The Last Run by Greg Rucka Page A

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