Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  “Is it the upgrades?” Seale asked Crocker.

  Crocker frowned at the plasma wall. “Possibly.”

  The entirety of the Ops Room had seen a renovation in the past year, from the plasma screens to the computers to the secure communication arrays that kept the SIS headquarters here in London in touch with stations and agents around the world. It had been long overdue, and when it had happened, Crocker had believed it to be a good thing, and it had given him hope for his new Deputy Chief of Service, Alison Gordon-Palmer. It had been Gordon-Palmer who had forced the proposal through the FCO, it had been Gordon-Palmer who had bullied C into securing the necessary funding, and it had been Gordon-Palmer who had gone out of her way to consult with Crocker as to just what the upgrades should entail. By the end of the process, Crocker had come to believe two things about the new DC.

  First, that even without a background in operations, Alison Gordon-Palmer understood the Ops Directorate’s importance in the grand scheme of SIS, and as such, Crocker could count her as an ally; and second, he wanted to maintain that relationship, because he now had no doubt how difficult his life would become if she decided he was her enemy.

  Crocker turned back to Seale, calling across the room. “They don’t know we’re coming? You’re certain?”

  Seale shook his head. “Our intel puts the cell in place and standing by until the morning, when they’re supposed to meet their friends in the Straits. They’re being careful, but they’ve got no reason to think we’re on to them, Paul, none at all. Not unless something’s happened on your end. But nobody from the Company’s tipped the Malaysians.”

  “I’ve half a mind to send an abort, call the whole thing off.” Crocker looked back to the wall, at the static, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. “If we let them slip, any chance we can catch them on the water before they try to take the tanker?”

  “How?” Seale asked. “They get into the Straits of Malacca, we’re going to lose them.”

  Crocker nodded quickly, as if to say that yes, he got the point. “Dammit, Bill, what’s happening with the fucking feed?”

  “Lost the signal, sir,” Teagle said, turning to another screen. “There’s a tracking error on the CVT-30, I think. I can’t bring it back up.”

  Behind him, Crocker heard Seale mutter a curse. He turned, covered the distance to the Duty Operations Desk and Ronald Hodgson in three long strides, saying, “Ron, get onto the MOD, now. Tell them we need to piggyback their link to Candlelight, and we need it five minutes ago.”

  Ronald Hodgson nodded, already reaching for one of the four telephones arrayed around his station.

  Crocker turned to Seale, said, “You’re certain we can’t abort? Try to take them at sea instead?”

  “Be a totally different op.”

  “I know.”

  Seale unfolded his ankles, rose from his slouch in the chair to his feet, one hand brushing down his necktie. One of perhaps two handfuls of African Americans holding senior postings in the CIA, Seale had come to London as COS only four months prior, filling the post vacated by his predecessor and Crocker’s friend, Angela Cheng. Where Crocker ran to lean, even lanky, Seale went broader, exhibiting perhaps more strength than speed. The two men were roughly the same age, each sneaking up on fifty within the next year, each married, each with two children. Viewed together, they formed a strange complement, both physically as much as professionally.

  “God, they try for the tanker and it goes wrong, Paul,” Seale said. “We’ll have the G-77 screaming at us like we were selling naked pictures of their mothers. And if the JI takes the Mawi Dawn, they’ll be sitting on two hundred thousand gallons of liquefied natural gas. That blows up, windows will be shattering all the way to Bangkok. It’ll be the Revenge of Krakatoa.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Worse if they plow the ship into Singapore Harbor.”

  Crocker grunted, shoving a cigarette into his mouth, not wishing to contemplate the scenario any further, nor to imagine the destruction. Bad enough that the Straits of Malacca were perhaps the most dangerous waters in the world, rife with piracy. Bad enough that Jemaah Islamiyah made its home in Malaysia, with a government filled with its sympathizers and supporters. Put the two together, add one supertanker filled with LNG and one box of disposable lighters, and, yes, perhaps Seale was overstating the potential damage.

  But only slightly.

