Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

He hesitated, then took it.

Cheng poured a shot for herself, then moved to the couch, settling in, smoothing her skirt with one hand, drink balanced in the other. She waited until Crocker had taken a seat and a sip before tasting her own.

"The Israelis are viewing this as a direct threat to their security and the lives of their citizenry," Cheng said.

"With good reason."

"Yeah. But they can't move against Saudi. If they launch a covert and it goes bad, they've wandered into the worst-case scenario. Israeli commandos on Saudi soil? It'll make what Chace did in San'a' look like Up with Islam Day."

"So they're pressing the White House."

"Not exactly. They double-teamed, sent their Foreign Minister to speak to the U.S. Ambassador, and at the same time the Head of Research, this ex-KGB guy-"

"Viktor Borovsky," Crocker said. "I know who he is."

"Right, Borovsky sent his findings to the Company, claiming it was a courtesy."

"But looking for verification."

"Which we provided."

"You have the same problem the Israelis have, you can't launch a covert inside Saudi."

Cheng drained her glass, set it down. "Nor can you."

Crocker thought, took another taste of the scotch. It was a blend, and not a particularly nice one, and he made a face.

"I save the good stuff for my ambassador," Cheng explained.

"So I see." He pushed his glass away. "White House spoke to the Saudis?"

"That's the only move."

"And?"

"And the Saudis said that they would happily roll up the camp in the Wadi-as-Sirhan, in the spirit of goodwill and international peace and friendship, and as a show of solidarity in the war on terrorism. They have one of their new antiterror teams standing by, apparently, and this is supposedly one of the good ones. Meaning, one of the ones where the members aren't actually foaming Wahhabists themselves."

"But."

"But they feel that the murder of Prince Salih bin Muhammad bin Sultan is a crime that must be answered, both publicly and politically. They're refusing to move on HUM-AA until the perpetrator has been rendered into Saudi custody."

The apprehension that seized his stomach took Crocker by surprise.

"They realize there's a good chance that Abdul Aziz will launch a bomb at one of them soon enough, just like UBL, don't they?" he asked.

"If the Saudis do-and they probably do, but I never try to gauge a government's capacity for self-deception-they clearly feel it's worth the risk. Gets worse, though. They've made it real plain that any incursion whatsoever into the Wadi-as-Sirhan will be viewed as a direct challenge to their sovereignty, and they will respond accordingly."

"Meaning they'll cut off the oil."

"They know how to hit the Administration where it lives, let's put it that way. Doesn't do great things for you guys, either, I might add."

"It doesn't have to be her," he said after a moment. "It doesn't have to be Chace."

Cheng picked up her glass, examining it, as if hoping she'd missed a few drops of her drink. "Maybe not, but they know they're looking for a woman, and they know she's from the West or an Israeli."

"How do they know that?"

"Apparently there's a witness, or three or four, and while the witnesses didn't see the actual assassination, they saw a woman leaving, and they've identified her as non-Arab."

"I won't just hand over Chace."

"You're talking like you have a say in it, my friend, and you and I both know that you don't. The Israelis aren't going to hand over an innocent; they've already responded that, if forced to do so, they'll take matters into their own hands."

"It doesn't have to be her."

"Then you're going to have to find some chick who's willing to be rendered to the Saudis to have her head snicked off in Chop-Chop Square, Paul. Because the Saudis are locked on this, they're not backing down. And if Box is closing in on Chace…"

"The Government has already made its decision," Crocker concluded softly.

Cheng nodded, but didn't add anything.

The tension in Crocker's stomach shifted, moved upward into his chest. His immediate thought was that there had to be a dodge, some way to get Chace out of the situation, some way that would satisfy all the parties involved. But when he looked to Cheng, he could see the resignation on her face, and he knew its source.

"They'll execute her," Crocker said. "God knows what they'll do before that, but they'll end up executing her."

"Trust me, I know. Look, Paul, you don't have to convince me how much this sucks ass. I know exactly how much this sucks ass, I am painfully aware of the degree of ass-suckage present in this scenario. But it's the rules of the game. Chace doesn't matter one goddamn, and you know it. Neither do you, neither do I. It's the institution that matters, it's the politics, and right now there's one agency and three major governments, and they're all in agreement on this.

"As far as they're concerned, you can always get a new Minder One."

"Not like her."

"You think they care?"

Crocker bit back a response, trying to grip the anger as it surged forward. Cheng didn't deserve it; Cheng hadn't earned it.

He rose, heading for the door. "Get someone to see me out."

"I'm sorry, Paul."

"The hell with that, I need an escort, I've got to get back to my office." He stopped abruptly, veered toward Cheng's desk. "Let me use your phone."

"What're you doing?"

"I need to call my office."

"I can do it for you."

Crocker glared at her. "No. You can't."

Cheng shook her head. "I can't let you, Paul."

"Then get me a fucking escort out of here now!"

She rose, moved to the office door, and leaned out, calling for her PA. "Margo, Mr. Crocker needs an escort out and a cab." She told him, "Let me know what I can do."

"You've done quite enough, thank you," Crocker said, and left.

London-Vauxhall Cross, "the Pit" 16 September 1413 GMT The red phone rang on Chace's desk, and she answered it before the tone had faded from the air, grinning at Lankford seated across the room, who once again had exhibited his Pavlovian response to the bell. Poole, without looking up, chuckled.

"Steady, Chris," Poole said.

"Minder One," Chace said.

"Minder Three, my office, now," Crocker's voice snarled in her ear, then he hung up.

Chace blinked, listened to the dead circuit, then replaced the phone. Poole glanced up, then did a double-take, seeing her expression.

"Well?" Lankford asked.

"Boss's office," she told him. "You."

"Me?"

"Him?" Poole asked.

"Him," Chace confirmed.

Lankford stared, then all at once seemed to realize that he wasn't moving. He sprang up, sending his chair banging back against the wall, nearly clipping his hip on the corner of his desk as he came around its side. He hustled to the door, opened it, closed it, doubled back, grabbed his suit jacket off the peg, then went to the door again and disappeared into the hall, still struggling to get his arms into the sleeves.

Chace and Poole exchanged grins, then she rose and closed the door.

"Think he's cleaning out his desk, then?" Poole asked.

"I'd like to think I would have been informed."

Poole tilted his chair back, folded his hands behind his head, watching her. "I've got a mate out Portsmouth way."

"I feel sorry for him," Chace said.

"You and me both. Does work at the School, handles the night exercises, teaches one of the tech courses."

"My sympathy grows."

"Yeah, well, he says that when you were out there on your refresher, you and a certain recently retired Head of the Special Section went out for dinner and drinks and the like. And that you failed to return to your dormitory that evening, but instead returned to the School in the very wee hours of the next morning, driven by the self-same recently retired Head of the Special Section, and that the both of you were looking considerably the worse for wear."