The Last Run (11 page)

“Exfil plan?”

“Tehran Number Two will be present in the safehouse on your arrival. He has acquired a RHIB, small Zodiac, already secured in Dr. Gadient’s name, and will have the boat in position and moored by the time you arrive at the safehouse with Falcon. Once Falcon’s bona fides are confirmed, you’ll be free to proceed to departure. Sat phone to check in with London once you’re on the water, then again after pickup by USGS.”

Chace studied the maps on the table for the better part of another minute, then went through the documents again. The passport was Swiss, and according to the stamps, she’d made several visits to the countries that bordered the Caspian, including Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, and Russia. This was her second visit to Iran in the last three years.

“Good,” she said finally. “Now the big question: what’s the fallback if it all goes to hell in a handbasket?”

“Instead of exfil to the north, you track west, to Tabriz,” Teagle said. “From there you have your choice of borders, either into Iraq or, better, into Turkey.”

“Is there a bolt-hole in Tabriz?”

“No.”

Chace turned to Crocker. “Can we fix that, please?”

“I don’t see how,” Crocker said. “Not with the time we have left.”

“So if it goes wrong I’m out in the open and on my own, that’s what you’re saying?”

“That’s correct.”

“Lovely. And I’m going unarmed?”

“Again correct. You get stopped carrying a knife, your cover supports it. You get stopped with a gun, they’re liable to use it on you.”

“Agreed,” Chace said, immensely relieved that no one from on-high had insisted on her going armed. “All right, I’ll need time to study all this, so if you want to sod off now, that’d be grand.”

Teagle laughed, but neither Seale nor Crocker shared it.

“You make the approach to the apartment,” Crocker said. “You make sure of the ground, Tara. You see anything—
anything
—that makes you unhappy, you abort back to your hotel in Tehran, take the next flight home, you understand?”

“Hold on—” Seale began.

“When it’s your fucking agent, you can give the fucking briefing,” Crocker snapped. “She’s happy, or she doesn’t do the job. It’s that simple.”

“Boys, don’t let’s fight,” Chace said. “I’m a big girl, and I’ve played outside before. I know what makes me happy and what doesn’t.”

There
was no security that she could see at the entrance of Number 22 Nilufar, just a set of three wide steps that followed the slope up to the front door of the apartment building. Chace took them with purpose, doing her best to appear like she knew exactly where she was heading. The door was unlocked, and she pushed into the narrow lobby of the building, smelling broiling meat and a mélange of spices that would have made her mouth water if it hadn’t been filled with cotton.

To her right, running straight down, was a hallway that ended with another, smaller door, apartments alongside. The stairs to the first floor were at the end of the hall, so that one ascended facing towards Nilufar. She headed past them, to the door opposite the entrance, and it opened without difficulty, and she found herself looking out into the alley where she’d parked the Samand. She checked both directions, then looked up and, seeing no one, took the folding knife from her jeans pocket and, shielding her face with her free hand, whacked the closed blade against the lightbulb hanging over the door. The glass shattered, the light went out, and she slipped back into the building.

According to the briefing on Coldwitch, Falcon was on the third floor, either in apartment three, or in the third apartment there, but when she came off the stairs, her first thought was that their intelligence had been wrong. There were six separate apartments and none of them, at first glance, was marked with a three. The lighting in the hallway was weak, as well, and it made determining details even more difficult.

For a moment, Chace held on the landing, waiting and listening. From one of the apartments she could hear conversation, animated and happy, and from another broadcast voices, either the State-run television or the State-run radio, she had no way of knowing. Somewhere below she heard a door slam closed.

She moved forward along the hallway, checking each door in turn, and had reversed, was heading back towards the stairs, when she stopped, her eye catching on a chalk mark high on the wall. Three short lines, running parallel to the ground on the right side of one of the doors, and three more, barely visible, on the left.

Three and three again.

She knocked gently and waited, and after a moment, she heard a lock turn. The door pulled back, and the man who stood revealed matched the photograph, and Chace stepped immediately forward. She covered his mouth with her left hand, pushing him inside, then shoved him backwards against the wall, pinning him in place. With a foot, she shut the door. She put the index finger of her right hand up to her lips, and the man looked at her with eyes wide.

For nearly a minute she held him in place, neither of them moving, feeling his breath hitting the back of her hand as it left his nose, hearing her own heart pounding. Noise from the rest of the building filtered into them, a cough, the broadcast voices. A strain of music from somewhere above them. A laugh from the street.

Finally, Chace moved her hand from the man’s mouth.

“Falcon?”

He nodded.

“It’s time to go,” Chace told him.

