Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"From what I've seen, sir," Crocker said, "that conclusion is self-evident. The PM asked SIS to undertake retaliatory action. Operation: Tanglefoot was approved by me, Director Intelligence, the Deputy Chief, and yourself before presentation to the Cabinet. If the Cabinet was worried that Chace might track blood onto the carpet, they should have rejected the proposal. Now it's done, and it's far too late to wish it undone."

"All true, and ultimately all bloody irrelevant when we're asked to mollify the Saudis."

"I'm not interested in mollifying the Saudis," Crocker replied. "Neither should the Prime Minister be. For that matter, neither should you."

"As I have stated time and time again, we follow our Government, we do not lead it, certainly not in policy."

"Then we're no better than the Americans chasing after Saudi oil." Crocker paused, took a breath, trying to calm himself. Barclay's gaze was unblinking, still enraged, and Weldon was still alternately interested in his necktie and the view just past Barclay's shoulder of the window.

"Oil we depend upon, too, I would point out."

"Halliburton doesn't have a desk at SIS yet, do they?" Crocker said before he could catch himself.

Barclay's scowl was of a quality to wither limbs.

"Look, sir, it is unfortunate that the Prince was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Crocker said after a moment's pause. "But if he was clean, he wouldn't have been there."

Weldon cleared his throat. "The Saudis will claim that Salih was in the mosque to worship, and we won't be able to prove otherwise. It looks like a cold-blooded slaughter, an affront not simply to the Saudis but to all of Islam."

"Of course that's how it bloody looks," Crocker retorted, feeling his temper starting to slip. "That was the whole bloody point, and if the PM and the Cabinet didn't see that when they ordered us to assassinate Faud, they damn well should've done. There was no way the assassination of a prominent imam could be interpreted as anything else, and that was the obvious goal of the operation."

"You know damn well it wasn't!" Barclay snarled. "The goal was the retaliatory killing of Faud for the attacks on the Underground, not to start a bloody war with the Saudis!"

"We haven't started a war, sir. We're trying to fight one."

"Not by attacking two men in a mosque, not by murdering them that way!"

Crocker stared at Barclay, wondering how a man with so much similar experience, of so many shared years, could be so blind. When he answered, it was with a bitterness he hadn't heard from himself in years.

"Perhaps when you speak to the Prime Minister, sir, you can inquire of him as to exactly which way he would rather we had murdered them?"

Barclay grimaced in disgust, poked at the intercom on his desk, and curtly called for his car.

"Are we still clean?" he asked both men coldly. "Did she at least get out clean?"

"Chace was at no point compromised, sir," Weldon answered. "There's no reason for the Saudis to think we had any hand in what transpired."

"How certain are we of that?"

"Director Intelligence is still looking into it, but so far the Saudis seem to be following their usual response in incidents of this nature."

"Their usual response?"

"They're blaming the Israelis," Crocker replied.

Barclay considered, then nodded, pulling on his overcoat.

"Well, that's good news, at least," he said.

Israel-Tel Aviv, Mossad Headquarters, Office of the Metsada Division Chief 13 September 1023 Local (GMT+3.00) "I love her, I want to send her flowers," Borovsky said. "Even if they are screaming for our blood-as if that was anything new-I adore her, and I want to show her my affection."

Landau, facing his computer and trying to compile his notes for the latest in the series of reports the Chief had demanded, ignored him.

"What is her name again?" Borovsky asked. "Her real name, not the work name, not that Italian name."

Landau didn't look up. "She's head of their Special Section. I'm sure you have it on file."

"I looked, her name is Chace, Tara Chace."

Landau's hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment. "Then why are you asking me?"

"It's more fun this way. There was no picture of her, I think it was removed. Did you remove it?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To keep you from drooling over it."

"Is she beautiful? Is she beautiful, this woman who assassinates Saudi princes?"

"Go away, Viktor," Landau said, resuming his typing. "I'm sure you have researchers requiring your guidance."

"They're all working, trust me. Every desk, all of them hard at work."

"You see that I'm typing here? I need to have this finished for the midmorning distribution, Viktor. Please go away."

Borovsky wouldn't leave. "She fucked up on el-Sayd, though. I can forgive her that, perhaps. No woman is perfect, you know, they all have their flaws. Some talk too much, some are like ice in the bedroom, some cook food you wouldn't feed to your enemies. This one didn't kill exactly who we wanted, but I think I will get over that."

Landau threw up his hands, swiveling his chair around from the computer to face Borovsky. "Viktor, why are you here?"

Borovsky showed him a big grin. "I wanted to talk about beautiful British agents with you."

"I don't want to talk about beautiful British agents with you."

"I'm joking." Borovsky opened the folder he was carrying, set it carefully in front of Landau. "This camp here, you see? It's in Saudi, the Wadi-as-Sirhan."

Landau looked at the satellite photos Borovsky had brought, slid through them one at a time, giving each image a cursory examination. The images were clear-at least as clear as satellite images ever were in this sort of thing-but Landau didn't see anything immediately alarming. There were satellites that had resolution down to eighteen inches from orbit, the American Keyhole and post-Keyhole generations, where you could make out faces and features with superb quality. The images were so good, in fact, that Landau knew for a fact the Americans had submitted them for evidence in the trials of various terrorists.

These were not those, however, and although Borovsky's team had tried to clean them up, the best Landau could discern was that, yes, as Borovsky had indicated, he was looking down on a camp of some sort. Three large tents, ten-men size, he guessed, and some detritus on the field around the location, boxes, crates, three or four fifty-gallon drums for fuel or something else.

"It's a camp." Landau closed the folder and shoved it back at Borovsky.

"Yes, that's what I said. Training camp."

"I don't see training facilities."

"They're cleverer these days, you know that. They cover everything they can, right down to their firing ranges, these days. This, it's in a wadi, they've put a canopy over it, netting, like that. The satellite thinks it's seeing terrain."

"Then how do you know?"

"Because I am a devious motherfucker, and I know their tricks. It's a camp, Noah, and not just training the jihadis anymore, I think it's moving to indoctrination."

Landau reluctantly reached for the folder again, gave the pictures a second look, longer this time, conceding Borovsky's point. The terrain was wrong in places, or so it appeared to him, too uniform and then, abruptly, too broken. But none of the pictures showed people; there was no sign that the camp was even occupied.

"Why no IR?"

"Since when has our infrared been any good? Wouldn't matter. They stay under the netting as much as they can. Maybe they know the satellite's orbit, maybe not, but we can't get a good shot."

"So you can't guess at numbers?"

"I don't like guessing, you know that."

"I'm not seeing anyone on these shots, Viktor. The place looks abandoned."