A Gentleman's Game (11 page)

Abdul Aziz moved into the room, motioning Sinan toward him. Sinan let his rifle rest against his chest once more, on its strap, moving closer as ordered. Aziz put a hand on his shoulder, turned him to face the Prince.

“These are
jihadis,
Your Highness. They live for one thing alone, to serve Allah, lord of the universe and prayer. They are the sword in Allah’s hand, the tip at the end of His arrow. You cannot ask for better.”

The Prince adjusted his sunglasses, pursed his lower lip, examining Sinan. His
kuffiyah
was white, Sinan noted, but the
igaal
had threads of gold woven into the black wool.

“Tell me your name,” the Prince said.

“Sinan bin al-Baari.”

“Your Arabic is very good.”

“There is no other way to read
Qu’ran.
”

The Prince smiled. “Have you tasted blood, Sinan bin al-Baari? Have you been tested in battle?”

Sinan glanced to Aziz and saw nothing in his expression to indicate that he shouldn’t answer. “Not as much as others. More than some.”

The Prince’s smile broadened. “I like him,” he told Abdul Aziz.

“I thought you might, Your Highness.”

The Prince used his right hand to indicate Matteen. “You, where are you from?”

Matteen got to his feet before answering. “Gazni, Your Highness.”

“Abdul Aziz says you fought alongside my friend at Tora-Bora.”

“That was my honor.”

“Tell me, did you kill any Americans?”

“Three, Your Highness.”

The answer seemed to please the Prince, and he bobbed his head in appreciation, then turned back toward the stairs, again using his right hand, this time to motion at Abdul Aziz. “My friend, come with me.”

Abdul Aziz moved back to the foot of the stairs, bent his head to the Prince, listening as the other man spoke. Then Abdul Aziz nodded, turned to face them.

“Jabr, the rest of you, Hazim will lead you back to the truck. Wait for me there.”

The three Saudis did as ordered, each bowing to the Prince as they passed him, then making their way up the stairs, following the boy. Abdul Aziz waited until they were gone and the echo of the closing doors above had faded before speaking again.

“His Royal Highness has been of great help to us in the past,” Aziz told Sinan and Matteen. “He is our fiercest ally, and we thank Allah daily for his help, and pray daily for his continued health and well-being.

“Now, he asks a favor of us, and we have agreed.”

“You two men, you will stay with me for a time, guests in my home,” the Prince told Sinan and Matteen. “I have bodyguards, of course, but I will be traveling soon, I hope, and would welcome the company of experienced soldiers like yourselves.”

“It shouldn’t be more than a month,” Abdul Aziz told them.

Sinan tried to keep what he was feeling off his face, certain that he was failing. The thought of remaining in the house, in this place, was a punishment, not a reward. The Prince was an empty shell, he was certain, more interested in appearing to be
jihadi
than in being one. The photographs on the wall in the same room with pornography and the trappings of Western decadence proved it, if the Prince’s manner alone didn’t.

Abdul Aziz was watching him, waiting for an answer. His expression left no doubt as to the answer he wanted to hear.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Sinan said. “It would be our great honor.”

11

Hampshire—Gosport, Fort Monkton
18 August 0611 GMT

Morning fog from the Channel
still clung to the grass as Chace made her way out to the shooting range, dressed in baggy sweats and trainers, trying to shake the last sleep from her head. She’d slept poorly and not for long, opting to take the Thunderbolt from London on the off-chance that Crocker would recall her and she’d need to get back in a hurry. She’d left after work, returning home just long enough to gather her mail, change into riding leathers, and stuff a bag with essentials. It had taken her fifty-seven minutes exactly to clear London traffic, still in catastrophic disarray from the lack of tube service. By the time she’d hit the M3, she’d been more than ready to roll the throttle back and just get the hell on with it.

Which was precisely the moment the Thunderbolt chose to break down.

She managed to get the bike and herself towed to a garage in Winchester, but by the time they arrived, the mechanic had left, and no amount of persuasion, cajoling, or pleading had been enough to rouse him from his home. It was all the more infuriating to Chace because she was positive, absolutely positive, that whatever was ailing the Thunderbolt was minor at best, and certainly a quick fix for anyone who knew the first thing about Thunderbolts specifically or even motorcycles in general.

Forced to abandon the bike, she’d switched to rail, catching a train that took her into Portsmouth and then left her on the platform at half past midnight. She’d utterly failed to find a cab, and after debating her options, she’d used her mobile in an attempt to reach Tom Wallace, hoping that he would drop whatever he was doing—say, sleeping—to come and fetch her the rest of the way. But Tom hadn’t answered his phone. Even when she let it ring two dozen times.

In the end, annoyed beyond the capacity for speech, Chace had gone down to the ferry and caught a ride across the harbor to Gosport, then walked the remaining two and a half miles to Fort Monkton, only to be further delayed by the guards at the gate, who found it hard to believe that London had sent an agent down on foot for a refresher. Even after finding her name on the “expected” list and double-checking her pass, they’d insisted on searching her person and her bag.

