by Greg Rucka
“At the Independence Day party—theirs, not ours. That’s it.”
“According to Tower, Malikov wants control of the country to stay in the family when he kicks it. Hasn’t chosen one kid over the other, as far as the CIA can tell. God knows, if he doesn’t designate a clear successor before he kicks it, all hell will break loose. Might break loose anyway, even if he does. The DPMs would eat their own young if they thought it would put them in charge.”
“Sevara’s married to Ganiev—”
“Yeah, the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior, though it’s an open secret that she’s the one running the Ministry.”
“That’s not all she’s doing,” Riess said. “There’ve been reports of her selling girls into the UAE, that she’s formed and armed her own militia. We know she’s got her own secret police force, her own courts. And we’re not even discussing her legitimate—and I use the word in the loosest possible sense—business interests, from her wireless communications company to owning something like three spas and a movie studio.”
“Whereas Ruslan has a two-year-old son and has just become a widower.”
“Ruslan’s the Chairman of the Constitutional Court, which means he’s responsible for writing the laws that his father wants written. He’s got some people, but it’s nothing like what Sevara’s assembled. That’s never been how he does business.”
Garret drained his cup and again looked to the clock, this one hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. He frowned, and Riess knew from the expression on his face that the Ambassador was doing time-zone math, most likely calculating the hour in Washington.
“Have to start with my calls.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing for the time being.”
Riess tried to keep the confusion off his face. “Sir?”
“Nothing. Don’t try to contact Ruslan, don’t go near him. Just do your job, keep McColl happy. He already thinks you spend too much time with me as it is.”
“Ruslan believes his life is in danger, sir. If we don’t do something—”
“Easy, Charles. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do anything, I just told you to steer clear for the time being.” Garret looked at the clock again, frowning. “What’s London, five hours behind us?”
“Uh . . . five or six, I think.”
“He won’t be in yet,” Garret said, more to himself than to Riess, then sighed. “I’ve had enough, Chuck. Thirty years in high diplomacy and not enough time actually spent keeping the people on the ground from being tortured to death. Realpolitik be damned, I’ve had enough. Malikov goes. One way or another, he goes. We’re staging a coup, Chuck. A nice, quiet coup, and when it’s over the White House gets to say we did the right thing, even if they’d rather we hadn’t done it at all.”
“If it works,” Riess murmured.
“If it works.”
They left it at that, neither of them wishing to say what would happen if it didn’t.
CHAPTER 4
London—Spice Quay,
Residence of Poole, Nicholas
12 February, 1748 Hours GMT
“Thought you were bringing Tamsin,” Nicky Poole said after he’d let Chace inside and taken her coat. “Didn’t leave her on the train, did you?”
Chace smacked her forehead with her palm, just hard enough to make an audible impact.
“Oh, damn,” she said. “I wondered what that bloody racket was.”
She shrugged and grinned, and Poole laughed and asked her if she’d like a glass of wine before dinner, saying that he’d opened a passable French Syrah that he thought she might enjoy. Chace followed him through the flat, past the windows overlooking the Thames, at the rain that was falling hard enough to hide the view of Tower Bridge. She took the glass he offered, raised it to his, and each took a sip to the other’s health, before Poole set his back down and returned his attention to the salad he was preparing as a starter.
“You’re looking good,” Poole remarked. “Thought you’d have gone all dumpy with motherhood by now.”
“Nursing is a wonderful thing,” Chace said. “I think I’m back to my fighting weight, so to speak. You look like hell, incidentally.”
“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Job?”
He shook his head slightly, not so much as an answer, but rather to warn her off as he added a handful of goat cheese to the salad. “You know I can’t talk about it.”
Chace nodded, took another sip of her wine, hoping it would soothe her curiosity. It surprised her how much she wanted to know the details, where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d done it.
“So,” Poole said, changing the subject, “where is the little precious?”
“I told you, I left her on the train. Should be in Dover by now, I’d think.”
Poole arched an eyebrow at her, then scattered chopped figs on the salad before sprinkling the mixture with a vinaigrette he’d apparently prepared himself. He picked up the salad bowl, snapping his wrist forward, then back, catching the greens as they flipped into the air.
“Very fancy,” Chace said. “Tam’s fine, she’s in Barlick, Val’s watching her. We’re weaning, and it’s easier if I’m not there for it.”
“I was worried.” Poole set the bowl down, began dishing the salad onto plates. “For a moment I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned her.”
“Nice to know you think so very highly of me, Nicky.”
“I do think very highly of you, Tara.” He handed her a plate, then picked up his own, taking his wineglass in his free hand. “To the table, please. We need to eat it before it wilts.”
“Words to live by if ever I’ve heard them,” she said, and followed him to her seat.
