Authors: Greg Rucka
If Chace could find a doctor’s office, even a veterinarian’s, she might survive.
If she couldn’t, she was going to die of asphyxiation.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
IRAN—NOSHAHR, 2 SHIR AQAI (SIS SAFEHOUSE)
11 DECEMBER 0317 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
Sterilization of the safehouse
was completed within eight minutes of Chace’s departure, a relatively minor affair concluded in short order. Caleb took the card with Falcon’s fingerprints into the bathroom, setting fire to it over the toilet and letting the paper burn until the flames threatened his fingers, before dropping it into the bowl. The charred paper sizzled out, and he flushed what remained of it away before making a second sweep of the green-and-white-tiled room, checking the shower stall, the reservoir tank on the toilet itself, the sink, all the cabinets. He found nothing.
He took the bedroom that Chace had used next while MacIntyre went through the other, where Falcon had slept, albeit briefly. Minder One had lain above the covers rather than beneath them, and aside from the slight crush of sheets, the memory of her body, there was no sign other than the impression her head had made in the pillow and a single blond hair. Caleb puzzled over the hair for a second, taking it with two fingers and for a moment wondering what he was meant to do with the incriminating item before accepting that he was, perhaps, being overly paranoid. He opened his fingers, watched the hair fall and float back to the bed.
He was back in the main room, packing up the laptop, when MacIntyre emerged from the other bedroom, saying, “Clear.”
“Then I think we’re good,” Caleb said.
“We’ll be good when we’re back in Tehran, sir,” MacIntyre said, and then, as if fearing there’d been too much reproach in his voice, added, “I was thinking of putting on the kettle.”
Caleb snapped the clasp on the laptop bag closed, set it beside the chair, was about to agree that, yes, a cup of tea would be nice about now, when he heard the echo from outside. He looked to MacIntyre, already halfway to the kitchen, saw that the other man had stopped, hearing it as well.
“Helo,” MacIntyre said, his voice dropping. “Two of them, sounds like.”
“What do you think?”
MacIntyre shook his head, still listening, and Caleb listened, too, then tugged at his left cuff, exposing his watch. Thirty-three minutes past three in the morning, and two helicopters flying overhead, already the Doppler echo fading, maybe heading north, to the water, though with the foothills bouncing the echo he couldn’t be sure.
“They’d be on the water by now,” Caleb said.
MacIntyre waited until the sound faded, then looked at him, not needing to say what both were thinking. They’d be on the water now if everything had gone right.
And two helos flying overhead at half-past three in the morning meant that things had certainly not gone right.
“I should inform London,” Caleb said. “Barnett, at the very least.”
“And say what? That we just had an overflight by two helicopters? That maybe it’s gone tits up?”
“We should do something.”
“There’s nothing we can do, Mr. Lewis,” MacIntyre said. “You want to go out there, do a recce? If they’ve brought in helicopters, they’ve damn well turned out the police and the local militia, as well. We stomp around in that, we’re going to get done for ourselves. Nothing we can do.”
“We can’t just sit here. If she’s in trouble, if she’s running—”
“We let her run. Nothing we can do.”
They stared at each other for several seconds. There was no flaw in MacIntyre’s logic, Caleb knew that, but the frustration rose in an overwhelming crest all the same. The only benefit to it that Caleb could find was that it was such a strong sensation, it consumed the lead pill of fear in his stomach.
Then they heard the sound of cars racing down the road, coming their way.
“Fucking hell,” MacIntyre muttered. “Motherfucking hell.”
The cars stopped, engines dying, and from outside Caleb heard multiple doors slamming, but no voices, no orders. No question at all that they were about to have company, and very little question as to the nature of that company, as well. Militia or police about to knock on the door, and he wondered how they had found the safehouse so quickly, and his mind flashed on the idea that Chace had somehow been taken alive, that she had given them up, but as soon as he thought that he disregarded it; the timing was wrong, it didn’t make sense, not unless Minder One was precisely the devout coward that Caleb feared he himself was, and maybe he was, but she certainly wasn’t.
But they were here, they were knocking on the door of the safehouse, almost pounding, and how no longer mattered, only why. MacIntyre was beginning to move, to answer, and Caleb stepped forward quickly, ideas, realizations, plans all swimming, half-created, in his mind.
