Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Borovsky grinned. "Well, shit, I can do that, sure."

Landau handed the sheet back, picked up his attache, and left the office without another word. • Thursday afternoon, this time heading in the opposite direction down the hall, Borovsky stopped him again.

"I think I'll make you happy," Borovsky said.

"I doubt that."

Borovsky laughed, and this time, instead of ushering Landau into his office, he stepped farther out, shutting and locking the door behind him before starting off down the corridor. Landau followed to the elevators and they waited for the second car, and then Borovsky used his passcard to access the second basement level.

"Where are we going?" Landau asked.

"SigInt."

Landau sighed.

"You are a big baby, you know that?"

"I have five operations running right now, Viktor, I don't have time for this."

"How's that thing in Istanbul? You get the fuckers yet?"

Landau blinked at him slowly, hoping his expression was enough. Apparently it was, because Borovsky barked laughter.

The elevator ground to a stop, then opened to the pleasant cool of the subbasement. The guard seated at the checkpoint fifteen feet down the hall got to his feet by the door, his Uzi hanging from its strap on his shoulder, and waited for Landau and Borovsky to approach. The guard knew them from sight, just as Landau knew him, but he asked for their passes nonetheless, then checked them against the computer before logging them in and allowing them to proceed. The magnetic locks on the door snapped back with solid thuds, felt more than heard.

They made their way down the hall, past the rooms full of computers and communications equipment, to the Signals Intercept lab. Borovsky led the way inside, and they moved through a room of cluttered tables to another door, where David Yaalon sat, headset firmly clamped over his ears, face a sculpture of concentration. He was a young man, not older than thirty, working with a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The room stank of cigarette smoke and coffee and ozone, computers and various blocks of audio equipment built into banks on every wall.

Landau would have been happy to wait, but Borovsky had other ideas and, with two fingers, rapped Yaalon on the back of his bowed head. Yaalon squeaked in surprise, dropping both pen and cigarette and yanking the headset from his ears, alarmed.

"Boo," Borovsky said, and then began barking with laughter again.

Landau looked an apology to Yaalon, who returned it with a wounded face, then bent to pick up his still-smoldering cigarette and the lost pen. Once everything was back in place, he reached to the console in front of him and pressed three buttons in sequence, apparently shutting down whatever he'd been listening to.

"You didn't have to do that," Yaalon said to Borovsky.

"What were you listening to? Someone having a bit on the side?"

Yaalon frowned, moved his attention to Landau. "You don't get down here often, sir."

"I don't often have a reason," Landau said.

"Ah, but now he does," Borovsky said, excited. "You play him the intercept from this morning, okay, David? The one with el-Sayd."

"I haven't completed the translation."

"Arabic?" Landau asked.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be able to follow most of it."

"You want the headphones?"

"Speakers will be fine, David."

"Yes, sir."

Yaalon swiveled his seat back to the control panel, began using a combination of button presses on the console and mouse clicks on the nearest computer, queuing up the intercept. Landau pulled the nearest empty stool closer, perched on it carefully, waiting. Borovsky had scooped up Yaalon's pack of Camels and was getting a cigarette going.

"This came from one of the listening posts in the West Bank this morning," Yaalon explained. "Normally, we never would pick this kind of thing up, but something must have taken a bad bounce, because we caught most of it, and it's pretty clear. I already ran the voices through the database, and the matches are ninety-nine point eight and ninety-eight point four, respectively."

Landau nodded, then looked to Borovsky for explanation. Borovsky grinned and blew out a plume of smoke.

"Faud and el-Sayd," he said.

Landau registered his surprise by raising an eyebrow.

"Play it," he told Yaalon.

The young man leaned over the console again, depressed a button, and the speakers in the room came alive with a squeal of static, high-pitched enough to make each man wince. Then the noise broke and the voices came through, split with occasional squeaks and scratches on the line, the sound of other conversations on other calls faint in the background, as if parroting what was being said.

Older voice, male, presumably Faud: "… why do you drag your feet?"

Younger voice, male, presumably el-Sayd: "No, you don't accuse me. You have my respect and my honor, for you are a learned man, but you do not accuse me of failing in the fight when you yourself cannot be bothered to take up arms."

"I do what Allah, praise Him, commands of me."

A pause on the line, and Landau was sure he heard someone complaining of stomach problems in one of the background conversations.

"All around you, your brothers fight," Faud said. "Your brothers who are destined to become shahid. Would you let them do the fighting for you?"

Brief static, and then el-Sayd: "-more from us? I've already told you what we require, and you can make it happen. I am willing to meet you both, to meet you and your benefactor in person, but I will not risk the journey on a promise alone. I need a proof."

A pause before Faud answered, "Do not worship money, my friend. You condemn yourself to Hell in its pursuit."

"I fear no Hell. I am a righteous man. You asked why, I tell you why, I do not need to be given a lesson I already learned. You want more from us, we need money. You have access to that money."

"I have given you my word-"

"And I have said I need a proof."

Borovsky tapped Landau's shoulder, grinning. "Sounds like you, Noah."

"How much?"

"Fifty thousand, American. You know the account."

"If I arrange it, that will be the proof you require?"

"If you arrange it, I will meet you and your benefactor in San'a', you have my word."

"Very well. Look to your account before the end of the week. Then look to San'a', and we shall meet-"

Burst of static, almost as intense as the first, and then nothing but the ghost conversations lingering on the line.

"David?" Landau asked calmly.

"I know," Yaalon said. "I've been trying to clean that last piece up all day, but I'm getting nowhere."

"He was about to give the date."

"I know, sir." Yaalon shrugged. "I'm sorry."

Of course, Landau thought. Everything but the piece we need.

"Keep working on it," he said, and slipped off the stool, then headed out of the lab.

Borovsky caught up with him in the hall, halfway to the checkpoint, clearly pleased with himself. "Huh? What about that, huh? Fucking gold, that's what that was, Noah, yeah?"

"There are thirty days in September," Landau said. "San'a' is a big city. San'a' is a big city in Yemen. I can't mount an operation based on this."

Borovsky clapped a hand down on Landau's shoulder, stopping him. The mirth had vanished. "You can't let this go, Noah."

"And I can't act on it. Not with this, not yet."

"Go to the Americans, they have sources. They can find el-Sayd's plans, when the fuckbagger will be traveling."

"And they'll know why we're asking the minute we ask, and they'll never give it up," Landau replied.

"Muhriz el-Sayd needs killing."

"No one knows that better than I do, Viktor."

Borovsky scowled, then seemed to remember his hand was still on Landau's shoulder and let it drop away. "Maybe there's a trade?"