Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Crocker said.

  “No, I like standing around in the rain.” Seale turned toward the west, then hesitated. “Which way?”

  “South, then right. It’ll take us into the park.”

  They began walking, Seale shifting the umbrella to his other hand to avoid hitting Crocker with the canopy.

  “You and Angela did this a lot?”

  Crocker finished lighting his cigarette, stowed his lighter, nodding as he exhaled. “She used to say she liked the exercise, but I think it appealed to the traditionalist in her.”

  “Oh, the plots that have been hatched in this park.”

  “And those are the ones we know about,” Crocker agreed. “You wanted to see me?”

  “About two things, actually. One is a favor, the other is more an FYI point.”

  “Is the FYI in exchange for the favor?”

  Seale chuckled, a low rumble not unlike the sounds of traffic coming from the road behind them. “The FYI is free, actually.”

  “Now I’m nervous.”

  Seale chuckled again.

  “What do you need?” Crocker asked.

  “Wondering if you can offer any Special Section support for an operation in Casablanca.”

  “Supporting what?”

  “We’ve located two members of a GSPC cell we’d like to bring in for further questioning. Problem is, all of our Executive Action staff is tasked elsewhere at the moment. The soonest we’d be able to free up an agent would be tomorrow late, putting him in theater late on Sunday at the earliest.”

  “By which time they will have jumped?”

  “Or worse, gone and done whatever it is they’re planning to do.”

  “Which members?”

  “Mohammud Belkadem and Hamed Hamouche.”

  Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Confirmed?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking for your help if it wasn’t confirmed. We just need someone who knows the drill to help our Station with the snatch.”

  “Moroccan authorities are aiding?”

  “We’re leaving them out for the moment.” Seale flashed Crocker a grin. “You know how the Moroccans feel about the Algerians. We don’t want them getting overexcited.”

  “No, I can see why not.” Crocker pulled on his cigarette again, squinting into the rain, considering. “All right, I’ll bring it to the Deputy Chief. She should approve it before close of play. One Minder should do it.”

  “Poole or Lankford, if you don’t mind.”

  “You don’t want Fincher?”

  “Paul, you don’t want Fincher.”

  Crocker didn’t bother to argue. “What do we get in trade?”

  “Our continued goodwill in the spirit of cooperation during the Global War on Terror.”

  “That’s nice, but it won’t sell it to the DC.”

  “The goody bag is pretty much open on this one, Paul. Tell the DC to make her list, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’ve gotten that from Langley?”

  Seale nodded. “We really want these guys.”

  “I’ll tell the DC.”

  “Lankford or Poole, not Fincher.”

  “I’ll tell her that, too.”

  “I’m serious, Paul, you can’t give this to Fincher. That’s part of our deal.”

  They reached a fork in the path, where it branched in three separate directions. Seale stopped, and Crocker pointed them to the northwestern path, and they resumed walking.

  “Give me a couple more meetings, I’ll have this down,” Seale said.

  “I half expected you’d want me to come to Grosvenor Square. You haven’t seemed very much like a walk-in-the-park fellow.”

  “Angela said it was how you preferred to do business. I guess you’re as much of a traditionalist as she is.”

  Crocker flicked his cigarette into the grass, watched the smoke vanish in the rain. “Have you heard from her?”

  “Talked to her today. She’s still at the NCTC, playing counterterror expert.”

  “Let’s hope she’s doing more than just playing.” The National Center for Counterterrorism was one of the by-products of the recent restructuring of the American intelligence apparatus. In theory, the office oversaw all civilian and military counterterrorist operations, and served as both a clearinghouse and a main communications center for intelligence gathered on the same. The Center was directed by the National Intelligence Director, a new post created at the time of the restructuring, and the highest intelligence office in the U.S. Government, outranking even the Director at the CIA. Angela Cheng’s appointment to the Center had been a promotion, in every sense of the word.

