Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Landau found the instant coffee in the cupboard above the sink, along with powdered nondairy creamer and sugar. There was also dishwasher soap, a stack of paper plates, and a can of condensed milk.

"Doesn't anyone ever clean this room?" he asked.

"Write a fucking memo."

Landau sighed, found a clean spoon in the sink, began loading coffee, sugar, and creamer into his mug. "I don't see why you're getting so worked up."

"I'm getting worked up because she doesn't have the time to waste." Borovsky began pacing the cramped break room. "El-Sayd will only allow a small window, it'll be a fucking cunt hair wide, that's what it'll be, it'll be nothing. And if this British bitch is out trying to get a deal on silks, she'll miss it."

"But that's not what she was doing." Landau frowned at the kettle, readjusted its position on the burner. His wife had hated it when he'd done that, always telling him it would take twice as long the more he fiddled, but he couldn't help himself. There was an optimum place to sit on the flame, and until the kettle was there, he wouldn't be happy.

"You keep saying that. So you tell me, what was she doing?"

"She's going to hit them in the Great Mosque," Landau said, and readjusted the kettle's position.

Borovsky stared at him, then tapped his temple. "No fucking way, we wouldn't even do that, and we're fucking desperate."

"She's going to hit them in the Great Mosque," Landau repeated. "Or at least she'll try to. It's the only place where she knows Faud will be without armed protection."

"They still have bare hands, Noah. They'll tear her to pieces."

Landau shrugged and said nothing. The kettle was finally beginning to creak, the heat accelerating through the metal.

"Crocker, you think he would have her do that?"

Landau shrugged again.

"Stop being a fucking cipher! I work with you, you can share a little insight."

"You're Intelligence." Landau grinned. "Be intelligent."

"Fuck off."

"Has el-Sayd left Cairo?"

"As of thirteen-ten today, yes."

"Then he'll be in San'a' by morning at the latest, presuming he goes direct. He'll want the meeting with Faud as soon as possible thereafter."

"At the mosque."

"That's what I'm thinking, and I'm certain that is what she is thinking as well."

The kettle began to whistle. Landau flicked off the heat, filled his cup with water, watched the freeze-dried grains blossom into something approximating coffee. He stirred the water with his finger, ignoring the pain.

"Either she's a genius or she's fucking insane, Noah. If you're right, she's one or the other."

"Perhaps we should ask Yosef to find out?" Landau said, and tasted his drink, and wasn't surprised to find that, despite all the sugar, it was still bitter.

Yemen-San'a', Taj Sheba Hotel 8 September 2059 Local (GMT+3.00) Chace returned to her room to find that the maid service had been and gone. She checked her tells on the bedpost and on her luggage, saw that both were still in place, and only then stowed her purchases in the closet. She put the Walther beneath one of the pillows on the king-size bed, grinning at the cliche, then took off her long skirt and draped it over the back of the desk chair.

She'd purchased two liters of water in the suq before returning, and a can of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and spent the rest of the afternoon working her way through them and her second-to-last pack of Silk Cut, watching the television. The Taj Sheba had a satellite link, and the channel selection was good. She caught up on the news with CNN, then switched to Al-Jazeera, trying to follow their broadcast. When she'd had enough, she surfed until hitting one of the few Yemeni stations, which was showing a local boxing exhibition. The audience at the event was enthusiastic, men and women.

At seven she turned off the television and got back into her skirt but decided she would forgo the head scarf. Again hiding the Walther beneath her shirt, she headed down to one of the Taj Sheba's two restaurants for dinner, the cafelike Bilquis, where they were offering, bizarrely, an Italian-food theme night. Chace took a seat away from the entrance and the kitchen, where her back was covered by the wall and that allowed her a view of the room.

She ate a passable mushroom risotto, thinking that, if anyone asked, she could claim to be comparing it to the one they served back home at the Trattoria del Gesumin in Como. Music from the Bilquis's companion restaurant, the Golden Oasis, was just audible through the walls, the band playing a mix of Mediterranean traditional and pop.

Chace was on to the coffee when her shadow from earlier in the day entered and was seated at a table three up from her, along the same wall. She didn't make him as the tail until he'd put his order in with the waitress, who was one of the only non-Europeans she had seen going uncovered. No balta, no veil, just a long black skirt and an off-white top, hair drawn tightly into a bun behind her head. When the man returned his menu to the waitress, the sleeve of his shirt crept past his wrist, showed his watch face out, and Chace remembered and gave him a second look.

Definitely Mediterranean, but now in more European dress, casual but nice. A rather plain face, and his beard and mustache were thinner than Chace had thought at first, and neatly kept. She watched as a glass of Coke, no ice, was delivered to his table, and when the man raised it to drink, he inclined his head toward her in a mock toast.

Chace grinned, put out her cigarette, and finished the rest of her much-too-sweet coffee. She signed the bill Adriana Maribino, separated her copy from the original, folded it down twice, and then pinned it against her palm with her thumb. She rose, thanking the waitress as she began clearing the table and, when she passed her shadow, dragged her hand along the edge of his table, leaving the copy behind.

Then she went to her room and waited. • He took thirty-seven minutes, and when he knocked on the door, Chace repeated the same process for letting him inside as she had with Hewitt, with a minor variation. This time, as soon as he entered, she quickly stepped from the bathroom and jammed the suppressor, now securely affixed to the barrel of the Walther, against the side of the man's neck while kicking the room door closed with one foot.

Gun still in place, she pushed him against the wall, then held him there as she threw the locks again.

"You dropped your receipt," he said. He said it in English, and his accent was American. He raised his right hand slowly, showing Chace the flimsy sheet pinched between his index and middle fingers.

"Grazie," she said. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Simon Yosef. We have a mutual friend."

"I have lots of friends."

"This one lives in Tel Aviv."

Chace moved directly behind him, pressing her left thigh between his legs, forcing his stance wider. She moved the barrel of the gun from the side of his neck to the base of his skull, then reached around his front and began running her hand through his clothes, over and then inside his shirt, then around his waistband, then into his pants. She found a billfold, a pack of Camels, and a green plastic lighter. All three were tossed to the floor. She moved the search lower, up one leg to the crotch, then down again. On his left leg she found a snub revolver in an ankle holster, and she took that as well.

When she was done, she stepped back, pulling the Walther away from his neck.

"Have a seat," Chace said.

Yosef turned into the room, moving for the chair at the desk. "May I smoke?"

"Go ahead."

He picked up the pack and the lighter but left the billfold on the floor. While he was lighting up, Chace opened the cylinder on the snub and dumped its bullets onto the bed. She ignored the billfold. If it was anything like her own wallet, it was one grand lie anyway.