“Me,” he told MacIntyre. “Let me talk. Follow my lead.”
MacIntyre hesitated, and another battery of fist meeting door filled the brief pause. Caleb reached out, unlocked the door.
Two men stood there, with another one visible just at the edge of the light’s reach, and Caleb counted three cars, and he understood that there had to be others, most likely circling around to the back of the house, to cover any possible exits. Three men he could see, and the one waiting by the car had a submachine gun in his hands, now aimed at the ground, but that could quite obviously change, and change quickly.
They don’t have her
, he realized.
They think she’s here
.
The shorter of the two men was also the elder, perhaps in his late forties, neatly trimmed beard, balding, wearing glasses, and Caleb knew he was looking at Youness Shirazi. His companion, at his shoulder, was at least ten years younger, taller and broader, but with the same clean lines of facial hair, and if the one was Shirazi then this had to be Zahabzeh, his deputy, though Caleb couldn’t be certain; of the two, Barnett had only ever shown him photographs of Shirazi.
“You were awake,” Shirazi said in Farsi. He had been looking past Caleb from the moment the door opened, only now blinking slowly up at him. “There’s been an incident, we have reason to believe an enemy of the State may be taking refuge inside this house. We require entry to make a search.”
The man standing at Shirazi’s shoulder, presumably Zahabzeh, took a step forward. There were grass stains on his trousers, damp spots on the knees, and a smear of dirt at his elbow, and now, in the illumination that spilled from the front door, Caleb could see a sheen of perspiration on the faces of each man, despite the cold.
“I’m sorry,” Caleb said, and he surprised himself by the firmness in his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t permit that.”
Zahabzeh moved closer, the physical threat implicit. “We are State Security, we have reason to believe—”
“This building is attached to the British Mission to Iran. As such, it enjoys the same diplomatic protections as any consular or embassy structure.” Caleb looked from Zahabzeh to Shirazi. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I cannot grant you access.”
Behind him, Caleb felt more than heard MacIntyre shift, coming in closer behind him.
Shirazi blinked again, then offered a thin smile. His hands, at his sides, clenched into fists before relaxing again. “Mr. Lewis, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If the British Government is harboring an enemy of the State, you will be initiating a gross diplomatic incident, Mr. Lewis. Your refusal to grant us entry has the appearance of guilt. Is this something you wish? Or do you not think it would be wiser to permit us to come inside and perform our search?”
“I’ve no desire to antagonize your government, sir. But I simply don’t have the authority to waive diplomatic protocol.”
“Then may I suggest,” Shirazi said drily, “that you contact someone who does?”
Zahabzeh, who had been glaring at Caleb, now looked sharply at Shirazi, then touched the man’s shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. Whatever it was he said, he said it too softly to be overheard, and Shirazi’s expression didn’t alter, remaining as placid and reasonable as from the start. The smaller man turned to his deputy, returning an answer just as softly, or almost, because this time Caleb caught two words distinctly. “Wounded” and “bleeding.”
Shirazi turned his attention back to Caleb. “We will wait.”
“Just a moment,” Caleb said, and he shut the door, felt it latch beneath his hand, felt his hand begin trembling the instant after. His heart was racing, and he needed a moment to collect himself, a moment that MacIntyre didn’t give him.
“What do they want?” MacIntyre whispered. “They want to search the house? That it?”
Caleb stepped away from the door, reaching for the phone in his coat. “You don’t speak Farsi?”
“My Farsi’s shit, Mr. Lewis. You’re refusing the search?”
“Technically the house is an extension of the mission.” Caleb looked at the phone in his hand, the glow of the screen, at a momentary loss as to who he should call. “They’ve got no evidence anyone is here aside from us, no reason to force a search, which means it’s at our discretion.”
“Then they don’t have them.”
Caleb looked up, to MacIntyre. “Doesn’t seem like. Though Shirazi said someone was wounded.”
MacIntyre turned his attention back to the front door, reacting. “That’s Shirazi?”
“Yes.” Caleb stared at his phone again, then stabbed in a number with his thumb. “I’m calling Barnett.”
“Caleb?”
“Sir, we’re still in Noshahr. Package went out under an hour ago, but something’s fouled up in transit, and we’ve got company wants to come inside and take a look around. I’ve told them we’re part of the mission, and that’s holding them off for the moment, but they’re still asking to come inside.”