  From the MCO Desk, Bill Teagle uttered a small cry of triumph. “Signal, sir! Audio only, but better than nothing.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  There was a shriek of static from the speakers on the plasma wall, and then the voice of Andrew Fincher, Minder One, came through, choppy and littered with squeaks and pops from the satellite. Crocker could make out the sound of Fincher’s movement, the rustle of his clothing beneath his words.

  “—on approach now . . . see lights on the second floor, no signs of movement . . . hold on . . .”

  Crocker’s scowl deepened. It might have been the radio and the patch, but to his ears, Fincher sounded beyond nervous. When he glanced to Seale, now standing beside him, he saw from the other man’s expression that he’d heard the same thing.

  There was another crackle, then Minder Two’s voice, as Poole transmitted. “Songbird, this is Nightowl. We’re at stage one, taking position, please stand by.”

  “Nightowl, Songbird. Confirmed. Let’s make this fast, right? I’ve got a bad feeling here. I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to.”

  “Songbird, understood. Moving to position one, stand by.”

  Silence from the radios.

  “Your man Fincher sounds like he’s about three steps ahead of panic,” Seale murmured softly. “You want to tell me why he’s taking the lead and not Poole?”

  “Fincher’s Minder One, he worked as the KL Number Two before coming into the Special Section. He knows the ground.”

  “Four years ago he knew the ground. Poole’s ex-SAS, he knows the drill.”

  “Which is why Poole’s the liaison with the brick and not Fincher.”

  “Yeah, but Fincher—”

  “I don’t have anyone else, Julian,” Crocker snapped. “Lankford’s in Gibraltar, and Fincher is Head of Section. If it was KL, I had to send Fincher with Poole. I couldn’t hold him here in reserve.”

  From the corner of his eye, Crocker saw Seale frowning at him.

  “Fincher’s a tool, Paul,” Seale said. “You can hear it in his voice—he’s not made for this.”

  Crocker didn’t respond, instead fishing out his lighter and finally giving flame to the cigarette that had been waiting for the last three minutes. The fact was, he agreed with Seale, not that Fincher was a “tool” per se, but that he was wrong for the job.

  A year and a half ago, after Chace had left, Crocker had scrambled to find a replacement, spending six weeks poring through personnel files. The traditional method of advancement among the Minders was promotion through attrition; Minder Three became Minder Two as Minder Two became Minder One and on and on, each agent replacing the next as his or her predecessor was promoted out of the Section, retired, or perished. The problem was that when Chace departed, she’d taken the lion’s share of operational experience with her. When she’d left, Poole had just under a year as a Minder, and Lankford less than half that.

  Under those circumstances, Crocker had been unable, and in fact unwilling, to promote either of the remaining Minders. They simply didn’t have enough experience, let alone enough seniority.

  It was Weldon who’d proposed Fincher, and it had been the second time the former Deputy Chief had tried to get Crocker to take the man into the section. The first time, Crocker still had Tom Wallace as Minder One, and Chace as Minder Two, and it had been a relatively simple matter to find an agent in training at the School who wanted to join the Special Section. This time, though, the board had shifted to Weldon’s favor, and Crocker had found himself powerless to block the move. SIS employed roughly two thousand officer
s, and of those two thousand, very few had what it took to be a Minder. To Crocker’s eyes, that included Fincher.

  There was simply nobody else, and with the Deputy Chief championing him to C, Crocker had been left with no other choice but to accept Fincher as his new Head of Section.

  It wasn’t that Andrew Fincher was a bad agent. He’d served three tours prior to coming aboard as a Minder, the first in KL, the second in London, on the Central Asian Desk, his third in Panama. He’d distinguished himself in both KL and Panama, resourceful and capable, but, in Crocker’s view, overly concerned with avoiding risk. What had helped Fincher more than anything was his penchant for making the right friends inside the Firm. Starting with his second tour, he’d begun to make it known that he’d very much like to come to work in the Special Section, and that had made Crocker suspicious. Once he was aboard, the suspicions were confirmed.

