The Last Run Page 12

  The passenger was a woman, or he assumed it was, because she was wearing a chador, her whole body, face, and hair all hidden beneath the tent of black fabric. Even as Falcon eased himself from behind the wheel and stood awkwardly beside the car, arching his back to stretch, she had closed her door and was coming around the side, and Caleb noticed that she’d looked their way only once, was now glancing all around her as she moved to the man’s side. She grabbed his elbow, pulling Falcon with her to the entrance of the cottage, and before she had even stepped inside, she was tossing the keys to the Samand to MacIntyre.

  “Ditch it,” she said, her English, her accent, and her authority all coming as a surprise from beneath the chador.

  MacIntyre caught the keys out of the air, stepped past them as they entered, making for the car. “Give me an hour.”

  “Close it,” the woman said to Caleb, entering the cottage and shoving Falcon towards the couch. “Sit.”

  Caleb moved to the door, shutting it, and when he turned back, Falcon was seated and the woman was already shrugging off the chador, revealing blond hair to her shoulders, blue jeans, and a burgundy-and-gold manteau beneath it. The manteau was open, unbuttoned, and even in the poor ambient light, Caleb could see her pale and bare skin, the dark shadow of her bra across her chest.

  “Bloody burning up in that thing,” the woman said, tossing the chador onto an empty chair. “Chace.”

  It took him seeing her extended hand before he realized she was giving him her name, and Caleb shook it, saying, “Lewis.”

  “And this is Falcon,” Chace said, indicating the man on the couch. “But he says we should call him Hossein.”

  “We’ve met,” Caleb said. “I enjoyed the book, sir.”

  Falcon looked confused for an instant, then nodded, managing a weak smile. “I am most glad to hear it.”

  The lights snapped back on in the small living room, and Caleb saw Chace move away from the switch on the wall, briskly making a circuit around the space, opening the few doors she found and leaning half into each room, one after another. He knew who she was, of course, now that he had her name. Minder One, Tara Chace, Head of the Special Section, and he tried not to stare at her, just as he tried not to notice that she still hadn’t buttoned up her manteau, and that the bra was in fact black and perhaps silk. When he glanced back to Falcon, he noted that the man was looking resolutely away from her; whether that was the result of cultural modesty or something else, Caleb didn’t know.

  Chace finished her survey, turned back to Caleb. “No trouble?”

  “It’s been very quiet.”

  “Good. We need to ID him now.”

  Caleb nodded, grateful for something to do other than stand there. The inkpad and cards were already on the small table by the couch, and he moved to lay them out while Chace and Falcon watched him.

  “If you’ll come over here, please, sir.”

  Falcon rose slowly, still stiff from the long drive. He glanced back to Chace, then just as quickly away again, and as Caleb took hold of his right hand by the palm, he asked, “Why do you take my fingerprints?”

  “Just procedure. Thumb first, thank you, sir. Then your index finger, very good.”

  “You don’t believe I am who I say I am?”

  “Of course we do, sir. We would hardly be here otherwise, would we? Left hand now, sir.”

  One by one, Caleb copied Falcon’s prints off his fingertips and onto the card. While he worked, Chace made another circuit of the cottage, and this time, when she emerged from the bathroom, she was buttoning up the manteau once more. Caleb caught her eye, and the grin she gave him was surprisingly sheepish. He wondered if she truly had forgotten her top had been open, or if it had been a deliberate move, a way to keep Falcon off balance by playing on his cultural and religious standards.

  “All done?”

  “Just finishing,” Caleb told her.

  “We’ll rest here for a while, Hossein,” Chace said. “It’s safe and we should have everything you might need. There’s fresh clothes for you in the room over there, and the bathroom has a shower, if you’d like to get cleaned up. Certainly, you’ll want to wash your hands. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  Falcon considered for what seemed a very long time, staring at his ink-stained fingertips. When he spoke, he sounded unsure. “I think I would like to shower. And perhaps if I might have a cup of tea before lying down? I am afraid I do not feel very hungry.”