There was a moment’s pause, and Caleb heard the click of a lighter as Barnett fired up one of his Silk Cut, then coughed. He’d probably been sitting up all night, chain-smoking, waiting for the phone to ring.
“Is it clean?”
“We’d just finished when they arrived, yes, sir.”
Barnett swore.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
Barnett swore again, more vehemently, and Caleb empathized. Waiving diplomatic immunity would set a bad precedent, one that Barnett certainly didn’t want to take the responsibility for doing. At the same time, antagonizing the Iranians was never a good idea, and now all the worse of one, especially if Chace was still running, with or without Falcon. Ideally, Caleb knew, Barnett would want to check with London, get some direction from Crocker or, better, the FCO itself.
“All right,”
Barnett said bitterly.
“Grant them access. The FCO and the Ambassador will both have fits when they find out, but I can’t see another way. I’ll call London, give them the bullet. Call me back as soon as you’re clear.”
“Yes, sir.” Caleb closed the phone, tucking it away again as he told MacIntyre, “Let them in.”
The front door opened once more, MacIntyre stepping out of the way, and Caleb turned to face Shirazi and Zahabzeh, only to discover that they were no longer waiting, but instead were heading back to the parked vehicles. MacIntyre shot him a puzzled look, and Caleb shook his head, stepping out into the now-frigid night air.
“Sir?” Caleb called out. “I’ve been told to grant you access to the house.”
Two other men were emerging from the darkness at the side of the house, moving to one of the cars. The remaining men were climbing into their vehicles, including Shirazi, who now paused at the passenger door of his car as Zahabzeh slid behind the wheel.
“Perhaps later,” Shirazi said.
Caleb felt his throat tighten. “You found what you’re looking for?”
The question was clumsy, inelegant, unsubtle, and Caleb hated himself for asking it. The engines were starting up again, including Shirazi’s car, but Shirazi himself hadn’t moved. Light from the house reflected on his glasses, hiding his eyes, and Caleb was certain they were fixed on his own, that the Head of Counterintelligence for VEVAK was staring at him now, taking his measure, and finding him lacking.
“Some advice for you, Mr. Lewis,” Youness Shirazi told him. “I would stay away from Chalus tonight. I would stay inside. Yes, that is what I would do, if I were you.”
Shirazi disappeared into the car, the door slamming closed, and then all three vehicles were moving, one after the other in a tight turn, accelerating away from Caleb, down the road. Taillights faded, vanished, and there was a fraction of silence before that, too, was broken by the sound of rotors, of helicopters, flying west, towards Chalus.
Caleb thought of the single blond hair on the pillow in the bedroom.
“Run,” he whispered.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IRAN, CHALUS, SHAHRIVAR STREET
11 DECEMBER 0320 HOURS (GMT +3.30)
There was no doctor’s office
, and there was no veterinarian’s, and damned if she was going to roll up into a hospital with her last breath and surrender her liberty for her life. Her vision was swimming, graying at the edges, threatening to wash white, then clearing briefly as she sucked weakly, quickly, trying to bring air into her body from her nose and mouth. Lights along the street flashed past her at inconstant intervals, patches of darkness, headlights, then street lamps, white and bright, faint and ghostly, cycling, and Chace didn’t know what she was looking for, the same way she was no longer aware that she was driving the Nasim, everything now reduced to instinct and a desperate, hungry need to survive.
There was only that, and the absurd, pathetic sound of her wheezing, as each breath became more painful even as it became more and more pointless.
She
caught the sign out of the corner of her eye, to her left, just after she’d crossed the bridge into central Chalus, a flickering green glow that registered deep, and she spun the wheel hard about, and the pain it caused in her chest made her expel precious air in a weak scream, enough to shock herself back to her senses, if only for the moment. The Nasim squealed, tires breaking from pavement, and Chace ground gears, found the green light again, the glowing sign, and there were cars parked on the street here, in front of the pharmacy, but there was a gap, and she pointed the nose of the car towards it and floored the accelerator. The engine growled feebly, popped over the curb onto the pavement, and then shattered its way through the storefront. Shelves, boxes, bottles flew and crashed, and Chace was fumbling open the door before the car had stalled, toppling out of the vehicle, dragging the submachine gun behind her with a free hand, a sick toddler pulling along its favorite toy.
