Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  Which would ideally have been enough, except that when Crocker returned to the office on Wednesday morning, the first thing Kate told him was “C wanted to know where you were yesterday.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Simple wage slave, aren’t I? I told him you’d had a family emergency.”

  Crocker looked at the memo in front of him, for the moment not seeing it. “Nothing more specific?”

  “I thought it best to leave it vague, so you could fill in the details.”

  Crocker grunted. “Good.”

  Kate scooped up the pile of files Crocker had already vetted, then paused. “DC didn’t know where you were, did she?”

  “The only person who knew where I was yesterday was you, Kate.” Crocker looked at her suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Only it was C who asked where you were, not DC. I’d have thought it would come from the DC in the first instance, that she’d be the one doing the asking.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Kate shrugged. “Simple wage slave. Why should I worry?”

  Crocker watched her leave his office, closing the door as she went, and again turned his attention to the memo open before him, then abandoned it, turning his chair to look out the window. It was triple-paned glass, coated on the outside so that, from the street, the windows took on a slight verdigris tinge. The spaces between the panes were filled with argon, to prevent eavesdropping through the use of directional laser microphones. The blinds themselves were similarly treated and lined with lead, to further deter surveillance. But through the slats in the blinds, there was just enough space to see, and from Crocker’s office, if the weather permitted, he had a view across the Thames, to the Tate Britain. Farther north, blocked by the angle and intervening structures, stood Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, and then, continuing along, the offices of Whitehall, the land of Seccombe.

  Kate was correct: it should have been Gordon-Palmer who’d been asking after Crocker, not C. As Deputy Chief, it was Gordon-Palmer’s job, in part, to attend the day-to-day running of SIS, leaving Barclay free to deal with the more time-consuming and arguably more important work of liaising with the rest of HMG. That it had been C and not Gordon-Palmer who had come looking for him was troubling. It meant C was keeping the promised close eye on Crocker.

  But that didn’t explain why Barclay had come calling and not Gordon-Palmer. It was possible, Crocker supposed, that, occupied elsewhere in the building or Whitehall, Gordon-Palmer simply hadn’t known that Crocker was away. Yet even as he considered it, he discarded the idea. It wasn’t the kind of thing she was liable to miss.

  The only answer to it that Crocker could see, in fact, was that Gordon-Palmer had known he was away, and had known why. And as it had been Gordon-Palmer who had pointed Crocker to Seccombe, the conclusion therefore was that, whatever game Sir Walter Seccombe, PUS at the FCO, was playing, Gordon-Palmer was playing it with him.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and Crocker reflexively reached back to the telephone, hitting the button without looking. “What?”

  “Minder One to see you, sir,” Kate said.

  Crocker thought about refusing Fincher, telling him to return to the Pit, but it would simply postpone the inevitable. “Roll him in.”

  The intercom clicked off, and Crocker swiveled around in time to watch Kate open the door for Andrew Fincher. She withdrew silently, closing the door after her.

  “Sir,” Fincher said.

  “Andrew.” Crocker rifled through the stack in his inbox and pulled the Candlelight after-action from where he’d been keeping it at the bottom of the pile, holding it up to show to Fincher before dropping it once again. The file landed on his desk with a soft but significant slap. “Explain this.”

  Fincher hesitated, stiffening, as if coming to military attention. He stood five nine, average build, with ginger hair and the faded memory of freckles on his face, wearing the same dark blue Marks & Sparks suit he always wore to work. Crocker didn’t hold that against him; at the wages the Minders earned, if Fincher owned more than three suits, Crocker would have been surprised. Today’s shirt was ivory, the tie the same navy as his trousers.

  “I’d been blown, sir,” Fincher said. “When I approached as advance for the strike team, I noted activity at the site and several lights burning, as well as sentries posted, including one on the rooftop. I . . . I determined that the strike was not feasible at that time, and withdrew to Holding One to inform London of my recommendation that we abort—”

  “I’ve yet to hear anything indicating that you’d actually been blown, Andrew,” Crocker interrupted.