At which point she’d had enough and informed the guard reaching for her that he could try to lay a hand on her, but if he did so he’d likely draw back his arm fractured in such a way that he’d have three major joints on the appendage rather than the more traditional two.

“And get Jim Chester down here right fucking now,” she’d added.

•

The rangemaster, a bitter old retired Royal Marine who demanded that students call him “The Master,” remembered her, just as she remembered him. Common lore at the School was that he promoted the appellation not because of his position as the ruler of the firing range but rather because he was a dyed-in-the-wool
Doctor Who
fan. He brought her four pistols and two hundred rounds of ammunition, along with shooting goggles and ear protection.

“Still know which way to point them, do you?” he asked.

“Why don’t you trot downrange and we’ll see?”

“Ah, that’s the lass I remember. Let’s get started, shall we?”

Chace loaded the P99 first, worked through two clips, thirty-two shots, with The Master over her shoulder, heckling, correcting, and generally annoying. She moved to the Browning next, then the HK USP 9, and finally the Walther TPH. The range remained empty but for the two of them the entire time, though as Chace was finishing with the TPH, she began to see other signs of life on the campus, students emerging from the dormitories in their workout clothes, gathering for the morning physical-training regimen.

They were ready to move to the more practical drills when Jim Chester came down the slope of the lawn from the main house to join them, carrying two paper cups of coffee.

“Feeling better this morning?” he asked, offering her one of the cups.

“She can’t have that,” The Master said, taking the coffee for himself. “Caffeine goes straight to her hands, and she’s on to practicals next.”

Chace looked at the coffee longingly, then to Chester. “I could have done with more sleep and less aggravation.”

“It’s aggravation that keeps us safe.”

“That aggravation, perhaps. I was on the bloody list, Jim.”

“They’re just being cautious.” Chester gave her a proud smile. “Minder One suits you, I must say. You’re as radiant as ever.”

“You testing me on pickups, Jim? I look like hell and feel worse.”

Chester laughed, patted her on the arm with unconscious condescension. Chace smiled in return, knowing that there were things that would never change, and that James Chester was one of them. In his mid-fifties, balding and fringed with gray, perpetually in tweed, he always reminded her of the don who’d instructed her in eighteenth-century French literature when she’d been at Cambridge. His sexism was bone-deep and unconscious, and manifested in him holding the women who came through the School to a higher standard than the men. Not by much, and never obviously, but enough so that when Chace had graduated with the highest scores anyone had remembered for half a century, they both had known she’d truly earned it.

He’d been heartbroken to see his prize pupil join the Special Section. A waste of her talents, he’d said.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Chester told them. “Firearms today, hand-to-hand tomorrow, is it?”

“And the E&E refresher.”

“Ah, yes, right. We should have lunch if The Master will release you long enough for sustenance.”

“She can eat.” The Master sounded almost sullen.

“Then I’ll see you at twelve-thirty, all right?”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” she said, and then added, “Is Tom around?”

“He’ll be in this afternoon. Shall I tell him you’re here?”

“No.” Chace grinned. “Let me surprise him.”

•

The rest of the morning was spent in the simulator, killing video projections with modified pistols that did everything real guns did, but fired light instead of lead. The Master ran Chace through multiple scenarios: take the target in a crowd, in a café, in a hallway, on a flight of stairs; take the target with no protection, with two bodyguards, with six, at a traffic stop. What to do if you miss? If the gun jams? If the gun breaks? If you snag the pistol on your draw?

After each exercise, The Master would play back the video he’d recorded of Chace, berating her for her errors, grudgingly acknowledging her triumphs. Much as she was loath to admit it, she’d begun the day rusty. It had passed, and passed quickly, and everything she’d been taught came back as fresh as ever, and it pleased her that she’d even managed to improve in the practicals.

The Master made her wait as he finished her evaluation, telling her to break down and service all of the weapons she had used during the day. When Chace had reassembled the last of the firearms, he dropped the sheet in front of her so she could read her score. Crocker would be pleased, she’d delivered on his demanded five point oh.

Wishing The Master a good evening, Chace headed back to the dormitory. She showered quickly and then, dressed once more, went in search of the only man Tara Chace was certain she had ever truly loved.

•

The Field School shared Fort Monkton with the Royal Navy, which maintained a submarine-escape training facility on the site, as well as other tactical simulators. The whole area around Portsmouth was thick with RN types, the city and the fleet sharing a long and distinguished history, of which Monkton was but a small part. The site had first seen the construction of Haselworth Castle in 1545; Fort Monkton had been erected some two hundred years later at the behest of the Royal Navy, and a companion fortification and artillery battery, Gilkicker Fort, had been raised nearby later in the eighteenth century.

Both Monkton and Gilkicker were closed to the public. Students at the School were housed on campus, but the instructors were not. Most had their homes in one of the many communities surrounding the harbor, in Portsmouth or Gosport or Fareham. Many of those same instructors chose to drive to work, and the parking lot shared by the Field School and RN staffs was thick with their cars.