CHAPTER TEN

IRAN—KARAJ, 22 NILUFAR STREET
10 DECEMBER 1839 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

Shirazi stared
at the flickering image on the video monitor, the live feed of the hallway outside the apartment, watched as the woman made her way carefully along the hall, her pace measured as she passed each door in turn. If he didn’t know what he was looking at, he could believe she was simply lost and trying to find her way.

Then she saw the chalk marks, turning away from the camera, to look at the door to the apartment opposite where Shirazi and Zahabzeh now sat, and she knocked, and Hossein answered. She had him muzzled and inside so quickly, Shirazi was certain that if he had dared to blink, he would have missed it.

He motioned to the technician to his right, showed him two fingers, and there was the softest click of a button, and the image on the screen flickered and changed, now showing the interior of Hossein’s apartment. On his left, he heard Zahabzeh inhale slowly through his nose, struggling against his desire to speak. Shirazi turned his head from the monitor, saw that Zahabzeh was looking at him, the question clear in his expression.

Shirazi shook his head, and Zahabzeh’s mouth twitched, fighting off a frown.

Both men turned their attention back to the monitor.

The woman hadn’t moved at all, still holding Hossein silent against the wall, so still that Shirazi could imagine the video was malfunctioning, that the image was no longer live but frozen, a moment trapped in time. The angle for this camera was such that he couldn’t see her face, and the lack of appropriate illumination washed all color into shadow. Even if it hadn’t, the
maqna’e
she wore concealed her hair.

It didn’t matter. Shirazi knew who she was, and it took all of his self-control to keep from displaying the relief he felt at seeing Tara Chace, at knowing she was less than ten meters away from him. SIS had cut it close, had cut it very close. Another day and Hossein’s absence would have been noted. A day more, it would have been inexplicable. Even now, Shirazi knew there wasn’t much time left to him.

On the screen, the woman moved her hand from Hossein’s mouth, speaking. Zahabzeh reached for the headphones running from the monitor, but Shirazi put his hand out, stopping him. There was no need, and despite knowing better, he feared that listening in might somehow, someway, reveal an unintended noise of their own.

Now the woman stepped back, and Hossein moved quickly down the hall, into the little room that served as the apartment’s main living space. Shirazi showed the technician three fingers, but it was unnecessary, and even before he had done so the camera changed to the one placed on the far wall of Hossein’s apartment, the one that granted the best view of the room. The woman had followed Hossein at a distance, staying in the mouth of the hallway, and Shirazi thought that was smart of her, that she was blocking the only exit, in case her defector suddenly tried to run.

But Hossein wouldn’t run, not after waiting a week to prove his innocence to Shirazi, and by extension, to his uncle. He had already gathered up his meager belongings, one small satchel, and now the woman came forward and took him by the elbow. For a moment light and lens united, and Shirazi could see her face clearly, the look of concentration and focus, the restless eyes sweeping past the hidden camera. Despite himself, he smiled.

Then she was guiding Hossein back down the hallway, to the door, still holding him by the elbow, and the camera flickered, changed back once more to the very first position, and there she was, emerging with Hossein. They moved briskly to the stairs, then out of shot, and Shirazi wondered at how quickly she had taken control of Hossein. Even if Hossein hadn’t been told to go with her, to do what she said, Shirazi doubted he would’ve been able to resist. Her presence had commanded him from the moment she had entered his apartment and taken his voice, and Shirazi had to wonder how long it would last.

Zahabzeh started to open his mouth, but Shirazi shook his head again, then carefully got out of his seat and moved to the window that overlooked the alley. With two fingers, he pulled the curtain back enough to look down, just in time to see the woman load Hossein into the Samand parked there. She moved to the driver’s door, took one last, quick look around to all sides, and Shirazi let the curtains close before she could look up, as she had done when she’d first arrived. The glare from the light below had spared him there, and the move on her part had surprised him. In his experience, most people forgot to look up.

He listened for the sound of the car starting, waited until it pulled away, and only then was he willing to speak.

“Very well done,” Shirazi said, aware that the others in the room, Zahabzeh and the technician and another one of the guards, would think he was praising them. “Farzan, get Javed.”

Zahabzeh nodded and all but ran from the room.

“Break it down,” Shirazi told the others. “We’re done here. Leave no signs in either apartment.”

Murmurs of assent, and Shirazi watched to make certain the two men were absorbed in their task, quickly disassembling the surveillance equipment, before he allowed his body to relax. Just for a moment, just for an instant, while nobody was watching; a moment of peace, a breath of relief.

Still far to go before this would be over, Shirazi knew. But now, at least, all the pieces were on the board, on his board, and that meant they were under his control, even if some of them did not yet know it.

Zahabzeh returned, Javed following close behind.

“It’s placed?” Shirazi asked.

