Authors: Greg Rucka
If there was a falcon in the flock on the cover, he couldn’t see it.
He took his empty cup back to the counter, using the opportunity to take another survey of the room. The man had been seated when Caleb had entered, he was sure of it, and he was just as sure that the book hadn’t been out at that time.
“Agha,”
Caleb said.
“Salam aleykum.”
The man smiled up at him. “
Salam aleykum
. Your Farsi is very good for a tourist.”
“Thank you. You’re interested in birds?”
“Yes, all sorts.” The man picked up the book, turning it in his hand. “Though we don’t see many here during the winter.”
“I’d think you’d see some around here.”
“A few. I don’t get out often to look. You like birds?”
“Some more than others. I’m partial to birds of prey. Falcons, hawks, birds like that.”
“Those are all good birds. There are, of course, many others.” The man seemed to consider, looking at the book in his hand, then offered it to Caleb. “I’ve read it several times. Perhaps you’ll have more use for it than I.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Caleb said, taking the book in hand. He freed the camera from his shoulder, turning to a nearby waiter. “Excuse me, could you take a picture for me? Of me and my friend here?”
“My pleasure.”
“Just point and shoot. It’s okay if you take a couple of them.” Caleb moved beside the man, still seated at the table, held up the book with a grin. The waiter pointed the camera, and he heard the shutter click repeatedly before it was handed back. “Thank you.”
The waiter moved off, smiling, perhaps amused, and Caleb turned again to the man at the table, who was now looking at him much more soberly.
“I hope you enjoy the book,” the man said. “You should read it soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
LONDON—VAUXHALL CROSS, OFFICE OF D-OPS
8 DECEMBER 2037 HOURS (GMT)
Paul Crocker sat
on the edge of his desk, eating his dinner of takeaway salad from the commissary, and contemplated who he would most like to stab first with his plastic fork. On any given day, he would readily admit, the list would be a long one, populated by anyone from the file runner who didn’t seem to understand that now meant now-god-dammit and not now-but-after-you’ve-had-a-nice-chat-with-my-PA, to the Head of Station in, say, Sucre, who couldn’t mount an operation on his own without a coloring book and large-type instructions relayed in triplicate and signed by everyone from the PUS at the FCO to C to the Head of the Janitorial Staff.
And that was the list without the addition of politicians.
“I know that look,” Julian Seale said. “Just tell me it’s not me you’re planning to murder.”
Crocker shook his head, forcing down a particularly limp piece of cucumber. “You can relax. You’re so low on the list they’ll have caught and killed me long before I reach you.”
Seale leaned forward in his seat, swiping a broad palm across his thigh to clear it of crumbs from his sandwich, before taking hold of the edge of the map laid out on Crocker’s desk. He was a tall man, like Crocker, but broader, the body of an American footballer, as opposed to a British one. One of the few African Americans holding senior posts with the CIA, he’d held the Chief of Station office at the embassy in Grosvenor Square for just under five years now, an exceptionally long time for such a tour, and one that was due to end at the turning of the year. If Operation: Coldwitch resolved as everyone from Downing Street to the White House hoped it would, Seale would be leaving London on a high note, indeed.
“I like the placement of the safehouse,” Seale said, after a moment. “That’s, what, five klicks from the airport in Noshahr?”
“Just over four, yes.”
Seale gulped the rest of his coffee, then got to his feet, craning his head for a better look at the map. “It’s a sweet-looking operation, Paul. Your boys and girls really outdid themselves on this one.”
“They damn well better have. Coast Guard is aboard?”
“Langley cleared it with the White House earlier today. Orders forthcoming.”
Crocker made a last, halfhearted attempt to stab at an asparagus spear, just as limp as the cucumber, then gave up and dumped the remains of his dinner into the trashcan beside his desk. “I’ll want confirmation.”
“Obviously.” Seale checked his watch. “When’s Chace due to brief?”
“She’s not.” Crocker slid off the desk and began folding up the map. “The job belongs to Poole. He briefed this evening, will be on his way to Tehran at dawn.”
Seale put a hand down on the desk, trapping the map, and Crocker was forced to look at him. “You can’t do that. Paul, you can’t do that, the terms of our involvement are that you send Chace. That’s direct from Langley, this has to be handled by your most senior operations officer.”
“You’re moving up my list, Julian.”
“This isn’t a joke. The job has to go to Chace.”
“Poole can do it just as well as she can.”
“That may be, but those aren’t the goddamn terms, Paul! Jesus, are you trying to kill the operation? It’s
Hossein Khamenei
, it’s not some fucking clerk in the post office, it’s a high-value target of incredible intelligence value. You have to send your senior operations officer, you have to send Minder One.”
