Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"We have nothing the Americans want."

"But the British, they're looking for Faud," Borovsky said. "They hold Faud responsible for the murders on the Underground, Noah. They've been asking the Friends for any news of Faud. And Faud and el-Sayd will be together in San'a'."

Landau thought about it and the first look didn't reveal any flaws, and so he looked again and still saw none.

"Yes, they will," he agreed finally.

"They can help."

Landau nodded slowly. "Yes, I think maybe they can."

Borovsky's smile returned, bigger than ever. "Then there is no problem. We kill Faud for the British, or they kill el-Sayd for us, everyone will be happy."

"Everyone except Faud and el-Sayd," Landau said.

"Terrorists." Borovsky spat on the floor. "Let them drown in their own fucking blood."

London-Soho 30 August 0129 GMT It was in the dizzying race of thoughts that always seemed to come to her in those seconds building to climax that Chace admitted to herself that old habits really did die hard, and none of hers were willing to go into the grave just yet. It made her laugh aloud, and beneath, inside her, the young man named Jeremy stopped moving, his hands slipping from her hips and his face flooding with concern. Chace bit her tongue to keep from laughing again, bowed her head to his ear.

"No, don't stop, Jeremy," she whispered. "You're doing fine."

She ran her tongue along the side of his neck to prove her sincerity, tasted his sweat. He moaned, and she rocked her hips to encourage him further, and that did it, his hands returning to her, roaming once more. He opened his mouth and told her that he thought she was so beautiful, that he thought she was so sexy, and Chace didn't care what he thought, and it made her irrationally and passionately angry. To silence him, she kissed him, hard, then bit his lip, pulling on it with her teeth, taking him harder, trying to steal both his breath and her own.

She'd found him at the White Horse pub, Soho, off her normally beaten path, but she'd decided to try it for a quick drink and to check out the scene after work. There had been Jeremy, in a gaggle of his friends, all of twenty-five, skin like coal and claiming to be an editor. He'd been charming, reasonably witty, looked healthy, and been easy on the eyes. It had taken less than two minutes before Chace knew she could have him if she wanted.

Whether it had been her intent upon entering not to leave alone, she still wasn't certain. But when eleven o'clock had rolled around, pleasantly lit on Chimay White, she'd slipped one arm around Jeremy's waist and let the fingers of her free hand touch his throat, then whispered in his ear, "I hope you live alone."

"Or else?" Jeremy had stammered.

"We'll have to rent a room."

He had lived alone and, even better, nearby. • She was hungry and aggressive and demanding, trying to drive away her thoughts of Wallace, of what had almost happened between them. Jeremy did his best to keep up, but when Chace's pager went off at three minutes before two and she showed no signs of answering it, he took it as an excuse and withdrew from her, then collapsed beside her on the bed.

"Maybe you should get that?" he asked.

Chace slumped into the pillows, feeling her heartbeat rattling in her breast. The pager went off again, and with its trilling, the night revealed itself to her for what it was, and she felt heat rushing into her face. She pushed herself up quickly, twisting to the side of the bed, catching Jeremy in the corner of her eye, stripping off his condom. The pager was still affixed to her belt, and her belt still affixed to her jeans, and she gouged at it with her thumb until it was silent, then read the message, certain she knew what it would demand of her, that it would be the DOO calling her to the Ops Room.

But it wasn't, and the message she read was both surprising and troubling.

She began pulling on her clothes, dressing with a practiced speed that came from being naked in front of a stranger too many times before. Jeremy, lying on the bed and above the mussed covers, didn't move, watching, perspiration shining on his skin in the weak light that dripped in from the street.

When her belt was fastened and she was pulling on her shoes, Chace said, "I'm sorry, I have to go."

"Nah, it's no trouble."

"I had a lovely night," she lied.

"Me, too." He pushed himself up on an elbow, smiled. "I'd love to do it again sometime."

She had her jacket on by then and was halfway to the door.

"No," Chace said. • She waited until she hit Regent Street before digging out her mobile to make the call, and Crocker answered on the first ring.

"Why the hell aren't you at home?" he demanded.

"You said I couldn't leave London, you didn't say I-"

"I bloody know what I bloody said. Where are you now?"

"Regent Street."

"Where none of the tube lines are up and running as yet." She heard the whistle of his breath as he exhaled cigarette smoke. "Come in. Now."

"Am I bound for parts unknown?"

"Now," Crocker repeated, and hung up. • The first thing that surprised her when she reached Crocker's office was that someone had made coffee, and since Kate was presumably at home and asleep, Chace was forced to conclude that it had been Crocker himself. Unless he'd forced someone on the janitorial staff to do it, which wasn't out of the question but somehow seemed even more implausible.

The second thing was that Crocker wasn't alone, and as Chace entered the inner office, she immediately regretted stopping to fix herself a cup of her own.

The man seated opposite Crocker rose immediately when she entered. She read him as hovering near forty, tanned skin that, beneath Crocker's fluorescents, made him look almost a dusky orange. His hair was brown, cut close, the narrow shape of his face broken by a pair of broad black-framed eyeglasses of the kind favored by rocket scientists and fashionably nerdy software engineers everywhere. His suit looked both uncomfortable and inappropriate, better for fall or winter than the dying days of summer, and hung loosely on his frame. Perhaps five foot seven, maybe five eight, and when he rose, his arms dangled at his sides, loose, as if he was unsure of what to do with them.

Crocker indicated Chace and told the man, "Tara Chace."

"So I see," the man said, and the accent gave him away as Israeli.

"Noah Landau," Crocker explained to her. "Mr. Landau runs the Metsada Division of the Mossad."

"You would call it like your Special Operations Division," Landau offered.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir."

Landau barely nodded, looking her over, taking his time to do it. Chace resisted the urge to brush at her hair and hoped to God she had managed to get her clothes on right way round. His eyes were brown, Chace noted, and seemed smaller behind his thick lenses.

He maintained the survey for several seconds before returning to his seat and facing Crocker once more.

"Sorry to get you out of bed," Crocker told her. "But I thought you should hear this, as you may end up going as backup on the operation."

"Her?" Landau asked.

"She's Head of Section, Mr. Landau. She's the best I have for this kind of job."

"I would not presume to dispute that. But we are talking about Yemen, and a European woman in Yemen will attract notice."

"She won't be running deep. In and out, provided we can fix the dates of travel."

"Deep or not, she will need an adequate cover. I don't want your support for my agents to be taken into custody before the operation is completed. And an English woman traveling in Yemen alone? I think it would raise suspicion. You speak Arabic?"

The last had been directed to her, so Chace answered, saying, "Words and phrases, sir. No fluency."