“Yes, sir,” Javed said. “After she rounded the corner, I fixed one device to the rear bumper, as directed, and placed a second inside the car, beneath the driver’s seat, just to be sure.”

“Check them,” Shirazi said, only to see that Zahabzeh was already doing so, the small GPS tracker in his hand.

“Good signal on one,” Zahabzeh told him. He twisted the dial on the side, pressed the black button at the center of the unit. “And good signal on two.”

“And Hossein’s?”

“Still reading strong. If she takes him anywhere from here to Delhi, we’ll know about it and be able to find them.”

“I doubt she’ll take him that far. Which direction is she heading?”

“North.” Zahabzeh paused. “Not very quickly.”

“Traffic. She’s using the traffic to make certain they’re not being followed, and that is why we use this method instead, Farzan, you see?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shirazi rolled his shoulders, attempting to work some of the stiffness and tension that had settled in them free. “We have some time now. Come, let’s get a cup of tea while the others clean up.”

In
the coffeehouse, the same coffeehouse where Hossein had met the thin British tourist who hadn’t been a tourist at all, Shirazi and Zahabzeh sipped their cups of
chay
. Caleb Lewis had surprised him, Shirazi had to admit. Of all the new members of the British mission in Iran who had come in replacement of the old, he had been ready to dismiss Lewis as a possible replacement for Ricks. If it hadn’t been for the constant surveillance on Hossein, it was likely Lewis would have remained unidentified as SIS for months to come.

“I do not understand why we didn’t take her in the apartment,” Zahabzeh said.

“You don’t close the snare when the rabbit has only put his nose in, Farzan.” Shirazi allowed himself a smile. “You wait until his whole head is in the noose.”

“But we have identified at least one other, Lewis, from the embassy. Surely if we were to arrest either of them, we would get everything we could want to know from their interrogation.”

“Perhaps, yes. But if this new agent can lead us to the larger network, if she can reveal all of their spies to us without ever meaning to, is that not better? There must be a plan to get Hossein out of the country, Farzan. We do not know how many people are involved, how much help she has.”

“I just worry that we’ll miss our opportunity.”

“A concern I share, believe me. But we must balance what we have with what we may gain. The more we uncover of their network, the better.”

“Yes. Yes, I agree.” Zahabzeh looked into his empty cup, then up at Shirazi. “So now we follow them?”

“Until they have revealed all of their secrets,” Shirazi confirmed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IRAN—NOSHAHR, 2 SHIR AQAI (SIS SAFEHOUSE)
11 DECEMBER 0017 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

“Vehicle incoming,”
MacIntyre told Caleb Lewis. “A Samand.”

Caleb moved to the window, beside the larger man, peeked out between the curtains and the frame. How MacIntyre could tell the little car rattling down the unpaved road towards them was a Samand, he couldn’t guess; the glare from the headlamps told Caleb that there was a car approaching, nothing more. But if MacIntyre was correct, if it was the Samand, then it would be the Minder and Falcon.

He thought that might grant his fear a reprieve. He was disappointed to discover that, instead, it only heightened what he was feeling, what he had been feeling ever since Barnett had sent him north and told him to wait at the safehouse. It wasn’t that the house was bad, because it truly wasn’t, though it was rather small. A well-chosen little cottage near the end of a tiny dirt track, in the foothills of the northern slope of the Alborz, just outside the town of Noshahr. From where he stood now, the Noshahr airport was just under a mile to the north, the boat for Dr. Gadient moored just under two to the northeast.

MacIntyre was moving to the front door, and Caleb followed him. The man was SIS Security, and Caleb supposed he was ex-military, possibly Royal Commando, though he wasn’t sure, and even though the last two days had provided ample opportunity, he hadn’t dared to ask. Over six feet tall and over two hundred pounds, MacIntyre had been quiet much of the time they waited, making walkabout of the cottage several times a day, to assure himself that there was no one watching them from the trees. The only manifestation Caleb had seen of anything like personality had been at mealtimes, when MacIntyre had used the small kitchen to cook up their food, always Iranian dishes, and always surprisingly good.

“Keep back,” MacIntyre told Caleb, reaching out to switch off the interior lights before unlocking and opening the door.

Caleb did as instructed, trying to stay out of the way while still maintaining a view of the outside. A breeze entered the cottage, fresh and cold and sweet from the evergreens growing all around them. The Samand had stopped no more than fifteen feet away, the headlamps winking out as the engine rattled and died. For a moment there was nothing, no motion from the vehicle, just the sound of the wind and the pinging of the engine as it began to cool. Then the car creaked, and first the driver’s, then the passenger’s doors opened, and Caleb was surprised that he recognized the driver from the coffeehouse, the man he’d understood to be Falcon.

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.