There was only one Triumph Spitfire MK I among them, though, and while she’d never seen the vehicle before, Chace had no doubt who it belonged to.

The top was down, so she climbed into the passenger seat and passed the time by rummaging through the glove box, which ended in disappointment when she couldn’t find anything embarrassing. She did find an unopened pack of Silk Cut and some matches and, with only some minor internal debate, decided she’d earned a reprieve.

She was smoking her third cigarette when she heard footsteps on the gravel, approaching the car.

“You always were a weak-willed bird,” Tom Wallace said.

Chace flicked the cigarette away, leaned over to push open the driver’s door, and waited for Wallace to settle behind the wheel before saying, “Let’s go someplace where you can get me drunk and then take advantage of me.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Wallace said, and started the car.

•

Wallace had been in Gosport long enough to find a pub he liked, the Black Swan, and had been frequenting it enough that the pub had come to like him. While Wallace got them a table, Chace went to the bar to order the first round, two lagers. The barman was old, and old-fashioned, and when he served her one pint, presumably for Wallace, and a half, presumably for her, she sent the half back.

“No, another pint, if you please.”

The barman’s eyes turned critical. “Not terribly ladylike.”

“I’m a terrible lady.”

The barman’s lower lip worked, rising up and out as he gave Chace a second appraisal before barking out a short laugh and taking the half back. He pulled a fresh pint for her, and she moved off to join Wallace at their table to begin the work of serious drinking and less serious catching up. Over the course of three pints and most of the pack of Silk Cut they traded recent history, and Wallace confirmed most of what Chace had already determined for herself. He was doing well, he told her, relaxed and recovering from a life of abuse at the hands of SIS.

Certainly his appearance supported the claim, and Chace couldn’t recall when Tom Wallace had ever looked so good, or so relaxed. He had ten years and an inch in height on her, but sitting in the pub, he seemed both younger and even taller. The lines on his face had softened, and color had returned to his complexion. He’d put on some weight as well, but it was appropriate to his frame, and she thought he looked as fit now as he ever had. His black hair, streaked with gray, was still as sloppily trimmed, but the brown eyes that watched her were no longer bloodshot or red-rimmed, and the mirth in them had begun to return. With his summer slacks and white trainers he looked more like an architect or an ad executive than a spy-turned-instructor.

Most Minders left the job in one of three ways, either sacrificed on the Altar of Bureaucracy in a discharge, promoted up the ladder in SIS—as Crocker had been—or killed in action. Wallace was unique in the history of the Section. A twelve-year veteran, he’d left on his own accord but still remained in the Service via lateral transfer to the School. Now, four days a week, he lectured to new recruits in the wood-paneled and electronically secured classrooms of the Manor House, a living legend passing on his pearls of wisdom.

And if the students gathered in his classroom knew who he was, had heard rumors about this operation or that mission, about this daring escape or that piece of unbelievable luck, it was a given that Wallace, bound by the Official Secrets Act, could neither refute nor deny the story. The most he would ever say was that he’d done his job, and he was proud to have done it, and now he was doing this one, and the students had damn well better feel the same.

“You look remarkably good for a man who’s gone soft,” Chace told him.

“I sleep a full night. No fear of the phone waking me. You have no idea what a pleasure that is.”

“Full night is right. You turning your ringer off? I tried raising you last night, didn’t get an answer.”

Wallace glanced away from her, toward the rest of the room, and the weathered lines creased at the corners of his eyes, giving away the smile even as he tried to hide it. Chace leaned around, to see him full on, and that did it, flushed the grin from hiding and onto his face.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Chace said. “You’ve got yourself some bint tied to your bedposts, haven’t you?”

“I prefer to say that she’s got me.”

“And how long has this been going on?”

“Three weeks, if it’s any of your business, and I’m reasonably certain that it isn’t. You don’t have to fear, Tara, she’s been cleared. Safe for government work.”

“Is that what you call it these days?”

“I’m an old man. I can use whatever euphemism I choose.”

“You’re not old, Tom, you’re just randy.”

He laughed, drained the last of his pint, and rose, saying that he’d found a good Indian place nearby, and that they’d better get some food before they were too pissed to manage the utensils. Chace agreed, emptied the last of her own glass, followed him out. Ducking beneath the blackened crossbeam at the pub’s entrance, climbing the steps into the fresh air off the Channel, she felt it again, the pang of jealousy, and it annoyed her enough that she voiced it.

“She’d better be worthy, or else I’ll find her house and burn it to the ground.”

Wallace stopped to light a fresh smoke, handed it off to her, then lit a new one for himself. “It’s down this way; we can walk.”

“Her house? But I don’t have my arson kit.”

“The restaurant, you daft cow. Her place is over in Portsmouth, and that’s the only clue you get.”

“No, tell me more about her. I find myself possessed of the same fascination I normally feel when viewing accident scenes.”

“Or causing them.”

“I can’t say. I never stick around long enough to admire my work.”

Wallace chuckled, leaking smoke. They continued down the lane, turning onto the High Street. It was a pleasant night, and the streets were alive with traffic, but not crowded, and it made walking a pleasure.