  Chace gave him a smile that was nothing less than radiant, full of reassurance and understanding.

  “No, I don’t imagine that you do, sir.” She took him gently by the elbow once more, guided him to the bathroom, and once Falcon was hidden behind the closed door, she turned back to Caleb. “How are you for coms?”

  “For audio, not terrific. We have a sat connection to London, but I don’t trust it for more than ninety seconds at a time. The Iranian monitoring apparatus is very good, as I’m sure you know. Better to use the letter drop on the Internet.”

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  Caleb hesitated, looking towards the bathroom. There was no noise coming from behind the door, no sound of water running, nothing.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” Tara Chace assured him. “Even if he wanted to rabbit, the window’s too small.”

  “So what’s he doing in there?”

  “I suspect trying not to be sick. The drive over the mountains was murder. Ice in the pass, traffic didn’t let up until we reached Chalus, and I made him do most of it himself to avoid suspicion.”

  “You weren’t stopped?”

  “Once, coming into Marzanabad. I was in the chador by then, and he did all the talking. Didn’t last more than two minutes once they saw his ID card, and then they practically offered to give him an escort through town.”

  “So who is he, then?”

  Chace grinned at him. “They didn’t tell you?”

  “I’ve only known him as Falcon. We figured he was someone important, but no idea who.”

  “Let’s just say he comes from the right family,” Tara Chace told him.

  The shower came on as Caleb finished uploading the scan of Falcon’s fingerprints to the webmail program he was using. The e-mail would never be sent, in fact, but rather would remain in the drafts folder on the server until deleted. Once he logged off, a program running at the Main Communications Desk back in the Ops Room in London would inform the Coms officer that the server had been updated, and the officer would then read the draft and thus receive the message. It was a beautifully anonymous and safe system, and one that SIS could take no credit for discovering; it had been in use by various militant terrorist cells to communicate and coordinate their plans for years before the Firm had adopted it to their own purposes.

  “Anything else you want me to add?” Caleb asked, and when Chace didn’t immediately answer him, he turned in his chair to look at her. She had taken Falcon’s place on the couch, was sitting with her head tilted back against the cushions, eyes closed.

  “No,” she said finally. “No, nothing more.”

  Falcon emerged from the bathroom minutes later, wearing his fresh clothes, his hair wet, and while he looked moderately refreshed, there was no mistaking his fatigue. Caleb made tea in the kitchen for all three of them, and they drank their cups of chay in silence, for the most part.

  “When do we leave?” Falcon asked, finally.

  “Soon,” Chace told him. “When the time is right.”

  “But how long will that be?”

  She shook her head, gave him the same reassuring smile as before. “It’s all well in hand, sir, I promise you.”

  Falcon looked doubtful, seemed ready to press the point, when the front door rattled and he froze as if suddenly sheeted with ice. It wasn’t until MacIntyre was through the door and out of his coat that the man seemed to relax, and Caleb saw that Chace had noted the change, too.

  “Car’s taken care of,” MacIntyre told them. “You lot want to get some sleep, I�
��ll take watch.”

  “Yes,” Chace said. “That’s probably a very good idea.”

  She rose and waited for Falcon, then escorted him to the room that would be his for the rest of the night. Caleb gathered up the empty teacups, returned them to their place in the kitchen, and when he came back, Chace was speaking to MacIntyre, her voice so low he couldn’t make out a sound, let alone a word. MacIntyre nodded, and Chace turned to Caleb.

  “If London sends a response, wake me,” she told him, and then headed off to the only other bedroom.

  After she had gone, Caleb asked, “What was that about?”

  “What was what?” MacIntyre said.

  “What did she say to you?”

  “His clothes are still in the bathroom?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “That’s what it’s about. She wants us to search them. Then she wants us to burn them.”

  The fear, the same, cold, sickening fear came flooding back into Caleb’s chest.