They ate well, Gressingham duck served with rosemary potatoes and freshly minted peas. The conversation was easy at first, and each laughed more often than not. Twice Chace tried to steer the conversation around to SIS and happenings at Vauxhall Cross, and the first time, Poole let it continue, going so far as to share the few pieces of information that were harmless, or at least considered open secrets. He liked their new Deputy Chief; Kate still guarded the door to Crocker’s office; Lankford had gotten himself a girl; Barclay continued to make life miserable. After he’d served the apple crumble and coffee, Chace tried a second time, asking pointedly how her replacement was working out, and Poole set down his utensils and stopped just short of glaring at her.
“I can’t talk about it, and I can’t talk about him, and you know that, Tara. So leave it be, right? Enjoy the meal, tell me about your little girl, talk about religion, sex, and politics, if you like. But please, don’t ask me questions you know I’m not allowed to answer.”
Chastened, Chace nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“You miss it so much, reapply. Crocker would take you back in an instant.”
“Crocker can burn in hell.”
“Fine, then. Shall we talk about the weather?”
Chace shook her head, and let it go, lapsing into silence as she started on her dessert. The dinner marked the third time she and Poole had gotten together since she’d quit SIS eighteen months prior. The first time, he’d come to visit shortly after Tamsin’s birth, while Chace was still in the hospital, with flowers and good wishes from both him and Lankford, saying only that he’d heard there were now two of her, and he had to see it himself before he could believe it. Chace suspected that Crocker had let him know about the birth, though how he’d found out, she couldn’t guess. It wouldn’t have been that hard.
The second visit had been just before Christmas. Poole had come to Barnoldswick bearing gifts for Tamsin and Valerie, and had stayed with them overnight, even going so far as to cook dinner for the three of them. When he’d left in the midafternoon the next day, Valerie had told Chace that, if she was smart, she’d get her grip on that Mr. Poole right quick, before some other lady beat her to the punch, as he’d be a wonderful father to her baby. Chace had smiled and explained th
at such an arrangement was unlikely to happen, as Mr. Poole preferred the romantic company of other men to that of women. Valerie had digested that, frowning.
“Homosexual?” she’d asked, for clarification.
“Devout.”
“No wonder he’s so good in the kitchen, then,” Valerie had mused, and then gone off to continue wrapping Christmas presents.
They finished the meal just after eight in the evening, and Chace stayed to help with the dishes, clearing the table. By the time all was dry and back in its proper place, Chace could tell Poole was halfway to sleep. Whatever he’d done, wherever it had been, it had taken a physical toll, she could read it in his movements, in his expression when he thought she was looking away. He was angry, too, and she was certain it was related.
He gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went out the door, saying that he hoped they’d get together again soon, and she echoed the sentiment, slipping into her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck as she went down the hall, catching the lift back to the street. Once outside, though, walking through the rain, she admitted that she probably wouldn’t see him again at all, in fact, that this had most likely been the last time they would ever come together for a social visit.
The gulf was too wide, she realized as she walked toward the tube stop to catch the train back to Camden, and each time they got together, it only made the distance between them that much wider. It had nothing to do with friendship, nothing to do with the respect or fondness that either had for the other.
He lived in another world now, one she’d departed of her own choosing.
Riding the tube, looking with contempt at the other passengers pursuing their minor lives, it struck her that she was just like them now.
She was just like everyone else.
CHAPTER 5
London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops
13 February 0922 GMT
Crocker’s day, when he could rely on that mythical creature called a “routine,” normally began at half past five in the morning, with the cruel blare of his alarm as it dutifully roused him from the four or so hours of sleep he’d managed to steal. He would tumble from his bed, and, on days like today, curse the draftiness of the old house as the cold radiated through the rug on the floor. He would lurch more than walk to the bathroom, and let the shower finish what the alarm had begun. He suffered from regular headaches and regular muscle aches, both the result of tension, and depending on how sorry his state, would remain under the water for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes in an attempt to lessen the impact of both, before emerging to shave and dress.
Lately, his showers ran to the long side.
Once in his suit, always three pieces, always gray or navy, he would descend to the kitchen to find Jennie already there, and she would hand him his first cup of coffee for the day, and he would drink it while they shared a quick breakfast, cereal if there was time, a piece of fruit stuffed into a pocket if there wasn’t. Crocker would use the telephone, and call the Ops Room, to inform the Duty Ops Officer that he was on his way into the office. He would kiss his wife, promise that he’d be home by dinner, grab his government case, and make his way to the train. If the commute was easy, he could count on reaching Vauxhall Cross by half past seven; if it was hard, it could take him until half past eight, or longer.
On a normal day, Kate Cooke would have arrived before him, early enough that she could present Crocker with his second cup of coffee as he entered his office, taking his government case in trade. While Crocker hung his coat from the rickety stand in the corner of his office, Kate would unlock the case using one of the keys that hung from the chain at her waist, and begin removing and sorting those files and papers that had accompanied Crocker home the previous night. Throughout this, she would provide a continuous commentary, informing Crocker of any matters outstanding that required his immediate attention, or in fact of anything that she thought might be of interest to him at all.