  Fincher wasn’t a bad agent, but he was station-oriented and excessively cautious, two things that translated to a lack of initiative, something that a Minder, in Crocker’s view, had to have in abundance. He couldn’t send a Minder into the field on a job only to have the agent hesitate and dither before deciding on a course of action, or, worse, repeatedly clear his intentions with both Station and London. In a Special Operation, there just wasn’t the luxury of time. Worse, though, was the fact that Fincher didn’t see anything wrong with his caution, and in fact, Crocker suspected the man believed he was a better agent than he actually was. As far as Paul Crocker was concerned, all other factors aside, that alone made Andrew Fincher absolutely wrong for the work. He wanted his Minders to think they weren’t good enough.

  In fact, it was what he needed them to believe for them to do their job.

  Chace had been the shining example of the principle, marrying ambition, passion, and self-loathing in a seamless blend.

  “Video, sir,” Ronald Hodgson said.

  “Put it up, for God’s sake.”

  The empty rectangle on the plasma screen flickered, then filled with a grainy image, dark enough that it took Crocker a moment before he could begin to discern details. He was looking at three men, all of them in plain clothes, all with their torsos clad in body armor, sitting in what he presumed was the back of the van they’d acquired for the operation. Two of the men held MP-5 submachine guns, fitted with flash suppressors. The third was Nicky Poole, wearing a radio headset, crouched by the side door, one hand to his ear, straining to listen.

  “Where’s the audio?” Crocker demanded.

  “Switching to the MOD stream now, sir.”

  There was another crackle from the speakers.

  “Songbird, Nightowl. Status?”

  No response.

  “Songbird, Nightowl, respond please.”

  On the plasma wall, in its rectangle, Crocker watched as Poole adjusted his position, shifting on his haunches, checking the radio in his hand. He could make out the frown of concentration on Poole’s face.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Seale muttered. “Where is he?”

  “Songbird, Nightowl, respond.”

  Nothing.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, no, thought Crocker.

  Over the speakers came the sound of a rattle, something striking the side of the van. Crocker heard one of the SAS swearing softly, watched as Poole pulled away from the door as three MP-5s came up, and then the side door slid back, and the camera flared as its aperture tried to adjust to the abrupt change in light sources.

  “Friendly!” Crocker heard Poole hissing. “Jesus, friendly, don’t fucking shoot him!”

  The image resolved again, and Crocker watched as Poole yanked Fincher into the van, one hand on his shoulder, more concerned with efficiency in the move than comfort. The camera readjusted as the SAS trooper wearing the rig moved back. The view canted at an angle, and over the speakers came the bang of the door sliding closed again.

  Poole leaned in on Fincher. “What the fuck happened, what are you doing here?”

  Fincher shook his head, trying to catch his breath. Poole, still with his hand on Fincher’s shoulder, shook the other man.

  “What the fucking hell happened? Dammit, Andrew!”

  Fincher coughed, pulling himself away from Poole’s grip. “They made me. I had to withdraw. We’ve got to abort.”

  Crocker cursed, hearing Seale echoing him. He swung toward the Duty Ops Desk. “Ron, MOD, now! Get me a patch to Candlelight, they cannot abort!”

  “Open line, sir.” Ron handed Crocker the telephone handset.

  Crocker put the phone to his ear, could hear the sounds of consternation coming from the Ministry of Defense’s operational command post. “D-Ops, who am I talking to?”

  “Lance Corporal Richard Moth, sir.”

  “Put Colonel Dawson on the line.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  From the speakers, Crocker could hear Poole cursing at Fincher. “You’ve fucking blown us, you fool!”

  “They made me, dammit! What was I supposed to do?”

  On the screen, Crocker watched as Poole sat back, yanking the headset from his head. The expression he was seeing on Minder Two’s face was much like the one Crocker imagined was now gracing his own.

  In his ear, from the telephone, Crocker heard, “Paul? James. What the hell is your man playing at?”

  “God only knows. Listen, Colonel, you’ve got to give them the go order.”