  “I’ll get a fire started,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LONDON—VAUXHALL CROSS, OPS ROOM

  10 DECEMBER 2134 HOURS (GMT)

  Crocker stared up at the plasma wall in the Ops Room, watched as the top left quadrant redrew itself, northeastern Russia vanishing as the display filled with Falcon’s fingerprints, freshly downloaded.

  “Can we confirm?” he demanded.

  “Technical division is looking at it now,” Ron Hodgson assured him.

  “How long will it take them?”

  “No idea. The only fingerprints of Hossein Khamenei available for match are courtesy of the CIA, and there’s been a hiccup.”

  Crocker spun on the toe of his patent leather and made straight for the Duty Ops Desk. “Hiccup how?”

  “CIA has asked we send the prints to them for verification, not the other way around.”

  “Get Seale.”

  Hodgson nodded, reaching for one of his many phones as Crocker stepped up to join him on the raised platform, then turned back to survey the room. No less than four people were gathered at the Mission Planning Desk, including Nicky Poole, who, despite having been told to go home and take the night had decided to spend his Friday in the Ops Room, keeping one eye on Coldwitch, another on Bagboy.

  “Julian Seale, sir,” Hodgson said, handing over the phone.

  “What the hell are your people playing at?” Crocker demanded.

  “She has him?”

  Crocker eyed the clocks above the plasma screens. “They reached the safehouse in Noshahr without incident forty-two minutes ago. Why are you withholding the fingerprints?”

  “Must be some mistake,” Seale said. “I’ll have Langley release them now.”

  “Did you really think I was going to box you out, Julian?”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do, Paul. Taking out a little insurance seemed wise.”

  “I see. And will you withhold sending the Coast Guard to the rendezvous as insurance, as well?”

  “No,” Seale said. “I think you got the message.”

  “Yes, I did. Now I’d like the fucking fingerprints.”

  “Should be there within the next five minutes.”

  Crocker slammed the phone down, hard enough to bring the Ops Room to a sudden, if brief, silence.

  “Bastard,” Crocker said to no one in particular.

  “Yes, sir,” Ronald Hodgson agreed, cheerfully.

  Crocker stepped down from the platform, started to cross to Alexis at MCO, when Poole intercepted him.

  “Boss, we may have a problem.”

  “Are you going to tell me or do I have to buy you dinner first?”

  “You can’t afford me.” Poole offered him a printout, the ink still tacky on its face. “Weather in zone for tomorrow night is taking a turn for the nasty. There’s a storm brewing, looks to sweep down from the northwest across the Caspian, heavy rains and wind. If Tara takes Falcon out onto the water in the Zodiac in that weather, they could end up swamped.”

  Crocker looked at the satellite image, the blanket of clouds that seemed to be folding over itself. “Probability?”

  “They’re saying ninety percent chance. It’ll bring the temp down, and it’s already going to be damn cold out on the water. Winds could reach fifty KPH, possibly higher.”

  “It just gets better and better, doesn’t it?”

  “Not really, no, sir.”

  Crocker stared up at the plasma wall again, this time not seeing it, trying to sort his thoughts.

  “Daylight in zone is when?” he asked abruptly.

  Poole called out to Ron, relaying the question. There was a pause, then Ron called back, “Morning twilight in zone tomorrow, oh-six-twenty-five, sunrise oh-six-fifty-three.”

  “And it’s oh-one-twenty there now,” Poole added.

  “How long from the Zodiac to the rendezvous?”

  “It’s not close. David? Can you put the RZ for Coldwitch on the map and give distance from Noshahr?”

  On the plasma wall, a red dot appeared on the Caspian.

  “Two hundred and eighty-seven klicks,” Poole said. “Top speed of the RHIB is going to be maybe—maybe—seventy knots.”

  Crocker did the conversion in his head. “A hundred and thirty kilometers an hour. There’s no chance in hell she’ll be able to go that fast.”

  “She’d be lucky to push forty knots.”

