Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

"Yes, please," Chace said. • They spent the night at a Holiday Inn in Roissy, about a mile from Charles de Gaulle Airport, and as soon as they were in their room, Chace kicked off her shoes and jacket and fell onto the bed, utterly exhausted. The numbness in her left arm was abating, leaving radiant pain to mark its passage, and her right knee throbbed. She managed to stay awake long enough to hear Wallace tell her that he'd be back shortly, that he was going to grab some food and cigarettes, and she heard him leave the room, heard the door lock, and then she dropped away into sleep.

Wallace woke her when he returned, and she cursed him for it but took the six aspirin he offered, chasing it with half a liter of water.

Then she fell back into the same sleep, and a darkness that held no dreams. • When she awoke next, it was to the sounds of the television, to the smell of Wallace's cigarettes. She opened her eyes to see him seated beside her, propped against the headboard, a bottle of beer in one hand, watching the television, something in black and white and poorly dubbed into French. He gave her a grin, and she looked at the clock and saw it was fourteen minutes past one in the morning.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" she croaked at him.

"I tried, but you kept stealing the covers," Wallace said.

She nodded, accepting that as a reasonable excuse, if not an honest one, then rose and limped to her go-bag, idly wondering if her foot had healed only to be replaced by her knee and if she would ever be walking right again. She found her toiletries, then moved into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth, stripped, and showered. She stayed under the water longer than she needed, soaking the heat, breathing the steam, examining her bruises. The baton's impact on her left forearm had left an angry, swollen ball, yellow and green that was painful to the touch. She shut off the taps, toweled dry, and went back into the room without bothering to dress.

Wallace was still on the bed and he'd removed his shoes, but that was all, and she laughed.

"You're a daft old man, Tom Wallace," Chace said, and she climbed onto the bed, took his face in her hands, and kissed him with all the hunger she'd been holding in for six years. • They made love twice before dawn, the first time with the clumsiness of desire, the second time with purpose and passion. They dozed together until the wake-up call shocked them back to consciousness at half-past six, and made love a third time before heading to the shower again. Her knee felt better, and the green and yellow on her arm had become yellow and blue, which translated as progress. They dressed, packed what little they had unpacked, checked out, and made it to the airport by eight.

"Three times, one night," Wallace murmured to her in the taxi. "You're trying to kill me."

"I'd have stopped with two," Chace said, "but you seemed so insistent."

"I'm not complaining. I'm just surprised. I'm an old man."

"Not so old."

"Old enough."

"They say sex keeps you young."

Wallace feigned thoughtfulness. "Guess I should be having more of it, then."

"Guess so," Chace said.

"Speaking of young."

Chace looked at him, not understanding. "I'm not that much younger than you."

"You're young enough, but that's not what I am referring to."

It took a moment's thought, then Chace grinned and tapped her upper left arm with the fingers of her right hand.

"Depo-Provera," she said. "Every twelve weeks." • They flew coach on Air France flight 1620, departing Charles de Gaulle at ten twenty-five, landing at David Ben Gurion International Airport four hours and forty minutes later exactly, at sixteen-oh-five hours local. They came off the plane and into the heat of the day, cleared customs quickly, and were arrested the moment they stepped outside the terminal.

London-Vauxhall Cross, Office of the Chief of Service 17 September 1404 GMT Crocker found Barclay in the small sitting area away from the desk, in his armchair, loading the bowl of his pipe. On the table before him were a tea service, china and silver, and a short stack of reports that he'd apparently been going through. Crocker approached, waited respectfully, folder in hand, to be acknowledged.

Barclay took his time about it. He finished filling the bowl, then set the pipe, short-stemmed and stubby, on the table. He closed the jar of tobacco, placed it back on the stand at his side, then took up his book of matches. He retrieved the pipe, put it to his mouth, sucked experimentally, gauging his work thus far. The match flared and the flame jumped higher as he drew it down into the pipe. The clouds of smoke that rose were blue and smelled of latakia and Cavendish.

When the pipe was going, Barclay discarded the match in the wide ashtray beside the service tray, then extended the same hand to Crocker, waiting to be handed the report. Crocker gave him the folder, a blue one marked for internal distribution.

"You may sit," Barclay said, opening the file against his knee, beginning to read. He didn't look up. He'd yet to look at Crocker at all, in fact. "Help yourself to tea."

"Thank you, sir."

Crocker took the couch, fixed himself a cup, dropping two sugars in, stirring. Pages rustled as Barclay turned them, drawing on the pipe. It didn't take him long to finish, to close the folder and set it beside the others on the table.

"All Stations notified?" Barclay asked.

"As per the Deputy Chief's directive, as of oh-nine-oh-one this morning."

"You listed her as AWOL, not rogue."

"All we know is that she failed to report for work today," Crocker explained.

"I know what you did, Paul." Barclay took the pipe from his mouth, examined it in his hand. It was black briarwood, aged and well used.

Crocker didn't say anything. A denial was possible, he supposed, a flat-out defiance to C's face, but Crocker knew Barclay well enough to know that it wouldn't work here.

"She's put one of Kinney's in the hospital," Barclay said. "Were you aware of that?"

Crocker wasn't, and it surprised him; he'd have expected the number to be much higher. "Then Kinney's been lucky."

"Certainly the woman receiving treatment doesn't think so. She cracked two of her ribs, Paul, and may have caused internal injuries as well as a concussion."

"She restrained herself," Crocker said.

"I know," Barclay said. "So did Wallace."

Crocker nearly showered tea all over the table. "I'm sorry, sir?"

"You didn't know?"

"She's with Wallace?"

"Apparently, yes. The Deputy Chief received a call from Jim Chester at the School. Apparently, Wallace has gone missing, failed to turn up for his classes this morning. Chester sent a man round to his flat in Lee-on-the-Solent, found his car gone and the flat locked up tight."

"According to his last Personal and Intimates, he was seeing a woman in Portsmouth."

"Chester contacted her. The woman informed him that her relationship with Wallace ended three weeks ago."

"May only be a coincidence."

"Yes, I considered that as well. But the gentleman from Box in the room next to Chace's victim positively identified his assailant as Tom Wallace."

"Where did this happen?"

"Ashford International. They took the Eurostar; they could be anywhere in Europe by now."

Crocker nodded, agreeing. Germany or France, most likely, but that would only be their first stop. "I dispatched the Geneva Number Two, Alasdair Gerrard, to the residence of Minder One's mother, Ms. Annika Bodmer-Chace, this morning. Gerrard reported back that Ms. Bodmer-Chace hasn't had any contact with her daughter since the winter of last year. Gerrard has the residence under surveillance. It's possible she's headed there."

Barclay shook his head, sucking on his pipe thoughtfully. After releasing three more plumes of smoke, he said, "What did you tell her?"