The Last Run by Greg Rucka

Nilufar to the west, took several shots in succession of the street. Shops were opening, first customers beginning to trickle into the coffeehouse he had visited the night before, as well as to the bank just south of where he was now sitting.
    He watched the street for the next several minutes, pretending to alternately check his guidebook and his camera. The night before, he had arrived believing he would have to watch the apartment buildings, but today he gave them only a cursory glance. If Falcon was flying a flag from one of the windows, Caleb couldn’t see it, and he was now increasingly certain that was because it wasn’t there. Each apartment had an identity, a corresponding tenant or owner, and anything that drew attention to the location would logically draw attention to its occupant. Better to set the flag someplace more anonymous, somewhere Falcon could be just one of many, in one of the restaurants or shops along the street.
    So Caleb watched the street—the bank and the restaurants and the coffeehouse—and while he did that he tried to keep an eye out for the police, and he tried to determine if he, himself, was under surveillance, and when it all became too much he rose and walked down Nilufar to buy himself another cup of ghahveh . He drank it at a table, was rising to leave when he looked back and saw, seated alone near the back of the room, a man in his late middle-age, graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard, sitting by himself, a book closed on the table in front of him. Caleb couldn’t make out the Farsi from the distance, but he could see the illustration, the different birds taking flight on the cover, and the aftertaste of the too-sweet coffee turned sour in his mouth.
    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