  “Amen,” Seale agreed. “She’s actually the source on the FYI. She asked me to bring it to you personally.”

  Crocker glanced to Seale, mildly surprised, and beginning to suspect that he wasn’t much going to like what he was about to hear next.

  “We’ve got some information on some of your missing MANPADs,” Seale explained.

  “Some?”

  “Four of them, actually. Starstreaks.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Crocker muttered. Four Starstreaks were a lot of Starstreaks, especially considering it would take but one of them to bring down an airliner during landing, or, worse still, takeoff. If all four of the MANPADs were in the same hands, it was a substantial potential threat.

  Seale reached into his overcoat pocket, then opened his hand to Crocker, revealing a folded piece of white notepaper, almost surreally bright against the darker skin of his palm. “Serial numbers.”

  Crocker took the paper, tucked it into his own pocket. There was no point in looking at it now. When he got back to the office, he’d run the numbers past D-Int, to see what they turned up. But he did have a question.

  “Tell me,” Crocker said. “These Starstreaks didn’t turn up in Chechnya, by any chance?”

  Seale shook his head and came to a stop, looking at him quizzically. “You’re in the right region. We think they’re in Uzstan.”

  That’s one hell of a coincidence, he thought, which means it’s not a bloody coincidence at all.

  “You think?”

  “Our man in Tashkent isn’t a slouch, Paul, not with the strategic importance that Uzbekistan holds in the war. He’s got an asset who claims that he witnessed the sale of four Starstreaks by some Afghan warlord to an Uzbek national in Surkhan Darya province last month. Said the whole deal went down for sixty grand, American.”

  “Who bought them?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “But they’re in Uzbekistan?”

  “Hell, they could be anywhere by now. But as of a month ago, they came over the border from Afghanistan into Uzstan, yes.”

  Crocker scowled, fishing out a second cigarette.

  “Is there something you want to tell me?” Seale asked.

  The flame from Crocker’s lighter quavered in the breeze and the rain. We shook his head and lit his smoke. “No. Not yet, at least.”

  “You have something going on in Chechnya?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  Seale stared at him, frankly curious. Crocker shook his head a second time, then offered Seale his hand.

  “Thank you,” he said. “And thank Angela when you speak to her next. I appreciate the courtesy.”

  They shook hands.

  “We’ll be interested to know what you find,” Seale said.

  “You’re not the only one,” Crocker told him.

  Back in his office, Crocker had Kate ring the Deputy Chief to see if she had five minutes to discuss a favor to the Americans. She did, and before Crocker headed up to see her, he handed Kate the piece of notepaper he’d received from Seale.

  “Run this over to Simon, tell him it’s the numbers of four Starstreaks, he’ll know what that means.”

  “I know what that means,” Kate replied mildly. “I do more than just make the coffee.”

  “But nothing quite as well. Tell him CIA thinks the missiles were
sold in Uzbekistan within the last month. The question I have for him is how those missiles got there in the first place.”

  “I hear and I obey,” Kate said.

  “The first part is true enough,” Crocker snapped, and headed upstairs to see Alison Gordon-Palmer.

  “Will one Minder be enough?” the Deputy Chief wanted to know.

  “To help with the snatch? Seale seemed to think one would suffice.”

  “You’ll send Poole?”

  “I was thinking Lankford, actually. He did a grab last March in Frankfurt, pulled it off quite well. And he hasn’t been to Casablanca. Poole has.”

  “Fincher hasn’t been there, either.”

  “Fincher is locked at his desk for the moment, as you well know.”

  Alison Gordon-Palmer paused, thinking, then said, “Andrew Fincher isn’t a bad officer, Paul. Confining him to his desk is a waste of manpower.”

  “He may be a fine officer, but he’s a bad Minder. And if you’re proposing that I send him instead of Lankford, the Americans made it clear that’s not an option. This was given to us on condition that we didn’t use Fincher, in fact.”

  “His reputation is that bad?”