Crocker would settle behind his desk, light his first cigarette, and then begin the necessary but tedious process of vetting the stack of reports as Kate departed, leaving the door open to the outer office so she could remain within earshot. Crocker would scan the files, circulars, and memorandums that had arrived while he’d been away, initialing each as he went, to signify that he had, in fact, seen and reviewed its contents. The stack was always prepared in the same fashion, with those items marked “Immediate” at the top, down to those graded “Routine” at the bottom.
More often than not, Crocker would discover multiple items requiring his attention, and bellow for Kate to return. Dictation would follow, or directions, or curses, or any combination thereof, and Kate would again return to her desk to carry out the latest series of instructions. Crocker would then direct his attention to the Daily Intelligence Brief, as prepared by his opposite number, the Director of Intelligence, Simon Rayburn. This, in turn, would lead to more instructions to Kate, and frequently, those instructions would require the Minders in some fashion or another to join him in his office, more frequently using the house phone to inform the Head of Section of D-Ops’ wishes.
On a good day, it would be nine in the morning by the time this particular regimen was completed. On a bad day, it could last well into the late morning.
What happened next depended on a variety of different variables. Should the world appear to be behaving itself, Crocker would move to the Deputy Chief’s office, joined by D-Int, and together, sitting opposite the DC, the three would review the events of the day before, and plan for the events of the day ahead. The DC would then excuse them, and depart to carry that briefing up to C, leaving Crocker and Rayburn to return to their offices to oversee their respective domains. If an operation was in the offing, Crocker would make a visit to the Ops Room first to check on the status of the mission, and to make certain that the Operations Room staff was appropriately briefed. He would then return to his office, and continue to attend to matters there, both political and operational. Letters would be drafted, phone calls made, and always more meetings. The minutiae of Intelligence in all of its tedious glory, from budget allocations to changes in security protocols to correspondence sent in response to this department or that ministry.
And so it would go until, inevitably, the red phone on Crocker’s desk would ring, and the Duty Ops Officer would be on the line, his voice soft, efficient, controlled, informing D-Ops that something, somewhere, had happened, requiring his attention. The Paris Number One had been arrested for soliciting a prostitute, for instance, or a journalist for the BBC had been arrested in Darfur, accused of espionage, or a car bomb had exploded in Moscow, or the Director of Global Issues at the FCO had been spotted at the airport in São Paulo, when in point of fact she was supposed to be vacationing in California, or Operation: Fill-in-the-Blank had hit a snag.
And Crocker would respond, depending on what was needed, giving his orders, rushing to brief the DC and C, struggling to secure the approval required to do whatever it was that would be needed next. Politics would rear its ugly head, and arguments would ensue, and somewhere, someplace in the world, time would be running out to do whatever it was that needed to be done.
Crises, and more, dealing with crises, was, after all, his line of work.
If things went well, the crisis would resolve in short order, but of course, things rarely went well. Assuming the crisis resolved, Crocker could count on leaving Vauxhall Cross at six in the evening, to negotiate his morning commute once more, this time in reverse, carrying his government case, loaded and locked by Kate before he’d sent her home. If he was fortunate, he’d arrive to find that Jennie had held dinner for him, and if he was extraordinarily lucky, he’d find his daughters at the table as well, Ariel, thirteen, and Sabrina, sixteen. He would use the telephone, and inform the Duty Ops Officer that he was now at home, then sit down to dine and enjoy what little time he could with his family.
Later in the evening, after the children had gone to bed, Crocker would unlo
ck his case, and go through the papers he’d brought home with him. He’d make notes, draft responses, and inevitably fall asleep while reviewing the papers, only to be awoken by Jennie, and redirected to his bed. Sometimes, they even managed to make love before he fell asleep again.
That was the routine.
Monday morning, the routine lasted until he reached his office, and then it went all to hell, pretty much as Crocker had expected it would.
“C wants you in his office right away,” Kate informed him as she followed Crocker from the outer office to the inner, taking his case.
“Is Fincher in the Pit?”
“Not yet, sir, no. Poole and Lankford.”
Crocker shrugged out of his overcoat, placed it on the stand. “How many times has he called down?”
“Just the twice. Deputy Chief as well, only once.”
“We have Minder One’s after-action?”
“It’s on top of the stack.” Kate closed the now-empty case, setting it beside the document safe that stood just inside Crocker’s office, to the left of the door. “KL went badly, I presume?”
“Fincher bollixed it up.”
“Hardly surprising,” Kate murmured.
Crocker stopped moving long enough to glare at her. “What was that?”
“It seems surprising,” Kate said, sweetly, adjusting her grip on the stack she’d taken from the case. “Shall I inform Sir Frances that you’re on the way up?”
“If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother. And perhaps you’d like to inform the Deputy Chief as well?”
“I would be delighted.”
He waited until she was out of the room before starting a cigarette, taking the first folder off of the top of the stack sitting on his desk. The folder was red, indicating that its contents were operational in nature, and a tracking sheet was affixed to its front, along with a bar code. It was stamped “Most Secret,” and the tab on the side read “Candlelight.” According to the tracking sheet, the contents had most recently been received by the Deputy Chief’s office at 0818 that morning, and by C’s at 0844. Kate had signed for possession at 0902.