Her voice was gone now, she could hear herself squeaking like a rusted chain between gasps. The headlights on the Nasim were still on, enough light to see what lay ahead, and Chace heaved herself upright using the front of the car, swaying amidst the debris, looking about desperately, and there, top shelf, still standing, she saw the boxes, printed in Farsi, the line drawings of syringes in various shapes and sizes. She lurched forward, stumbled again, crashing into the display and bringing the whole thing down around her, boxes of gauze and cold remedies and herbal extracts and sanitary napkins. She abandoned the gun, both hands searching, hands and knees, saw blood dropping from her mouth in the glare of the headlights, spattering on white packaging, and she found the syringes again, the wrong size, and she shoved the box aside, blinking, shaking her head, knowing that she was wasting oxygen, that she didn’t have any to spare. She saw the label, printed in Farsi, the numbers Roman, grabbed at the box, the right gauge, the right size to save her life.
Her fingers weren’t working properly anymore. She dragged at the flap twice, before using her teeth on the package, ripping the box apart and scattering its contents. Plastic-wrapped syringes flew away from her, out of the light, out of sight, and she whimpered, reaching out, found one again, and, this time forcing herself to slow down, brought it to her teeth once more. She peeled the plastic wrapping back, took the fat tube in her right hand, and, again with her teeth, ripped at the cap covering the large-gauge needle. The cap dropped out of her mouth, and she turned the syringe, bit at the base of the plunger, wrenching it likewise free and letting it fall.
She worked herself upright, onto her knees, steadying herself with her left hand, then tore at the top of the manteau. Buttons popped free, spun away, clattered on linoleum out of sight. She ran her fingers down from her neck, over her left breast, pressing down, counting ribs, searching for the space between the second and third intercostals. Marking with her left hand, Chace brought the needle to her body with her right, and through the pain, the dizziness, felt the bite of the point against her skin. Her left hand moved, joined the right, and if she’d had the air to spare she’d have taken a breath then, steeled herself for what would come next, but she didn’t, and so instead drove the needle into her chest as hard as she possibly could. The last of her breath exploded out of her, a pitiful sound of pain and misery, the lance of steel sinking into her body, slowing imperceptibly before finally popping through membrane into her chest.
Air hissed past her hands, spilling from the syringe, and Chace gasped, and then, discovering she could breathe once more, gasped again, falling back, needle still held in her body with both hands. Another breath, and another, and the pain was exquisite, but her vision was clearing, the roar fading in her ears, and she knew she had to move again, quickly, but for the moment all she wanted was to just lie there. Just to lie there, amidst the debris of the ruined pharmacy, on boxes of knockoff over-the-counter medications, of sticky plasters and cough syrups and disposable diapers and deodorants.
Lucidity returned, self-diagnosis, understanding of what she’d known but hadn’t realized. She’d been clipped when Falcon had gone down, maybe on the way to the car, maybe at the car itself, but it couldn’t have been from the submachine guns, because if it had been, she was certain she’d be dead. A handgun, then, a small-caliber round, but whatever it was, it had punctured the chest cavity in such a way that air had invaded with it, had torn her left lung from the pleural wall, collapsing it, but the wound must’ve sealed itself, sparing her the misery of a sucking chest wound in exchange for a … pneumothorax, that was the term. The air pressure in her chest cavity had collapsed her lung to the size of a golf ball, and that same trapped air had begun pressing on the right, making it harder and harder to inflate. The needle had allowed the trapped air to escape, the pressure to equalize, and the lung had reinflated. She could breathe once more.
Until it happened again.
She had to move.
With a tug, Chace pulled the syringe from her chest and tossed it aside, and the pain was no less awful, but now she had the air to fight it. She gave it a second, pressing a finger to the puncture site, assuring herself that the skin had closed, sealing her chest once more. She stumbled back to her feet, found the submachine gun again, then scanned the shelves and the floor, quickly pulling packages down, checking them in the light from the Nasim, discarding what she didn’t need. Three of the prewrapped, large-gauge syringes were visible on the ground, and she took them, stuffing them into the pockets of the torn manteau, along with two crumpled boxes of gauze and a roll of tape, as well as a package of something she thought might be amoxicillin, and another that she hoped was a pain reliever of some sort.