  “Sir, as I state in my report, the sentries—”

  “In which case you should have given the go signal immediately. Instead, you withdrew and further exposed yourself.”

  “If I had done so, sir, I would have remained in the open until the Strike Team arrived.”

  Crocker stood up, bathing Fincher in his glare. “Minder Two’s after-action differs from yours.”

  “Respectfully, sir, Minder Two wasn’t responsible for the recce.”

  “They had no reason to know we were coming. There should have been little to no resistance during the strike. As it was, the Strike Team encountered stiff resistance, and was forced to overcome it, with the result that local police responded to the firefight, and witnessed your withdrawal.”

  “I am aware of that, sir.” Fincher wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing past Crocker’s shoulder, at the Chinese dragon print on the wall.

  “You tipped them,” Crocker said. “They made you on the withdrawal.”

  “Respectfully, sir—”

  “You lost your nerve.”

  Fincher went silent, and from his expression, Crocker knew he was right, and that Fincher knew it as well.

  “You’re suspended from active duty at this time,” Crocker told him. “Administrative duties only. You’re expected to remain in the Pit in case I need you.”

  “I’m Head of the Special Section, sir.”

  “And for the time being, you can still call yourself that.” Crocker came around his desk, passing Fincher and heading for the door.

  “Am I fired, sir?”

  “If I had anyone to replace you with, Andrew, you would be.” Crocker pulled open the door to the outer office, and from the corner of his eye saw Kate, at her desk, look immediately up. “Now get out of my sight.”

  Fincher remained motionless for a fraction longer, then nodded slightly. Crocker watched him go, waited until the door to the hall had shut again, then turned to head back into his office.

  “Sir?” Kate said.

  “What?” He put the glare he’d been using on Fincher on her.

  “C wants you.”

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “Family emergency, sir. Ariel took a fall, broke her leg.”

  Barclay blinked at him, and Crocker could see him trying to penetrate the lie. It wouldn’t be that difficult to verify, Crocker knew, but he doubted that Barclay would take the time to have his assistant call his home, to speak to Crocker’s wife. Even if he did, it was covered. Crocker had told Jennie that, should anyone ask, Ariel had broken her leg in a bicycle accident the previous morning.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Barclay said, after a moment. “Your daughter will be all right?”

  “We had a scare, sir, but she’s enjoying the crutches for the moment.”

  “A ready means of sympathy.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  Barclay nodded slightly, as if satisfying himself. Crocker waited, and after another second Barclay motioned to the chairs in front of the desk. It surprised Crocker. He’d expected to be dismissed, rather than invited to stay longer. He took the chair.

  “There’s been another MANPAD alert,” Barclay said, after a second. “Coming out of Chechnya this time.”

  Crocker frowned. Man-portable air defense systems—MANPADs—stood in a place of pride at the top
of the counterterror nightmare list, mostly because they were an embarrassment to the West in addition to their obvious destructive potential. While the media focused on the more dramatic scenarios of bioterror and dirty bombs, every Western intelligence agency ranked the MANPAD threat much higher, both because it was easier to execute and because, should it come to pass, it would be beyond embarrassing to the governments in question.

  Stinger missiles were a MANPAD. And Stinger missiles had been rather liberally handed out to onetime U.S. allies in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, long before the Global War on Terror had begun. The GWOT had happened, and CT analysts in Langley and London had sat up straight in their uncomfortable chairs and begun firing off insistent memos and shrilly worded reports, describing in detail what a single member of Jemaah Islamiyah or the EIJ or any other al-Qaeda-associated terror cell could do with but one of the missiles to, say, a Boeing 777 taking off from Heathrow.

  Or, for that matter, to a C-130 Hercules delivering troops into Baghdad.

