Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"You should take it up to C."

"Very good, sir," Crocker said, leaving Weldon to his fears, and the rain at his window. • Barclay, like Weldon, kept Crocker waiting, his chin resting on his steepled hands while he read the proposal. He read it slowly, very slowly, as Weldon had, and Crocker was certain Barclay did it to annoy him. When he was finally finished, he lowered his hands and gazed levelly at Crocker.

"Now tell me what you've neglected to include in this proposal," Barclay ordered.

"I don't follow, sir."

"Of course you do." Barclay tapped the pages before him. "I know you, Crocker, I know every one of your little tricks, and all of your back-alley games. You don't meet with the head of the Metsada in my building at three in the morning and not cut yourself a deal on the side. Now, I want you to tell me what the Israelis wanted in exchange for their information, and I want it now."

"Landau asked for the meeting as soon as he arrived, sir. As he was leaving for Tel Aviv the next day, I couldn't exactly ask him to call again later."

"Don't lie to me," Barclay snapped. "Landau left on El-Al flight thirty-seven at seventeen-twenty hours on Tuesday the thirty-first. He could have met with you at any point during the day, and he didn't. I don't like it when you're here in the small hours, I never have. It means you're in your kitchen, cooking something likely to make me ill to the stomach."

Crocker fought off a smile at the thought of his C doubled over and vomiting in the executive lavatory.

"Either you tell me about the deal you cut with Landau, or I withhold my signature," Barclay said.

"If I may remind you, sir, the proposal for Operation: Tanglefoot has been prepared in response to HMG's issuance of conops, dated Tuesday, seventeen August-"

Barclay slapped both palms down on his desk violently, half-starting out of his chair. "Who the hell do you think you are? You stand there and condescend to me, telling me about conops issuance when I've been fielding calls from the Prime Minister twice a day for the last month, demanding to know what we're waiting for, telling me to get on with it?"

"All you have to do is sign off on the proposal and you'll have his answer," Crocker said.

Barclay, now on his feet, glared at Crocker in what could only be described as a mixture of amazement and fury.

"Every time I believe I've seen the limits of your arrogance, you delight in proving me wrong," Barclay said. "Yes, Crocker, I know how to make my Prime Minister happy. But I'm not about to offer him hollow comfort, not if it's liable to come back and bite this Government in the ankle, or somewhere higher.

"You think you can trump me, that I will bow to pressure from above. You're wrong. I assure you, I will happily weather any dressing-down Downing Street delivers, rather than authorize an operation the scope of which I am unaware."

The two men glared at each other, until Crocker slid his eyes away, looking past Barclay's shoulder.

"Very well." Barclay closed the folder, all but tossing it back at Crocker. "Tanglefoot is denied. Come up with something else."

"There won't be another opportunity for months, if not years."

Barclay, already settled again behind his desk, reached for the stack of papers awaiting his attention to the left of the blotter. Without looking up, he said, "Pity."

Crocker turned the folder in his hands, thinking. Barclay's head remained bowed as he began reading the latest needs projections from the East Asian desk.

"That's all," Barclay said, still engrossed in his reading. "You're dismissed."

Crocker sighed, dropped the proposal down once again in front of Barclay. "Muhriz el-Sayd."

Barclay took his time, leaning back in his chair. He kept the look of satisfaction on his face in check, but enough of it survived the process to make it plain they both knew who had won the round.

"Go on."

"He's EIJ, commands tactical operations," Crocker said. "The Mossad wants him dead. He's the man Faud will be meeting in Yemen."

"Landau wants us to do the job on both men. Is that it?"

Crocker shook his head. "Landau had the itinerary, but not the dates. In exchange for us providing him with the dates of travel, his people would take Faud when they hit el-Sayd."

"Much to the chagrin of the Americans."

"I'm sure."

"So Chace is going as backup to a Mossad hit squad?"

Again Crocker shook his head. "Chace is going to assassinate Faud, that's all."

"You expect me to believe that she'll leave el-Sayd alone?"

"She'll be ordered to take no action in the pursuit of el-Sayd," Crocker said, picking his words carefully.

Barclay gave him a look of thinly veiled suspicion. "So you're just going to forget that the Mossad expected something in return for their information?"

"I made no promises to Landau, sir. If he assumed we had an arrangement in place, that's his error, not mine, and not the Firm's."

"He won't like it," Barclay mused. "If he realizes what you're up to, he's liable to send in people of his own to go after el-Sayd. That could foul the attempt on Faud."

"It is a possibility," Crocker said.

Barclay fingered the proposal, considering, then plucked his pen from its holder and scribbled his signature on the last page.

"You should tell him that Chace will be going after el-Sayd," Barclay said. "He doesn't need to know that we've no intention of pursuing it, and it could keep the Mossad off our backs."

"That was my plan, sir."

"Then for once we're in agreement." He handed the proposal back to Crocker. "Copies to Downing Street and the FCO by close of play, if you please."

"Very good, sir."

"Don't leave just yet."

Crocker tucked the folder under his arm, waiting for the rest of it.

"I want a success on this, Paul," Barclay said softly. "You've just been handed an opportunity to prove the worth of your precious Special Section, not just to me but to the Government. This is an assassination, nothing less, and anything less than Faud's death will result in mission failure. Whatever it takes, Faud doesn't leave Yemen alive."

"There are limits to what even Chace can do."

"She's the leader of the Special Section," Barclay said. "I think it's high time she proves just how special she is."

Saudi Arabia-Tabuk Province, Residence of Prince Salih bin Muhammad bin Sultan 3 September 1404 Local (GMT+3.00) For Sinan, it had been two-plus weeks of growing disgust and frustration, watching the Prince pay lip service to everything they believed, everything they had been taught, only to swiftly pivot and shamelessly bury himself in behavior that should have cost him his head, literally. That Abdul Aziz had condemned both Matteen and him to bear witness made him feel further betrayed, and bewildered.

Had he not proven himself in the West Bank? Had he not gone to act with Hamas as ordered, and had he not further culled the weak from their pack with the removal of Aamil? Abdul Aziz had told him, in front of the camp, that he had done well, that he had acted as a jihadi should. He had, in front of the camp, declared Sinan bin al-Baari a True Warrior in the name of Allah, all mercies upon him.

Had Abdul Aziz lied? Was he still condemned as an outsider-a Muslim, yes, even a Wahhabist, yes, but not an Arab-and therefore never to be fully trusted?

It had occurred to Sinan that this might be a test. If so, he reflected, it was a particularly grueling one. The Prince seemed eager to violate every prohibition in Islam short of eating pork, and Sinan suspected that, at some point, the Prince had probably violated that prohibition as well.

After Abdul Aziz had departed with the others from the camp, the Prince had ordered Hazim to show Sinan and Matteen to their rooms, wishing them both a good night and a pleasant rest under Allah's watchful gaze and inviting them to join him for breakfast the next morning. Hazim had guided them to "modest guest rooms," which had been anything but. Sinan's bed had been the largest he had ever seen, and with a water-filled mattress, to boot. The bathroom had been larger than the admittedly small house he'd been raised in near Sheffield, and after enjoying the luxury of a shower, he had tried to sleep for the few hours that remained of the night. After months of his cot in the camp, the bed had seemed a tempting proposition.