Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Interservice rivalry had existed from the word go, when the Special Operations Executive had become SIS following the Second World War. Where SIS was responsible to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the Security Services, more commonly known by their short-form official mailing address, or their "Box," reported to the Home Office. In issues of security and domain, SIS and Box were almost constantly tripping over each other's toes. An SIS operation in Gibraltar, for instance, would lead to Box screaming that Crocker had overstepped his bounds-Gib still being viewed in the Home Office as "home territory."

The legacy of Empire.

Kinney didn't rise and didn't acknowledge Crocker's entrance. Crocker removed his jacket, hung it on its peg at the stand, then took his seat behind the desk. The desk was bare, and he appreciated Kate's efforts. He hadn't left anything compromising out-he never left the office with anything on his desk that should be in a safe-but all the same, it gave him comfort knowing that Kinney wasn't sneaking a peek at anything he shouldn't.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Crocker said. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have stayed out longer."

Kinney's smile was sincere, in that Crocker saw in it the man's desire to gut him. "It's all right, I could use the pause. Been running nonstop since Chace's little bloodbath."

"Better late than never. What can I do for you, Mr. Kinney?"

"We located a flat in Southwark," Kinney said. "Where one of them staged from, looks like. We're working back from the lease, have a list of names. We're running those down but don't expect to find much on them, obviously. But there's the issue of money, how it was supplied to them, and I thought you might like to lend a hand there."

"Meaning you've hit a dead end."

"Meaning the inquiries we wish to have made need to be made in Germany and Greece." Kinney pulled a folded sheet from inside his jacket, set it on the desk at the edge so Crocker had to lean forward to take it. "We'd appreciate it if you looked into it."

Crocker took the paper, opened it, reading names and numbers.

"Normally I'd have done this through channels," Kinney told him. "But time is of the essence, I'm sure you agree."

Crocker grunted, set the paper back down, and got up from his chair. "I'll put people on it today."

Kinney rose, taking his time about it. "And you'll let us know, of course."

"I thought it went without saying."

"No, Mr. Crocker, with you, I like to hear the words straight from your mouth."

"Any findings will be delivered to your people."

"Nice to cooperate, isn't it?" Kinney said. "Nice being friendly."

"Yes," Crocker said, holding the door for him. "It's always nice to play make-believe. Kate will see you out."

As soon as Kinney was through, he slammed it closed behind him.

Israel-West Bank, Ma'le Efraim 15 August 2043 Local (GMT+2.00) Sinan bin al-Baari almost hesitated before bashing the four-year-old's face in, but then he remembered that it wasn't really a boy, it was a pig and an ape, and that freed him. He struck the blow with all the savagery he could muster, infinitely more than was needed, and the butt of his rifle shattered the child's face with an audible and wet crack, and the boy crumpled to the floor. As soon as he was down, Sinan struck again, and this time broke through bone and spilled brains onto the linoleum floor.

The boy's father screamed with animal anguish, inhuman in its grief, and then Aamil shot him, and the man fell, eternally silent.

They stood still for a moment, each of them viewing their work, and finally Sinan said, "God is great."

"God is great," Aamil echoed, and Sinan thought his voice sounded hoarse and almost choked. He looked to his friend, trying to read the expression on his face, but Aamil was moving away already, toward the switch on the wall, and he flicked it and plunged the small kitchen into darkness.

Sinan moved out of the room into the hallway, carrying the rifle with its butt pressed between his arm and his chest. The butt was wet from the child and he felt fluid soaking into his shirt, but he didn't mind that, and he continued forward, toward the closed front door with its broken lock. Through the window, he could see the street, the fading sunlight, and as he watched an IDF armored personnel carrier rolled down the street, and when Sinan caught sight of the Star of David painted on its side, he couldn't stop himself from spitting in disgust.

He turned away from the door to see Aamil was now behind him, looking anxious.

"We should go now," Aamil said.

"We haven't finished."

"There's no one else here."

Sinan gestured with a free hand back toward the kitchen. "Father, son… Where's the mother? There's at least one more."

Aamil glanced over his shoulder quickly, then looked back to Sinan, as if he hadn't liked what he'd seen. "It's enough, we've done enough, Sinan. We should go before we can never go."

"You're afraid."

Aamil shook his head.

Sinan considered, then looked out the window once more. The street was empty, the purple and red of the sky melting to a darker blue. Darkness would help their escape, but it would also lend them more time for the work. Maybe they could enter another house, put down another animal or three? The idea excited him, made his stomach tighten in anticipation. That would be wonderful, to be able to return to the camp and tell all who doubted him what they had done in the Zionist settlement, how they had proven that no one was safe there, not even in their own homes.

Then he thought of the APC and reconsidered. Aamil had fired his weapon, and it was luck, it seemed, that had kept anyone from hearing the shot. In another house, if it happened again, Sinan doubted they would be so lucky a second time. Even more, he doubted that they would be able to kill those descendants of apes and pigs in silence.

Aamil was right, but for the wrong reasons.

It was time to go. • They waited until full darkness had descended and the APC had passed by the house three more times, now shining its mounted halogen lights into yards and alleys. Each time it passed, Sinan could see the soldier at the spot, and each time, Sinan imagined a bullet from his gun entering the soldier's head, and his finger slid from its safe position alongside the guard to the trigger, feeling the curve of metal against the pad of his forefinger. But he kept the gun down, resisting the urge despite his craving to seize the opportunity.

At last they emerged, sprinting quick and low across the street, between the settlement houses, across a wide backyard, making toward the barbed-wire fence. Sinan led as fast as he could, but this wasn't the way they'd come into the settlement, and he wasn't entirely certain they were heading in the right direction. He tried to remember the map Abdul Aziz had shown him, tried to remember where the gap had been cut in the wire. It occurred to him that they should have left the weapons behind, in the house, in case they were spotted. He still had his passport, the passport he had used to enter the Zionists' so-called state, and if they were stopped, there was the chance he could bluff.

It had gotten him into Ma'le Efraim, after all, traveling as a man named William Leacock. It had gotten him, and two automatic rifles, and two grenades this far.

William Leacock's last act, Sinan thought. After this, the name would be dead forever, known and therefore useless.

They ran across a dirt track, a narrow patrol road running between the outskirts of the settlement and the fence that surrounded it. The fence had been described as barbed wire, but Sinan knew it was more than that, not simply lines of cruel metal but rather a sharpened grate, impossible to climb quickly without perilous lacerations. He saw the shine of the metal in the starlight, surged forward, and the terrain dropped abruptly beneath his feet, turning into a shallow slope. He stumbled, hitting his knees and falling forward, and the fence clattered as his rifle collided against it.