“She’s put in her resignation from the Section. I’ve accepted it. She is not, therefore, the senior Minder. And get your fucking hand off my fucking desk, Julian.”
Seale stepped back, glaring at him, and Crocker fought the map closed, fuming. The demand that Chace be the agent of record for Coldwitch was yet another of the many things he didn’t like about the Tehran job.
“Why the hell weren’t we told about this?” Seale asked.
“Because no one fucking asked me!” Crocker roared. “Because no one has listened to a word I’ve said for the last twenty-four hours! Ever since Chace made her report I’ve been fighting against this operation, and at every turn I’ve been either ignored or overruled.”
“If I have to go back to Langley and tell them that she’s not doing the job, that it’s going to Poole, it’ll scuttle the whole damn operation.”
“Good.”
Seale stared at him. “Is this about Chace or you?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Are you trying to end your career? Or protect hers?”
“I’m trying to protect my agents.”
“So you’re saying that even if Langley does approve Poole, you’ll find a way to scuttle that, as well? And again if they agree on Lankford?”
“Too right I will.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Seale asked after a moment, and Crocker thought he was genuinely curious. “They’ll fire you, you realize that? They’ll fire you and they’ll fill that Desk with someone who, I don’t know, believes in the radical notion of following their fucking orders!”
Crocker took his seat, looked up at Seale, now glowering down at him. “Hossein Khamenei is bait. That’s all he is. You’ve got to see that.”
Seale rubbed his eyes, and seeing that Crocker was still at his desk, that this wasn’t a bad dream, turned his attention to the bust of Winston Churchill in the corner. It was a small bronze, capturing the former Prime Minister during the height of World War Two, one of only two decorations that Crocker kept in his office. The other was a black-and-white silkscreen print of a Chinese dragon, which hung on the wall opposite the door.
“Of course he’s bait,” Seale said, finally. “But he’s a hell of a piece of bait, Paul. He’s an irresistible piece of bait. And if we can pull him, it’ll be worth the price.”
“Not to me.”
For several seconds the two men stared at each other. They’d never managed to become friends, but for the past several years had managed the pretense of professional courtesy, if not camaraderie. Crocker found himself again wishing for Seale’s predecessor, Angela Cheng. It wasn’t that Cheng had been more capable than Seale, but with her, Crocker had shared a fundamental understanding, that politicians were not to be trusted, that it was their duty to protect their respective services, the CIA and SIS, and their agents. Even when they argued—and they had argued often—they had stood on the same side.
From Seale’s expression now, Crocker knew that wasn’t the case.
“Get me an escort out,” Seale said.
Crocker stabbed his intercom, Kate answering immediately. “Mr. Seale needs an escort out of the building.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ll make you send Chace.” Seale reached the door to the outer office. “And if you don’t do it, they’ll fire you and then they’ll replace you with someone who will.”
He stepped out, and Crocker waited until he heard the escort arrive and then depart again with Seale before getting to his feet. Kate was still at her desk, a paperback novel open in one hand, chewing on the end of a pen.
“She is technically still Minder One,” Kate said, not looking up.
“Did you press a drinking glass against the door?”
“Didn’t need one. You two were loud enough, the whole floor heard it.”
“Go home, Kate. It’s almost nine.”
“You’re done for the day?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll stay.”
Crocker glared at her, trying to determine if it was loyalty or pity that was keeping Kate at her desk. Then he went back to his chair, to await the inevitable call from C.
The
problem was that Crocker had seen this all before.
Chace had no sooner finished telling him that Falcon was, potentially, Hossein Khamenei, than Crocker had known there would be an order to lift, an operation mounted, and he was just as certain Chace knew it, too. It was as inevitable as a car crash, and, worse, as potentially fatal for all those involved. As soon as their political masters in Whitehall and Downing Street heard that SIS might, just conceivably, be able to bring a member of the Supreme Leader of Iran’s family to the West as a defector, they would go blind. They would see the result, not what was required to achieve it. What they wouldn’t see, Crocker was certain, was the risk. And once those same men and women in Whitehall and Downing Street set their eyes on this new prize, there would be nothing Paul Crocker could do to stop them.
But he would damn well try anyway.
His
first act after Chace finished her report was to demand that Kate get him D-Int, either on phone or in person; he had no preference as long as it was done with all due haste. All due haste, it turned out, had been via phone.
“Paul?”
“Daniel, do we have anything on Khamenei’s extended family?”
“We have quite a lot, actually,”
Szurko said.
