Crocker stared up at the plasma wall in the Ops Room, watched as the top left quadrant redrew itself, northeastern Russia vanishing as the display filled with Falcon's fingerprints, freshly downloaded.
"Can we confirm?" he demanded.
"Technical division is looking at it now," Ron Hodgson assured him.
"How long will it take them?"
"No idea. The only fingerprints of Hossein Khamenei available for match are courtesy of the CIA, and there's been a hiccup."
Crocker spun on the toe of his patent leather and made straight for the Duty Ops Desk. "Hiccup how?"
"CIA has asked we send the prints to them for verification, not the other way around."
"Get Seale."
Hodgson nodded, reaching for one of his many phones as Crocker stepped up to join him on the raised platform, then turned back to survey the room. No less than four people were gathered at the Mission Planning Desk, including Nicky Poole, who, despite having been told to go home and take the night had decided to spend his Friday in the Ops Room, keeping one eye on Coldwitch, another on Bagboy.
"Julian Seale, sir," Hodgson said, handing over the phone.
"What the hell are your people playing at?" Crocker demanded.
"She has him?"
Crocker eyed the clocks above the plasma screens. "They reached the safehouse in Noshahr without incident forty-two minutes ago. Why are you withholding the fingerprints?"
"Must be some mistake," Seale said. "I'll have Langley release them now."
"Did you really think I was going to box you out, Julian?"
"I don't know what you're going to do, Paul. Taking out a little insurance seemed wise."
"I see. And will you withhold sending the Coast Guard to the rendezvous as insurance, as well?"
"No," Seale said. "I think you got the message."
"Yes, I did. Now I'd like the fucking fingerprints."
"Should be there within the next five minutes."
Crocker slammed the phone down, hard enough to bring the Ops Room to a sudden, if brief, silence.
"Bastard," Crocker said to no one in particular.
"Yes, sir," Ronald Hodgson agreed, cheerfully.
Crocker stepped down from the platform, started to cross to Alexis at MCO, when Poole intercepted him.
"Boss, we may have a problem."
"Are you going to tell me or do I have to buy you dinner first?"
"You can't afford me." Poole offered him a printout, the ink still tacky on its face. "Weather in zone for tomorrow night is taking a turn for the nasty. There's a storm brewing, looks to sweep down from the northwest across the Caspian, heavy rains and wind. If Tara takes Falcon out onto the water in the Zodiac in that weather, they could end up swamped."
Crocker looked at the satellite image, the blanket of clouds that seemed to be folding over itself. "Probability?"
"They're saying ninety percent chance. It'll bring the temp down, and it's already going to be damn cold out on the water. Winds could reach fifty KPH, possibly higher."
"It just gets better and better, doesn't it?"
"Not really, no, sir."
Crocker stared up at the plasma wall again, this time not seeing it, trying to sort his thoughts.
"Daylight in zone is when?" he asked abruptly.
Poole called out to Ron, relaying the question. There was a pause, then Ron called back, "Morning twilight in zone tomorrow, oh-six-twenty-five, sunrise oh-six-fifty-three."
"And it's oh-one-twenty there now," Poole added.
"How long from the Zodiac to the rendezvous?"
"It's not close. David? Can you put the RZ for Coldwitch on the map and give distance from Noshahr?"
On the plasma wall, a red dot appeared on the Caspian.
"Two hundred and eighty-seven klicks," Poole said. "Top speed of the RHIB is going to be maybe-maybe-seventy knots."
Crocker did the conversion in his head. "A hundred and thirty kilometers an hour. There's no chance in hell she'll be able to go that fast."
"She'd be lucky to push forty knots."
"Which would still mean four hours exposed on the water. If she leaves right now she'll have the cover of darkness for the trip. Otherwise, she'll be out there at dawn, when everyone and their goat can see her."
"That's not the major worry," Poole said. "Will the Coast Guard even attempt the pickup during daylight?"
Crocker snorted. "Absolutely, even if they scream bloody murder about being forced to do it. If she has Falcon with her, they'll be there."
Poole stared up at the map. "No chance we can have them move the RZ further south?" Exasperation had crept into his voice.
"None. They want to stay as far from Iranian airspace as possible. They move further south, they'll risk their own cover. It's why the site's so far north in the first place."
"Not good."
"No," Crocker agreed. "Not good at all."
"Maybe the fingerprints won't match," Poole offered, hopefully.
"With our luck?" Crocker said. "Of course they will."
They did, Daniel Szurko bringing the report directly down to the Ops Room in person, cheerful and excited to be entering a domain normally forbidden to him.
"Positive eighteen-point match, Paul," he said. "It's confirmed, Falcon is Hossein Khamenei."
"You informed C?"
"I thought I'd leave the pleasure to you, though you don't look terribly pleased, I must say."
"That's because I'm not," Crocker said. "Nicky, inform the DC, C, and the FCO that Falcon's identity has been confirmed. Ron, I need Seale again."
"Ahead of you already, sir," Ron said, trying to hand him the phone. Crocker had to reach for it twice, because Szurko had climbed onto the platform to get a better look at the room and, realizing he was now in the way, kept moving in the absolutely wrong direction to get out of it.
"You've confirmed Falcon's identity?" Seale asked.
"It's a positive match with the prints you provided," Crocker said. "But we've got another problem."
"Which is?"
"Weather in zone for tomorrow has gone ugly. I want Chace to take Falcon out tonight. Can you move up the RZ?"
"How soon can she move?"
"If we push and everything goes the way it should, she could be on the water by oh-three-hundred in zone, oh-three-thirty at the latest."
"That'd put her at the RZ well after sunup."
"Between oh-seven-hundred and oh-eight-hundred, I'd think. If there's no trouble on the water."
"Hold on," Seale said, and Crocker heard the line go mute. Szurko hopped down from the platform with both feet, began talking excitedly with Poole about the Ops Room and how they really must get some better equipment in here, certainly have the ICT lads upgrade the computer system. The line clicked, and Seale's voice returned. "Jesus, you weren't kidding. She tries to take him out in that, they won't need the Coast Guard for a RZ, they'll need them for a rescue."
"Can you get them to move up the timetable?" Crocker insisted.
"I'll get on it. You going to clear her to run now?"
"Not until I know if she's got a flight home."
"I'll call you back."
"Quickly, Julian. If they don't start before dawn, there'll be no point in going. I'll have to order them to stay put another day."
"Yeah, I get you. I'll call you back."
The line went dead. Seven minutes and twenty-six seconds later, according to the Ops Room clock, Seale called back.
"Go," he told Crocker.