  The Americans had given the world the Stinger, but it was not the only MANPAD system out there. The Russians had the Grouse and the Gremlin; the French, the Mistral; the Israelis, the Barak. There were countless others, of varying efficacy and availability.

  And England had first the Javelin, then the Starburst, and now, more recently—and much more effective—the Starstreak.

  “I didn’t see anything in the daily brief,” Crocker said.

  “No, Simon just brought it to my attention,” Barclay replied. “Nothing hard yet, just a whisper that something might be coming.”

  “Someone should inform the Russians.”

  “If they don’t know already.” Barclay shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the conversation. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “No, sir?”

  “You’ve been meeting with Sir Walter Seccombe.”

  “I’ve had a meeting with him, yes, sir.”

  “Why is a junior director from SIS meeting with the Permanent Undersecretary at the FCO, Paul?”

  “He wanted an explanation for the disaster in Kuala Lumpur.”

  “I briefed the Cabinet myself, including the Foreign Secretary and the PM.”

  Crocker resisted the urge to shrug. “Sir Walter asked to see me, sir. I’m hardly in a position to refuse him.”

  “Indeed. You’re hardly in much of a position at all, at the moment.”

  Crocker didn’t say anything.

  “We discussed, earlier, your future prospects. I’m willing to appoint you as Washington liaison, to move you to the States. It’s not a terminal posting, Paul, and it will preserve your future prospects. You could find yourself back here within two or three years.”

  “I understand.”

  “But the posting is conditional on your behavior and performance until your replacement arrives. As I said, if you make this transition difficult, I’ll have you manning a station in Outer Mongolia. Somehow I doubt your wife or your daughters would appreciate that.”

  “No, sir, I don’t think they would.”

  Barclay leveled a glare at him. “Then consider this. If you’re playing a game with me, if you’re withholding information from me, if you’re cooking something—anything—of which I would not approve, not only will you end up in Outer Mongolia, but you’ll end your career there as well.”

  “I understand,” said Crocker.

  Barclay shook his head, as if to say that he doubted Crocker was capable of even that much, then waved his hand, flicking his fingers as if trying to brush him away like so much lint. Crocker got to his feet once more, murmuring a thank-you, and made for the door.

  As he reached it, Barclay said, “If Seccombe contacts you again, I want to know about it.”

  “Of course, sir,” Crocker answered, and left C’s office to return to his own.

  He’d been at his desk for less than two minutes when Kate buzzed him to say that Sir Walter Seccombe’s PA had just called, and that the PUS was hopeful that D-Ops would indulge him for a few minutes at his office at his earliest convenience. Hopeful enough that he was willing to send his car and driver around to fetch him.

  A hearse might be better, Crocker thought.

  Seccombe began with the pleasantries and the customary offer of whiskey, which Crocker again declined.

  “So, where are we, Paul?” Seccombe fixed himself a drink, splashing water into his lowball glass to mix with his scotch.

  “I should have someone on the ground in Tashkent by tomorrow forenoon,” Crocker answered. “Once there, she’ll locate Ruslan and begin planning the lift.”

  “She?” Seccombe turned, the glass halfway to his lips. “Chace?”

  “You remember her.”

  “You used her for the Zimbabwe check, if I recall.”

  “Yes.”

  Seccombe took a seat in his easy chair. “She quit.”

  “A little over eighteen months ago. You’re very well informed.”

  “One tries to keep abreast of things. Andrew Fincher replaced her. You’ve been struggling ever since.”

  “I wouldn’t say struggling.”

  “Your Deputy Chief would disagree.”

  Second time she’s come up in this room, Crocker thought.

  “How long until Chace tries for the lift?”

  “She’ll need at least two days on the ground just for surveillance, and that’s after she locates Ruslan. If she moves quickly and everything goes her way, she could try for a lift as soon as the nineteenth, Sunday. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Sooner would be better than later.”

  “She is aware of that.”