  “Seale doesn’t trust him, certainly. Whether the command is from Langley, I can’t speculate.”

  “And Seale’s promising the whole line of sweets, is he?”

  “He assures me that we’ll get just about anything we could ask for.”

  “Is there anything we should be asking for, Paul?”

  The question surprised Crocker, mostly because it was exactly the kind of question that Donald Weldon, the DC’s predecessor, never would have asked.

  “Not at the moment. I’m sure something will come up.”

  “I have no doubt. All right, then, I’ll sell it to C. You task Lankford, run him over to Grosvenor Square for the briefing. If we’re quick about it, we could have him in Morocco before dark.”

  “We’ll have to be very quick about it,” Crocker said.

  Gordon-Palmer smiled at him, as if she knew every last one of his secrets.

  “Then why are you still here talking to me, Paul?”

  He’d finished briefing Lankford and had called Seale to tell him the loan had been approved when Kate buzzed him from her desk to say that Director Intelligence was outside.

  “Send him in,” Crocker told the intercom, and got to his feet as Simon Rayburn pushed through the door. Crocker smiled, pleased to see him, and Rayburn returned it. There were few people in the building that Crocker genuinely got on with, but his opposite number was one of those few, and Rayburn, for his part, both knew and appreciated that fact. There had been times in the history of the Firm when the Director of Intelligence and the Director of Operations had scarcely tolerated the sight of each other, to the obvious detriment of SIS. Both Crocker and Rayburn knew how fortunate they were that they did not live and work in those times.

  “Interesting set of numbers, Paul,” Rayburn commented.

  “Thought you might say something like that.” Crocker gestured to one of the chairs away from the desk, then went to his door, opening it again, and asking Kate to bring coffee. When he’d turned back, Rayburn was seated. He was a smaller man than Crocker, and even more slender of build, and in all manner quieter as well. He smiled as Crocker pulled up a chair opposite him, staying out from behind his desk, so they could speak as equals.

  Kate entered with two cups of coffee, black for Crocker, light and sweetened for Rayburn, then stepped out again without a word, shutting the door behind her.

  “Those four missiles have a history,” Rayburn said.

  “They’ve certainly traveled.”

  “More than you know. I did some digging, then checked at the MOD with a source there. With help, I was able to retrace their journey, or at least a portion of it.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Rayburn sipped his coffee, made a face. He set his cup back in its saucer, and set the saucer down on the edge of the small coffee table in front of them.

  “The four missiles entered service in July of 1998, and were stored at Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport. On 11 January 2002, the four missiles in question were transferred, with other material, to RAF Brize Norton. Brize Norton was flying supplies and equipment to the operation in Afghanistan.”

  “I’m aware how it works, Simon.”

  “I know you are, Paul, but there’s a point to this. The Americans worked long and hard to arrange overflight and the use of two bases in Pakistan. The transport from Brize Norton ends up there, offloading. At which point Islamabad Station takes possession of the missiles.”

  Crocker almost choked on his coffee. “What?”

  Rayburn nodded in sympathy. “You didn’t know.”

  “You’re telling me I could have just rung Islamabad Station, they would have told me they had these missiles?”

  “If you had done so in February of 2002, perhaps. As it is, the Station only held them for a few weeks, at the most. It seems the four Starstreaks made their way rather quickly over the border into Afghanistan, to be delivered to the Northern Alliance.”

  Crocker suppressed a growl. “They weren’t?”

  “I couldn’t find any report nor any record of their successful delivery. Nor could I find any report nor any record of their use. If the CIA intelligence is correct, they were held and somehow acquired by one of the warlords in the north, and then sold. They very well could have been sold two or three or four times in the interim before ending up across the border again and in Uzbekistan.”

  Rayburn went silent, giving Crocker a second look of pained sympathy. He risked a second sip of the coffee, and made the same face he had the first time.

  “Oh, that is just awful,” he murmured.

