Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"Understood."

Crocker scowled, as genuinely unhappy as Chace could ever remember having seen him.

"Go," he said.

Israel-Tel Aviv, Mossad Headquarters, Office of the Metsada Division Chief 6 September 1956 Local (GMT+3.00) Borovsky sat with his gangly legs crossed at the ankles and propped on Landau's desk, oblivious to the folders he toppled every time he moved his feet. The desk lamp threw long shadows on the cinderblock walls of the office.

"You know, the Arabs think by doing this, with my feet like this, I'm saying you're like the dirt on which I walk." Borovsky grinned. "They would say it was an insult, Noah, that I'm saying you're less than dirt."

Landau, still on the telephone, glared at Borovsky in the hopes that the look alone would shut the man up. It seemed to work, but not until Borovsky had barked another of his laughs. He didn't move his feet, however, until Landau was off the phone.

"That was your new friend at SIS?" Borovsky asked.

"Crocker, yes."

"They're going to do it?"

"They've already started. Their agent arrived in San'a' Saturday night."

Borovsky's face seemed to grow even narrower as he pondered this. "We have no intelligence that Faud's even left that fucking desert he hides in as yet. And fuck only knows if el-Sayd is on the move."

Landau didn't speak.

Borovsky shook his head. "They don't have a date. They're shooting in the dark."

"No, Crocker would not allocate an agent on a hunch. Not even for Faud."

"You're sure?"

"I wouldn't. He won't."

"Who did he send?"

"He did not say, but I think it would be Chace, the head of his Special Section."

"He any good?"

"She is the head of his Special Section, Viktor."

Borovsky's surprise was apparent but short-lived. "That's smart, that's clever. We need more women, you know that? The women, they can be fucking vicious."

Landau ignored him, pinched the bridge of his nose above his eyeglasses, trying to think.

"You think Crocker just told us to grab our ankles?" Borovsky asked.

"I don't know. I'm not sure. It was always a possibility."

"I think we're about to grab our ankles."

"Why?"

"We're Jews, Noah. If history has shown us anything, it's that we get screwed in the ass at every opportunity. You gave the British a gift, a chance for revenge, in exchange for which we asked for the opportunity to defend ourselves. What do you think will happen?"

"The decisions are political, not personal."

Borovsky shook his head, looking at Landau sadly. "Killing Faud is purely personal. It will not prevent another attack like they suffered. Faud is not the planner, he is the cheerleader. They've already cut us out, Noah. They sure as hell aren't going to expose themselves to take el-Sayd, too."

"No, we know Faud and el-Sayd are going to meet. That's the logical time to strike."

"You put too much faith in the British."

"Faith has nothing to do with it. You're Intelligence, Viktor, look at it logically."

"No, logic is for planners. I don't plan, I interpret, and that is something else." Borovsky folded his hands behind his head, sighing up at the ceiling. "We're going to get screwed."

Landau nodded slightly, conceding what Borovsky had said. He'd known when he'd gone to Crocker that there was the possibility the Mossad would be left out of the loop, and he'd understood that risk. El-Sayd would never be London's priority the way Faud was, and Landau could hardly fault the people at SIS for that. Each group ostensibly did what its commanding government felt was in its best interests. He bore Crocker no ill will.

But just as SIS had to serve England, Landau and the Mossad had to serve Israel.

"It'll have to go past the Chief," he said after a moment longer.

"What will?"

"Action." Landau reached for his phone again. "Put together a briefing, Viktor. I want our man in Yemen by tomorrow night."

Yemen-San'a', Taj Sheba Hotel 8 September 0711 Local (GMT+3.00) "Ciao?"

"Miss Maribino?"

"Si?"

"How did you sleep?"

"Fine, fine. Grazie per chiedere."

"Glad to hear it. Enjoy your stay." • Seventeen minutes later Chace heard two firm but gentle raps at her hotel room door. She rose from where she had been seated on the bed, cross-legged, going over her tourist map of San'a', and moved to the short entry hall, pressing herself against the wall as she reached its end, to keep out of the line of sight from the peephole. It was a Wallace move, and in a situation like this, pure paranoia, but, she rationalized, paranoia keeps you alive a few minutes longer.

Not that she had any reason to be paranoid. She'd been in Yemen for four days, and so far the greatest dangers had come from the potential of nonpotable water and the rather unsubtle advances of a young Frenchman from her tour group who had insisted on using her to practice his Italian.

"Si?" she called through the door. "Chi e?"

"Miss Maribino? Mr. Hewitt. We met at the Al Dobaey restaurant last night?"

Chace reached out, silently turned the deadbolt on the door back, pulled the lockbar, and then rotated the doorknob just far enough to dislodge the latch. Finished, she slid back, stepping into the doorway of the bathroom. It wouldn't buy much time, but if it wasn't Hewitt, the extra time would give her the initiative should it turn out to be needed.

"Entra," she said.

The door opened, and Andrew Hewitt stepped into the room, searching for her behind his thin glasses. When he saw her watching him, he smiled in cheerful greeting, then stepped the rest of the way inside before closing the door after him. Chace waited until he threw the locks before she moved back to the bed, retrieved her cigarettes from the nightstand, and then resumed her previous posture and position. She lit a smoke, watching as Hewitt stepped out of the small hall, taking stock of the accommodations as she took stock of him.

She put him in his early thirties at the most, and better-looking than his file photograph had made him out to be. Five foot eight, broad from the shoulders down, light brown and curly hair, eyes so light blue as to have moved on to gray. His skin, which back in England had probably been quite fair, had acquired the tan and character that come from exposure to strong sun for extended periods. He wore a tan linen coat over his lightweight suit, the shirt white, the tie blue, the belt black, as were his shoes, though a thin coating of dust clung to the latter. He carried a small briefcase, oxblood-colored leather, in his left hand.

When he'd finished taking in the room, he smiled cheerfully at Chace a second time, then laid his briefcase on the foot of the bed and quickly worked the locks until they released. He lifted the lid, then turned the case to show Chace the contents. Inside, restrained with elastic straps to keep them from rattling about within, was a box of ammunition in.22, a Walther TPH that could easily have been the very same gun Chace had trained with at Fort Monkton, a Gem-Tech Vortex suppressor, a box of surgical gloves, and a rolled-up poster.

"I trust you've been enjoying Yemen?" Hewitt said. "You're still clean, I take it?"

"Pristine." If anyone had been going through her room or her things aside from the maid while she'd been out and about, they were better at hiding that fact than she was at spotting it. It wasn't a real concern; there'd been no sign whatsoever that the Yemeni authorities even knew she existed, and a random wiretap on an Italian tourist visiting San'a' was out of the question. They could speak freely here.

Cigarette in her mouth, Chace reached into the case. She took two of the gloves first, setting them aside, then removed the Walther, the box of ammunition, and the suppressor, laying them out on the map before her. English was common enough in Yemen that the switch in languages didn't throw her too much, but nonetheless, it took an effort not to answer him in Italian.