The Last Run (12 page)

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?”

“Two minutes, perhaps three. If they’re heading for the airport, they’ll be there any moment!”

Shirazi began pulling on his shoes, grateful he’d slept in his clothes. “Get Javed and Parviz over there, immediately, tell them to stay in radio contact. They’re to make no move, no effort to apprehend, without my direct order.”

Zahabzeh was already heading to the door. “Do you want me to go with them?”

“No, get the others down to the cars. I’ll join you there in a moment.”

He finished pulling on his remaining shoe, got to his feet. Zahabzeh had left the door open, and he could hear him shouting orders to the men, intense and excited. Shirazi waited until the voices faded, the men rushing to do as ordered, then crossed to his go-bag and quickly unfastened the top flap. He dug in deep, beneath the change of clothes and past the papers and money, finding his pistol and the silencer that went with it. He racked the slide, tucked the gun beneath his shirt at his belly, then thrust the silencer into his pocket. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and headed out.

Javed and Parviz had already gone in one of the cars when Shirazi stepped out the front of the hotel, Zahabzeh pulling up immediately and leaning across to open the door for him. The remaining two cars, each driven by Shirazi’s handpicked men, idled behind. Shirazi climbed inside the car, keeping his bag slung, and Zahabzeh had them rolling before the door was shut once more. Taking one hand from the wheel, Zahabzeh handed him the receiver for the tracking device they had planted inside Hossein.

“They’re headed to the airport,” Zahabzeh said.

Shirazi doubted that, had doubted it the moment they’d determined the location of the safehouse. It was too obvious an exfil, and too difficult to accomplish; according to all of his information, Tara Chace was many things, but she wasn’t a pilot, and neither was Hossein. Checking the receiver in his hand confirmed the fact.

“No, they’re not,” Shirazi said. “Now heading northeast. Past us, two hundred meters.”

Zahabzeh spun the wheel, whipping the car in a turn around Azadi Square, heading north. Shirazi had chosen the Shalizar Hotel upon their arrival in Noshahr some three hours earlier not because of its cozy décor or its beautiful daylight views of the mountains to the south and the port to the north, but for the simple reason that it had been built almost dead-center in the heart of the town. That decision was saving them right now, and as they headed up Allameh, Shirazi could see Hossein was staying a steady two hundred meters ahead of them.

“They’re heading for the water,” Zahabzeh told him. “You were right.”

“Yes.”

“We checked all the piers, we didn’t find a boat.”

“Then we clearly missed it.” Shirazi reached for the radio on the dashboard, brought it to his mouth. “All units converge at Farabi.”

Confirmations came crackling back, including Javed.
“Confirm, sir? We are to join on your position?”

“Correct.”

“Understood.”

The blip on the receiver was slowing, now turning east. “Right ahead,” Shirazi told Zahabzeh. “Slow down.”

“If we lose them—”

“We’re not going to lose them. Slow down. This is a trap, Farzan, not a chase. Take the left.”

Zahabzeh took the turn as instructed, and they crossed a narrow bridge, spanning one of the many canals that ran throughout Noshahr and dumped into the Caspian. They were less than two kilometers from the shore. Shirazi stared out the windows, searching for any signs of their quarry. On the receiver, he saw that Hossein’s progress had come to an almost complete stop.

“They’re out of their vehicle,” Shirazi said, and added, to the radio, “Stop at Danesh, south side of the park, no lights on approach.”

Confirmations over the radio, and Zahabzeh slapped the knob to his left, killing their own headlights. They slowed, turning onto the grass at the southern edge of the little park that ran along both sides of the canal here, and as soon as they had stopped, Shirazi got out of the car, the receiver still in one hand, the radio in the other. He heard the engine die, and Zahabzeh was out now, too, coming around the back of the vehicle and opening the trunk.

The other two cars stopped on either side of them, but Shirazi kept his attention on the receiver for another moment. Hossein was still moving, but much more slowly, and he was sure that meant they were now going on foot. Wherever they had stashed the boat, it had to be close, along the canal, certainly no more than two hundred meters away.

