following, slinging his backpack over his shoulders. He felt for the pistol, still in his pocket, took it out and chambered the first round.

"Follow my lead," he told MacIntyre. "Don't shoot unless you have to."

"Never do, sir," MacIntyre responded, pulling out the Browning.