  “Which would still mean four hours exposed on the water. If she leaves right now she’ll have the cover of darkness for the trip. Otherwise, she’ll be out there at dawn, when everyone and their goat can see her.”

  “That’s not the major worry,” Poole said. “Will the Coast Guard even attempt the pickup during daylight?”

  Crocker snorted. “Absolutely, even if they scream bloody murder about being forced to do it. If she has Falcon with her, they’ll be there.”

  Poole stared up at the map. “No chance we can have them move the RZ further south?” Exasperation had crept into his voice.

  “None. They want to stay as far from Iranian airspace as possible. They move further south, they’ll risk their own cover. It’s why the site’s so far north in the first place.”

  “Not good.”

  “No,” Crocker agreed. “Not good at all.”

  “Maybe the fingerprints won’t match,” Poole offered, hopefully.

  “With our luck?” Crocker said. “Of course they will.”

  They did, Daniel Szurko bringing the report directly down to the Ops Room in person, cheerful and excited to be entering a domain normally forbidden to him.

  “Positive eighteen-point match, Paul,” he said. “It’s confirmed, Falcon is Hossein Khamenei.”

  “You informed C?”

  “I thought I’d leave the pleasure to you, though you don’t look terribly pleased, I must say.”

  “That’s because I’m not,” Crocker said. “Nicky, inform the DC, C, and the FCO that Falcon’s identity has been confirmed. Ron, I need Seale again.”

  “Ahead of you already, sir,” Ron said, trying to hand him the phone. Crocker had to reach for it twice, because Szurko had climbed onto the platform to get a better look at the room and, realizing he was now in the way, kept moving in the absolutely wrong direction to get out of it.

  “You’ve confirmed Falcon’s identity?” Seale asked.

  “It’s a positive match with the prints you provided,” Crocker said. “But we’ve got another problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “Weather in zone for tomorrow has gone ugly. I want Chace to take Falcon out tonight. Can you move up the RZ?”

  “How soon can she move?”

  “If we push and everything goes the way it should, she could be on the water by oh-three-hundred in zone, oh-three-thirty at the latest.”

  “That’d put her at the RZ well after sunup.”

  “Between oh-seven-hundred and oh-eight-hundred, I’d think. If there’s no trouble on the water.”

  “Hold
on,” Seale said, and Crocker heard the line go mute. Szurko hopped down from the platform with both feet, began talking excitedly with Poole about the Ops Room and how they really must get some better equipment in here, certainly have the ICT lads upgrade the computer system. The line clicked, and Seale’s voice returned. “Jesus, you weren’t kidding. She tries to take him out in that, they won’t need the Coast Guard for a RZ, they’ll need them for a rescue.”

  “Can you get them to move up the timetable?” Crocker insisted.

  “I’ll get on it. You going to clear her to run now?”

  “Not until I know if she’s got a flight home.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  “Quickly, Julian. If they don’t start before dawn, there’ll be no point in going. I’ll have to order them to stay put another day.”

  “Yeah, I get you. I’ll call you back.”

  The line went dead.

  Seven minutes and twenty-six seconds later, according to the Ops Room clock, Seale called back.

  “Go,” he told Crocker.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IRAN—NOSHAHR, AZADI SQUARE, SHALIZAR HOTEL

  11 DECEMBER 0252 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  He had just descended far enough into sleep for the dream to begin, the long, blond British spy staring at him past the hidden camera, knowing he was there and watching her. She reached for the silk scarf covering the back of her head, pulled it free, and she opened her mouth, started speaking to him, but the words weren’t hers; they were Zahabzeh’s.

  “They’re moving. Sir, they’re moving again, Hossein just left the house, they’re heading north, our direction!”

  Shirazi stared dumbly up at his deputy, winced as the lights came on in the hotel room.

  “They’re moving!” Zahabzeh said. “They’re not waiting, they’re going now!”

  “I’m awake,” Shirazi said, twisting himself out of bed, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. “How long ago?”