“As he has quite a lot of family. But what we have I’m not in love with, if you understand; I don’t trust most of it.”
“He has a nephew named Hossein?”
“Yes.”
Szurko said it slowly, dragging out each sound in the word.
“Should be in his late fifties, maybe early sixties. Was Sepah in his youth, went to Paris after the Revolution, I think, but came
home and went back into harness. Republican Guards, served a bit in the Iran-Iraq War. Not much more than that, I’m afraid. Married, at last report, with children, several of them, but no details. I can dig if you need digging. Do you need digging?”
“Everything you can, and anything that might indicate if he’s in trouble. And if you can scrounge up a photograph or, better yet, a set of fingerprints, so much the better?”
“We’re targeting the nephew of the Ayatollah?”
Szurko sounded gleeful.
“I’ll have the Iran Desk get all over it.”
Crocker hung up, hoping that Szurko wasn’t as good at his job as he appeared.
His
next act had been to inform the Deputy Chief. He’d made the report in person, heading down the long fifth-floor corridor to Rayburn’s office.
“We have no confirmation that Falcon is Hossein Khamenei,” Crocker told him. “Newsom is suffering Alzheimer’s, and Chace said he has both difficulty focusing and staying in the present. There’s no way to verify that what he told her is true.”
“All the other participants are dead?” the Deputy Chief asked.
“Newsom’s the only one still living, yes, sir. Minder One and Minder Two are going through Archives again for anything they might’ve missed the first time. But given the state of things when Newsom left post, what was happening on Station around the Revolution, I doubt there’s more to find. I’ve already asked D-Int to dig up anything he can on Hossein Khamenei.”
“Most of the Station records have been purged, if I remember.” Rayburn used his chin to indicate to Crocker that he should take a seat, waited until he had, before adding, “There might be copies surviving in Whitehall. But Khamenei does have a nephew named Hossein, Paul—I remember that from my own days as D-Int. It’s plausible he’s asking to be lifted.”
“But we’ve no verification he was even one of ours.”
“He knew the Park-e Shahr drop. He used an established, albeit old, book code. I’d say he was definitely one of ours, at least for a short while.”
Crocker shook his head, knowing the argument had been feeble, and already feeling that the coming battle was lost. Of all his peers in SIS, it was with Rayburn that he felt he had the best relationship. Not strictly a friendship, perhaps, but certainly they shared a mutual respect that had come from shared time in the trenches, Rayburn working his way through the Intelligence Directorate even as Crocker had climbed the rungs of Operations. When Alison Gordon-Palmer had been named C, she had needed to choose between her D-Int and her D-Ops to fill the position. Ultimately, she had gone with Rayburn, despite unspoken promises to Crocker that the job would be his. It wasn’t a decision that Crocker could find fault with, even as he managed to resent it.
“Thirty years he runs silent, then he suddenly asks to be lifted?” Crocker said. “That doesn’t sound plausible to me. That sounds like he’s been flipped. We’re being set up.”
“Did you ask Daniel if there was any reason to believe Hossein might be about to have the skids put under him?”
“He’s checking. According to Chace, Newsom indicated that he might be homosexual, but she advises that may be Newsom’s own machismo speaking, rather than known fact about Hossein. When I checked with D-Int, he didn’t mention it.”
“Would his homosexuality be enough to have him executed?”
“I honestly don’t know. Shi’a Iran isn’t Sunni Al-Qaeda; they’re not running a fundamentalist agenda despite what their mouthpieces are crowing. The Revolution ended in ’81, when Khomeini realized he couldn’t control the country with religion alone. Since then it’s been less about religion per se than about expanding their power base.”
“There’s the Basij.”
“More for propaganda than anything else. But at the same time, they might be willing to make an example of him. I think that’s a stretch, Simon. As I said, I think we’re being set up.”
Rayburn tented his long fingers, rested them against his chin. It was a mannerism Crocker knew well, had seen him do hundreds of times as D-Int when he was sifting facts, trying to reach a conclusion. “To what end?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Moving on Basra?”
“Or something with the Kurds. Or something in Afghanistan. They’re remarkably good at occupying our attention in one place while they bury another hundred Silkworm missiles along the Gulf.”
“Might even be internal,” Rayburn mused.
“Or it could be that they want to hurt us,” Crocker pressed. “For the first time in decades we’ve actually got the start of a viable network in-country, Simon.”
“And if we move to lift him, we risk exposing the network.”
“Without question.”
“To lift him would require Special Section support. You’d send a Minder.”
“But the Station would have to prep for the operation.”
Rayburn exhaled, brought his fingers down. “I have to present it to C, Paul. I’ve no choice.”