  Crocker ignored him, thinking. In 2002, the Station Number One in Islamabad had been a man named Derek Moss. Moss had been intimately involved in operations in Afghanistan at the time, by necessity—SIS had no working stations in the country, nor any reliable intelligence on the ground at the time of the Coalition action. In the wake of 9/11, Moss and his Number Two, Richard Barton, had spent more and more time crossing the border, a dangerous pursuit even during a time of peace. In a time of war, it had proved fatal.

  Both men had been killed in the same ambush in March of 2002. Crocker had been D-Ops at the time, Weldon had been the Deputy Chief, and C had been Sir Wilson Stanton-Davies, Barclay’s immediate predecessor.

  “You didn’t authorize it?” Rayburn asked.

  Crocker refocused his attention, putting it back in the present and on Rayburn. “Simon.”

  “You’ve been known to play fast and loose with the rules in the past, Paul.”

  “Not that fast and loose. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have authorized the transfer of four Starstreak missiles.”

  “Someone did. The DC? C?”

  “I can’t see Sir Wilson doing it, not without informing either one of us. And Weldon would barely change his tie without clearing it with both C and the FCO first.”

  “Someone outside the Firm, then.”

  “Would have to be, and someone fairly senior, at that. Derek Moss knew his job. He would never have undertaken an operation without informing me, not an operation like that.”

  “Pity you can’t ask him about it.”

  Crocker nodded, lapsing into silence and thought once again.

  “One more thing for you, tangential, really, but it just came in from the Station in Tashkent.”

  Oh, Christ, they’ve made Chace, Crocker thought. “Oh?”

  “Craig Gillard is reporting that President Malikov suffered a cerebral vascular accident yesterday. He’s in hospital, and it looks severe. Word is, he’s lost all function along one side, and that he’s nonverbal.”

  The relief Crocker felt was short-lived. Chace hadn’t been blown, but if Malikov was about to check out, it meant she had even less time than any of them had imagined to get Ruslan out of the country. He only hoped that C
hace knew about Malikov’s condition.

  “Media reported it?” Crocker asked.

  “Nothing as yet. I suspect they’re trying to keep it hushed up until they get the succession details worked out.”

  “Most likely.”

  “It’ll be Sevara,” Rayburn said. “She’ll need two or three weeks to get the DPMs aboard, as well as backing from the White House.”

  “There’s the brother.”

  “Be serious, Paul. The brother has about as much influence as his father does at this point.”

  Crocker didn’t say anything. Rayburn set down his coffee again and got to his feet.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help about the Starstreaks. If I dig up anything more, I’ll pass it along.”

  “Simon?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Who else knows you’re looking at this?”

  Rayburn shrugged. “Nancy. My contact at MOD. Why?”

  “I’m not worried about your PA, but your contact at the Ministry of Defense, will he keep his mouth closed?”

  “My contact at the MOD is a she, Paul,” Rayburn corrected mildly. “And she understands the necessity of discretion.”

  “Good.”

  “You don’t want anyone to know you’re looking into this?”

  “Not yet.”

  Rayburn shrugged a second time, as if the whole cloak-and-dagger aspect of their business was beyond boredom to him. It was Crocker’s suspicion that to Rayburn, that was indeed the case. He was more interested in solving the acrostic than in solving the murder, so to speak.

  “Won’t breathe a word of it,” Rayburn said.

  Crocker escorted him to the door, letting him out, then closing it once more and returning to his desk. He lit a cigarette, and turned to look out at the river and the rain.

  Before he’d become C, Frances Barclay had chaired the Joint Intelligence Committee. It was a position of power, and one that allowed him to liaise with personnel in both the Foreign and Home Offices, as well as the Ministry of Defense. It was an associated SIS position, with constant and regular access to the business of the Firm.

  It was exactly the kind of position, in fact, that would allow for the authorization and transfer of four Starstreak MANPADs to Islamabad Station, and with enough clout to require the Station’s silence in the process.