Free The Last Run by Greg Rucka Page A

substitution code, working instead with the keywords from the book code as she came across them. She received two results for “grapes,” the most recent from 1989, when the word had been used as code for automatic rifles during an operation in Cairo. “Water” kicked back nearly two thousand instances in the last ten years alone, and Chace realized it was useless, as whoever had inputted the information into the database had felt compelled to identify the use of “water” to mean any reference to any body of water in any operational theatre, ranging from the seven seas all the way down to a small lake in northern Cameroon. “Falcon” garnered five results, the oldest twenty years ago, in each instance used as a code name for a contact or agent, none of them in Iran.
    “I’ve got Terry Ricks for you,” Ron called from his desk, and Chace swiveled around to pick up the phone as the call was transferred over to her.
    “Terry? Tara Chace.”
    “Hello, lovely. Calling to see if I’m lonely in Lancashire?”
    “Everyone’s lonely in Lancashire, Terry. Got two queries for you.”
    “Anything for Minder One.”
    “First one, does the name ‘Falcon’ mean anything to you?”
    “Not at all. Should it, love?”
    “That’ll depend on the answer to the second question. It’s about one of the cars you were using in Iran.”
    The levity vanished from Ricks’ voice. “Which one?”
    “Mini,” Chace said. “He had his own parking space, yes?”
    “All the cars did.”
    “Mini’s space, was it yours, or was it inherited?”
    “Ah, I see what you’re asking. Inherited. The, ah, garage, as it were, has been using it since before Mossadegh’s ouster.”
    “That pretty, is it?”
    “It’s like they say about real estate. Location, location, location.”
    “I understand.”
    “My little Mini having engine trouble?”
    “Trying to determine that right now. Thanks for the help.”
    Chace hung up, logged out of the terminal, and sat, collecting her thoughts. Then she rose and headed out of the Ops Room, asking Ron to inform D-Ops that she’d be down in Archives should war be declared. She rode the elevator down to the first subbasement, stuck her head into the Pit, the cramped office that all three Minders shared. Lankford’s desk was empty, but Nicky Poole was seated at his, elbows propped on the desk, head in his hands, apparently concentrating on the file open before him.
    “You SAS types,” Chace said, “can fall asleep anywhere.”
    Poole’s head jerked up. “It’s all those long nights I’ve been spending alone. Hardly getting a wink of sleep.”
    “C’mon, I’ve got something tedious and boring for you to do.”
    Poole closed the file, locking it away in his desk, before moving to join her. They started down the maze of identically decorated hallways, passing door after unmarked door, designed to preserve security between departments.
    “You say boring,” Poole said, “but I’ll have you know, I am a discerning judge of tedium.”
    “We’re going down to Archives.”
    Poole promptly pivoted on his toe, reversing direction one hundred and eighty degrees, heading back to the Pit, and Chace laughed and caught hold of him by his shirt.
    “But I’ve been good!” Poole complained.
    “That’s probably why you’re having so many lonely nights.”
    “Why are we being punished with Archives?”
    “Need to go through the old records for Tehran.”
    “Aren’t they in the computer?”
    “The computer doesn’t have anything older than twenty years or so. The rest are still on paper.”
    “We’ll need written permission for the files.”
    “Only if they’re graded above Restricted,” Chace said, then added, “I turned in my resignation this morning.”
    “Very funny.”
    “Dead serious.”
    Poole stopped. “Tara.”
    “Hmm?”
    “Dead serious?”
    “Soon as the Boss finds a new Minder Three, I’m off to Mission Planning. He’s going to make you Minder One. Don’t look so