  “You briefed her yourself?”

  “You made it very clear that this was to be between you and me,” Crocker said.

  “I did.”

  “And the Deputy Chief.”

  Seccombe smiled, draining his whiskey and then setting the glass on the bookstand at his elbow. The stand was an antique, mahogany, its surface covered in green felt, and the lamp on Seccombe’s desk shot rainbows through the crystal glass.

  “How much does she know?” Crocker asked.

  “You may consider the DC an ally, Paul.”

  “Not much of an answer.”

  “But enough of one, I think, for the moment.”

  Crocker thought for a second, then said, “Barclay called me into his office this afternoon, ostensibly to find out where I was yesterday.”

  “Ostensibly?”

  “He hedged, wanted to talk about a MANPAD alert that D-Int had passed along. But he knew I’d met with you, and he doesn’t like it. He feels communication between you and SIS should go through him.”

  “In almost every instance, it does.”

  “Which is why he’s growing suspicious.”

  “Hmm,” Seccombe said. “Then I suppose this should be our last meeting until Chace is back from Uzbekistan.”

  “That’s probably for the best.”

  “Very good, then.”

  Crocker rose, saying, “So if I need to pass anything along to you, I should go through the Deputy Chief?”

  Seccombe laughed.

  “Don’t push your luck, Paul,” he said. “You have less of it than you think.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,

  Office of the Political Counselor

  16 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  “Where are you going?” Political Counselor T. Lindsay McColl demanded when he caught Riess halfway out the door.

  “The Ambassador wants to see me,” Riess said.

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  McColl’s face compressed, as if squeezing in upon itself with displeasure, and it made his cheeks color, and Riess had the thought that it made the man look like a giant lollipop in a suit, lanky, lean, with a big red head.

  “You’re spending far too much time with him,” McColl said. “You’ve got work to do here.”


  Riess nodded, but said nothing, waiting for McColl to realize that was because there was nothing else to say, and no way that McColl could justify keeping the Ambassador waiting. It took McColl four seconds to reach the same conclusion, whereupon his face seemed to tighten even further before relaxing.

  “Go,” McColl said. “But you’ve got work to do here, don’t you forget. You need to deliver that démarche on the U.S. candidate to the Agency for Cotton Project Implementation by the end of the day.”

  “I thought it might be useful if I sent over a copy of the resume along with the talking points,” Riess replied. “Then suggest that I could make myself available if they had any questions.”

  “We want to be responsive to Washington, Charles.” The condescension in his voice was cloying. “And make sure you have the reporting cable about the meeting on the Ambassador’s desk by COB.”

  “Yes, sir,” Riess said, and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him and hearing the lock snap in place. He went the fifteen feet down the hallway to the security checkpoint and the Marine standing guard there, swiped his pass in the reader, listened as the locks snapped back in the access door. He pushed through, out of the Political/Economic Section, turning through the Public Affairs Section and nearly bumping into Lydia Straight as she emerged from Cultural Affairs Office with Emily Cachet, the CAO. He hit a second checkpoint, swiped through again, deeper into the building, passing the Warden’s office and yet more guards and another access door, which led to Tower’s domain of spooks and spies. He’d never been through that door, and never expected to be, either.

  The last time he’d been home, he’d gone to the movies, seen some thriller where a secret agent had led the Marines on a merry chase through the halls of one U.S. embassy or another. He’d laughed so hard tears had run down his face at the ridiculousness of it all. Forget the fact that the Marines in question had been armed to the teeth with M-16s and M-89s, body-armored and laden with grenades—to Riess’ knowledge, there were perhaps a half-dozen weapons available to the Marines on post, and if even one of them needed to be drawn for active use, the Gunney in question would have demanded written permission from everyone up to and including the Ambassador himself—not even the Vice President of the United States could move through an embassy with such freedom. There were places in the building that Riess had never seen and never would see, and that was called security, and that was the way it was.