  “If they’ve been blown—”

  “I understand the risk. They’ve got to move now, Colonel, there’s no choice.”

  “Hold on.”

  Crocker looked back to the video feed, watching. After a second’s pause, a squawk came over the speakers, and he watched as Poole hastily put his headset back into place.

  “Nightowl, go.”

  From the telephone, Crocker heard Dawson’s voice, distant, relaying the go, repeating the order twice, to make it clear.

  On the screen, through the speakers, Poole said, “Nightowl confirms, we are go, repeat, we are go.”

  Crocker was sure he saw Fincher blanch.

  There was a rush of movement then, Poole reaching for the MP-5 that had been waiting for him as the camera jerked, heading to the doors of the van. The screen flared again, resolved, and now the view was jumping up and down, and Crocker could see Poole and the other two SAS troopers racing along the street, turning now between buildings, running hard, then slowing. They reached the door, two of the troopers taking entry positions, and the one wearing the camera made the breach, and Poole tossed the first grenade, and the sound of the explosion came back at them in the Ops Room, muffled by the speakers.

  Then the shooting started.

  CHAPTER 3

  Uzbekistan—Tashkent—

  Husniddin Asomov Avenue

  11 February, 1213 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  If he hadn’t been so focused on chasing the hare, Charles Riess supposed he’d have seen the car coming. But then again, if he’d seen the car coming, Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov might never have made contact with him, so all in all, Riess figured it more than made up for the scraped knee and sprained ankle.

  They’d started the run up on the northeast edge of Tashkent, about ten in the morning, just north of the Salor Canal, setting off in pursuit of a particularly sneaky son of a bitch from the Embassy’s Consular Division named Bradley Walker. Turned out his surname was more than a little misleading, and with the fifteen-minute head start that Riess and the twenty-seven other Hash House Harriers had given to Walker, he’d led them on a merry chase. Most times, you could count on the run being completed in about an hour, so everyone could get to the more serious business of drinking.

  Most times.

  Walker had been given the go, running with a bag of flour to lay trail—or more precisely, to lay false trail—and Riess and the others had stood in the freezing morning, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. In another two weeks the winter would be over, and Uzbekistan’s traditionally temperate climate would return, but for now it was cold en
ough that Riess seriously considered forfeiting his participation altogether, just so he could return to his home on Raktaboshi Avenue and crawl back into bed. Another of the Harriers, joining them from the German Embassy, had seemed to read his mind, making a joke about calling the run on account of the weather. Riess had looked north, into Kazakhstan, and seen snow on the mountains.

  The chase began, the pack setting off in pursuit of the hare, heading first toward the Botanical Gardens. Riess had run long distance in college but quit upon entering the State Department, only to pick it up again after he’d met Rebecca. They’d met early in his first posting, Tanzania, and it had been part of their courtship, what Riess had supposed was some Darwinian hardwired leftover proof-of-virility ritual. He’d gotten as far as picking out a ring and preparing a speech, had scouted locations in Dar es Salaam, just to find the right place to propose.

  Then the Embassy had been bombed and eighty people had been wounded, and eleven had died, and Rebecca had been one of those eleven.

  Now when he ran, Riess sometimes imagined Rebecca was running alongside him, and that was how he remembered her, and it made the going easy, despite the cold. Today, he soon found himself leading the pack. He stood five ten when his shoes were off, and one-seventy-eight on the bathroom scale after a shower, wearing nothing but his towel, with long legs Rebecca had described as spindly. If his German/English heritage had given Riess anything, it was a runner’s body.

  He ran, eyes open for the trail, and just before the zoo, he saw what he was certain, at the time, was a smudged arrow of flour, pointing him toward the northwest. He pressed on, crossing the Jahon Obidova, heading northwest now, down along the Bozsu Canal. Splotches of flour appeared every hundred meters or so, keeping him on track, and behind him, he could hear the singing and laughter of the pack. Riess felt the warmth of his own breath as he ran through the clouds of condensation he was making.