Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

She couldn't go through, so she went over, stepping on the thigh of a very startled man to get atop his table, and then half-running, half-hopping, knocking over cups and glasses, splashing drinks and spilling food, making her way to the door. Everyone seemed to be shouting at her at once, and as she came down off the last table, driving her good knee into the chest of the man she'd tailed, she heard new voices and new shouting as the police came through the entrance.

Her Arabic was good enough that, even in the confusion, she understood they were shouting for her, for everyone, to stop. She didn't.

Crashing through the door, she found herself at the base of a narrow and rickety flight of stairs. She started up, craning her head, reaching into her coat for the newspaper. Above her, the air swirled with disturbed dust, and she thought she heard footsteps, heavy, a man's, but, with the noise coming from the cafe behind her, couldn't be sure.

She ascended, two, three steps at a time, her eyes fixed above as the stairs turned at the landing, continued climbing, only glancing down to be certain of her footing. In her hands as she went, she began rolling the newspaper tightly, the wrong way, from the bottom instead of the side, trapping and compressing the spine on one end, hardening its edge.

On the third floor, she heard a door bang open, and new daylight flooded the stairwell, and she caught a glimpse of a shoulder and head disappearing onto the roof. It was el-Sayd, she was sure of it now, and she remembered how he'd looked to her in San'a', how big a man he was, and she wished the damn Mossad had given her a gun.

She sprinted, and her knee hated her but supported the weight, and when she burst out on the roof, he was there, thirty feet away, at the edge. She started toward him, but he'd already made the jump, disappearing, and when she reached the edge, he was already halfway to the next roof. The gap was short, no more than five feet, and the drop was at least that far, if not a couple more, and without hesitating Chace leaped after him. She landed on her feet, and he had already jumped to the next, and she raced after him, hurdling the ledge, sprawling this time, rolling back to her feet, the newspaper in her right hand.

He heard her tumble, and maybe because she hadn't said anything yet, maybe because the sound of her hitting the rooftop wasn't the sound he had expected, el-Sayd glanced back, then stopped cold, surprised. He'd been expecting a cop, Chace realized, not this blond Caucasian woman brandishing a newspaper instead of a weapon, and el-Sayd said something to her in Arabic, curt, and Chace understood he was insulting both her lineage and her anatomy, reaching around behind his back.

There were fifteen feet between them as he started to bring his gun around, and she closed it before he had his shot indexed to her, both hands on the rolled-up paper, now holding it low, to her right. She brought it up hard, the cruel edge of the hardened spine scything at his wrist, and el-Sayd screamed in surprise. The gun went off, wide, frighteningly loud, and he dropped the weapon, jerking his hand back reflexively. For an instant, he just gaped at her in wild disbelief.

Chace grinned. Anything could be a weapon, it was just a question of how one used it. There'd been no way the Mossad would arm her, certainly not with all the travel she'd had to do, and trying to locate a gun in Cairo would have been more trouble than it was worth. But a copy of the Cairo Times, with its tabloid format and stapled spine, worked well in a pinch. Rolled in, essentially, the wrong way, the spine became hard as steel, and its edges potentially as sharp. With the right force directed at the right soft tissue, it was as lethal as a knife.

El-Sayd lunged at her, and Chace dropped beneath his arms, thrusting the paper up into his throat. She heard him gag, stagger back, and she came out of her crouch, turning, scything the newspaper backhand, jabbing at his right temple. His eyes snapped wide, and she punched with the newspaper a third time, again going for the throat, and this time she felt his trachea give as she crushed his windpipe.

As he was falling, she hit him again, forehand this time, left temple, for good measure.

El-Sayd landed first on his knees, then toppled onto his face, his eyes still open wide.

Chace dropped the newspaper and ran, not looking back.

London-Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops 21 September 1621 GMT

"Director Intelligence to see you, sir," Kate said over the intercom.

"Send him through."

"Minder Two is out here as well."

"Fine, unless D-Int has a problem with it."

The intercom clicked silent, and Crocker finished reading the memorandum he'd been double-checking, scrawled his signature at the bottom, above his neatly typed name. When he looked up, Simon Rayburn was entering, with Nicky Poole close at his heels. From their expressions, Crocker had a good idea what this visit concerned.

"Simon."

"The CIA intelligence was good, Paul. In addition to yesterday's attempted bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Cairo, MOD informs us that they've prevented another suicide run in Basra."

"Not that good," Crocker said. "Cheng said we were the target."

"The primary target." Rayburn smiled thinly. "I suppose the heightened security warned the bomber away. Word out of Cairo is that the Egyptian police are rather vigorously rounding up any and every suspected member of the EIJ they can get their hands on."

"It'll be a half-dozen students with madrassa membership cards," Poole said.

"Perhaps." Rayburn looked at him, then back to Crocker. "Perhaps, but there's word coming out that Muhriz el-Sayd is dead, killed while resisting arrest sometime yesterday morning."

Crocker set down his pen, then reached for his cigarettes, frowning. "Is that confirmed?"

"It's been confirmed that he's dead. How he got that way is still open to speculation. But the Egyptian authorities are claiming it, whatever happened."

Crocker grunted, lighting his cigarette.

"There's one more thing I thought you'd like to know, Paul. Monique DuLac flew into Cairo night before last via Lufthansa flight 592, from Rome."

"You find that yourself, or did that come from Box?"

"No, all us. I assume you'll want to notify Cairo."

"You assume incorrectly, but I'll do it anyway." Crocker exhaled smoke, ignoring Poole's look of confusion, reaching for the red phone on his desk. Before lifting the handset, he asked, "What're the details on the Iraq attempt?"

"MOD reports they identified the bomber and his vehicle before he could reach the security checkpoint. When they tried to warn him off, he accelerated and they opened fire. The bomb detonated shortly thereafter. Other than the bomber, no other casualties."

"Twice lucky," Crocker said.

"Whatever it is, be sure to thank Cheng for us, will you? They did us a good turn, tipping us. I don't know where their intelligence came from, but for once it seems worthwhile."

"I'll be sure to ask her, if she ever returns my calls," Crocker said sourly.

Rayburn's smile widened slightly, and then, nodding to Poole, he stepped out of the office, shutting the door after him.

"Monique DuLac, that's-" Poole began.

"Shut up, Nicky," Crocker said, and lifted the handset, keying the Ops Room. "Who's on the desk?"

"Ron's off, it's Ian Morris."

Crocker nodded, heard the line answered, Morris's voice identifying himself. "Duty Ops Officer."

"Ian, D-Ops. Flash to Cairo Station, copies of signal to DC and C, as follows: 'Minder One possibly in Cairo traveling under identity Monique DuLac stop. Apprehend and detain stop.' Have confirmation sent up as soon as you get it."

"Right away, sir," Morris said.

Crocker hung up, put his cigarette in his mouth, and motioned Poole to the chair. "Lankford in the Pit?"