Chace straightened, the act itself making her back ache, then turned her attention to the Nasim. There was no way in the world she would manage to get it running and out of the pharmacy. She picked her way out of the wreckage, stepping carefully over broken glass that shattered further beneath her boots, and the flashing lights cut into her periphery as she emerged onto the street, the police car slewing as it took the corner, its headlights falling full upon her as it skidded to a stop.
There were two policemen, their doors opening immediately, each shouting at her in Farsi as they began to emerge. Maybe they had seen the submachine gun in her hand, maybe they had been warned, knew who she was; maybe they were simply responding to the crash. It didn’t matter, there was no choice for Chace to make.
She brought her weapon up to her shoulder, settling it into place with the same instinct and practice that had driven her flight thus far. She felt her cheek against the stock, lined up her shot, squeezed the trigger once. She shifted, repeated, squeezing the trigger again, and the submachine gun went dry during the second burst, but not before its work was done.
Chace ran awkwardly towards the police car, dropping the empty gun, a fresh bloom of pain wrapping around her torso as she moved. The driver was dead already, his partner dying, and she searched them quickly, taking their wallets, tossing them into the still-idling police car. Each carried a pistol, a Sig-Sauer knockoff, and spare magazines, and she took those, as well. The partner coughed blood up at her, eyes unfocused and vision fading, and for a moment, Chace thought about sparing him, thought that he was her only a few hundred seconds earlier, that his life could be saved.
But she was hunted and he was hunter and she had already left too much behind.
“Sorry, mate,” she murmured.
She shot him with his own pistol, once, between the eyes.
Three
and a half miles along the road, heading northwest, before curving to follow the shore of the Caspian westward, Chace pulled in to the lot of a large manufacturing facility. Sodium lights and steam wafted distantly in the air, mixing with light fog, but the lot itself was dark enough, and she killed the engine and exited the vehicle. Outside, she could hear the machinery churning, and beyond and above, the sound of a helicopter as it circled back towards the center of Chalus. There was a vague smell of fish in the air.
There were several cars to choose from, more of the same makes and models she had seen at the airport what seemed like a lifetime ago, and this time she went with another Samand, simply because its door was unlocked. She threw the pistols, wallets, and spare magazines onto the passenger seat. Back at the police car, she popped the trunk, where she found a first-aid kit and a large wool blanket. She took both, moved them to the Samand, then stopped and made another survey of the immediate area. There was no one to be seen, no voices to be heard, only the constant grind from the plant. Even the helicopter had faded.
Chace checked her pockets, found the folding knife and snapped it open. The car immediately beside the Samand was another Peugeot. She dropped to her knees behind it, experienced another sharp surge of pain from her back as she did so, a warning that seemed to both climb and fall at once. Her breathing was, at least for the moment, steady and sure, but each inhale, each exhale, came with a constant discomfort.
As quickly as she dared, she unscrewed the bolts holding the license plate to the Peugeot. Then she moved to the next car in the line, a Sarir, and removed its rear plate. She did the same to a Suzuki Vitara, and to a Miniator, and a Mercedes-Benz, and finally to a Citroën Xantia, all parked in a row. She closed the knife, took her collection of plates back to the Samand, and set them on the floor of the passenger’s seat before cracking into the ignition and hot-wiring the car.
The original exfil plan had been to the west, via Tabriz, and it made good sense; good enough sense, in fact, that Chace was certain anyone searching for her would see it, as well. From Tabriz, one could run to Iraq, to Turkey, to Azerbaijan, to Armenia, and every single one of those borders would be monitored, watched, guarded. With the ruined pharmacy, the dead policemen, the abandoned cars, and now with the license plates, her trail would only confirm the suspicion: she was running to the west.
So not west. But a run east was out of the question, too far and too long and ultimately ending in western Afghanistan, where the Republican Guards had made strong inroads with the local populace. Given the state she was in, the pain still cruelly riding her, taking to the Caspian wasn’t any more viable; the RHIB was gone, and even if she could secure another vessel, even if she could somehow avoid the airplanes and boats that would surely be patrolling the coast, there was still the threat of the weather. “Drowning” was just another word for asphyxiation.
Which left south, back to Tehran.
Chace put the Samand into gear, and feeling her chest twinge, pulled out of the lot, turning east, then south.
Back into the heart of enemy territory.