When he raised his head again, the other two men had joined them at the rear of the car, now checking the weapons Zahabzeh had handed them, a compact submachine gun for each, to accompany the pistols they carried. Zahabzeh, Shirazi saw, was offering him one, as well. He took it in his free hand with a nod, raising his radio once more.

“Javed, where are you?” Shirazi asked.

“Coming from the southwest of the park. Should be there in another minute.”

“Stop before the bridge and wait for me there.”

“Yes, sir.”

He lowered the radio again, looked at the group of men, each of them attentive and focused and flushed with anticipation for what was to come. It was cold, cold enough that each breath sent clouds of condensation curling around their faces. Shirazi turned back to the north, searching the bank on either side of the canal. Somewhere in the darkness, hidden by the shadows and the night and the denuded trees, their quarry was preparing to escape.

“Now?” Zahabzeh whispered to him.

“Yes,” Shirazi said. “Now. Take Sina and Rostam along this side of the canal. Javed, Parviz, and I will take the other side. And remember, Farzan, we want her alive. No one shoots unless it is to return fire.”

“Understood.”

“I want her alive,” Shirazi repeated.

They spread out, Zahabzeh leading the two others into the park, all of them moving quietly and quickly. Shirazi headed for the edge of the canal, jogging back down towards the bridge, and across, to where Javed and Parviz were just now pulling to a stop. He slowed long enough to give the men time to join him, turning north again, this time along the canal’s western edge. Behind him, he heard the clack of metal sliding over metal as bolts slid into place, weapons being made ready.

He moved fast, almost faster than he dared, hearing the steady, soft crunch of his boots on dead leaves and frosted grass. Now and then he caught glimpses of Zahabzeh and the others through the trees on the opposite bank. His heart was beginning to pound, and when he checked the receiver once more, Shirazi saw that his own pulse was making it jump ever so slightly in his hand. Hossein’s progress had slowed yet further, and he thought they most certainly must have reached the boat by now.

Clearly, SIS had set their rendezvous for the Caspian itself, somewhere out on the water. He was cutting this very close, Shirazi knew; if Chace got Hossein onto the water, his only option would be to intercept her before the canal reached the sea, either that or be forced to call out boats, and if he did that, the entire operation would fail, as far as he was concerned. But nowhere ahead could he see them, and it was agonizing; to come this far, to be this close, and to lose it all at the last minute, would be unbearable.

Then he saw them, two figures moving through shadows, low to the canal, and he saw the boat, covered by a tarpaulin, moored against the opposite bank, Zahabzeh’s side. Chace was leading towards it, still wearing the manteau and head scarf he’d seen on her back in Karaj, Hossein lingering at the base of the wooden steps, perhaps two meters behind. Shirazi held up a hand, coming to a stop in shadows of his own. Javed and Parviz pulled up immediately behind him. Shirazi tucked the receiver into his pocket, pointed.

“I want her alive,” Shirazi whispered, then motioned them forward, watched each of them drop into a crouch, their pistols held in both hands, low and ready before them. Shirazi looked to the opposite bank, Zahabzeh visible for an instant as he motioned his own men to spread out.

He slung the submachine gun from its strap over his shoulder, letting it rest against where he wore his bag, and from his pants Shirazi pulled the silencer to his pistol, then quickly screwed it onto the barrel of the gun. Going low himself, he moved quietly forward, Javed just visible to his left, Parviz a little further ahead on the right. He checked the water again, saw that Chace had removed the tarp covering the boat, revealing a slim and low rigid-hulled craft, perhaps only eight meters long, two large outboard motors at its stern. Small and fast and perfectly appropriate for what she was trying to do.

They were nearly opposite her now. Shirazi scanned the far bank again, trying to find Zahabzeh, saw him for a moment between trees, and then he saw Hossein, backing up the stairs from where the boat was moored. He reached the top, Chace now ascending after him, and Shirazi couldn’t read her body language, but Hossein took a half-step back in response. She started to lunge for him.

That was when Zahabzeh and his men opened fire.