Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  It took another eternity to make it down the hall, turn, and then reach the exit of the building.

  The sun was out, shockingly bright to Chace’s eyes, and it was cold, colder than it had been in the basement, and she felt it sinking through her bare legs, striking for bone. The car was a Mercedes-Benz, old and dented along the front panel, and the man guided her to it, then opened the rear door and helped her inside. He shut the door, and Chace lay down on the backseat, shivering. She heard the driver’s door open, then slam shut, and the engine started, and she felt the vibration through her whole body. The car started to move.

  Chace forced herself upright, catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and not recognizing the woman she saw there at all. The right side of her face was scraped and caked with dried blood, and her eye had swollen closed. Her lower lip had split, and a bruise of angry purple and red was glowing on her left cheek. Her hair was stringy, matted with blood and dirt.

  She looked out the window, at the Interior Ministry, wondering how she’d gotten out of there alive.

  Standing in the entrance, watching her go, she saw Ahtam Zahidov, and it looked to her like he was wondering the same thing.

  CHAPTER 30

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

  21 February, 0649 Hours GMT

  Crocker was sitting at his desk, watching a cigarette burning down in the ashtray, when the red phone rang. He looked across to where Seale was sitting, waiting with him, then answered the call. He listened to the Duty Ops Officer, asked him to repeat, then thanked him and hung up.

  “She’s alive,” Crocker told Seale. “Your man found her at the Interior Ministry, brought her to the British Embassy. A doctor is tending her now, they’ll fly her home as soon as they think she can make the trip.”

  Seale nodded, clearly sharing Crocker’s exhaustion, if not his immediate sense of relief. “They were working her over?”

  “I believe the term they use is ‘interrogation.’ ”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad enough that she won’t be traveling until tomorrow at the earliest, according to the Station Number One.”

  “Could’ve been worse. My guy could have gotten there too late.”

  They were each silent for several seconds, then Seale sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Paul.”

  “Hmm?”

  “We have to figure this thing out, what you and I are doing, how we’re going to trust each other.”

  “We don’t have to trust each other, Julian.”

  “Look, I know you were tight with Cheng. And I know you don’t trust me. But if you’d come to me at the start of this, told me you had an agent running in Tashkent, it would have saved a shitload of grief.”

  Crocker shook his head, then stubbed the half-dead cigarette out and started a new one, this one to actually smoke. The relief he felt regarding Chace was beyond words, and maybe, because of that, he was less inclined to be combative, or even antagonistic.

  “It was never about Tashkent,” Crocker said.

  “You were jockeying for Ruslan—”

  “You think Ruslan was our idea? You’re the ones with an air base in the south of the country, you’re the ones who negotiated the overflight and land-use deals, not us. The last member of our team to speak out about Uzbekistan got canned, remember? McInnes was out of his job within a week of his outburst.”

  Seale frowned.

  “This didn’t start with us,” Crocker said. “It started with you, in your house.”

  “You should have come to me with it anyway.”

  “As Barclay has been anxious to point out to me in the past, I don’t work for you.”

  “No, but you don’t work against us, either.”

  “Not if I can help it. The plan was never to screw you or yours, Julian.” Crocker picked up his internal line, punched a key, waited for a response. “Escort out for Mr. Seale.”

  “I’m leaving, am I?”

  “For the time being.” Crocker indicated the ceiling with his cigarette. “It was never about Tashkent, Julian. Tashkent was the excuse.”

  Seale looked up, toward the sixth floor, then looked back to Crocker, then shook his head. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, pushed himself to his feet.

  “I’m glad your girl is okay.”

  “Her name’s Chace.” Crocker tapped ash into the tray. “I owe you for this.”

  Seale smiled. “I know you do. And I know you’ll be good for it.”

  “I will.”

  “You mind if I ask? What’re you going to do with Fincher?”

  “We’ll find a Station for him. He was fine as a Station man. He just wasn’t made to be a Minder.”

  “The Thousandth Man.”

  Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Kipling?”

  “Yeah, you know the poem? ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide the shame or mocking or laughter, but the Thousandth Man will stand by your side to the gallows-foot and after.’ I had to memorize it in the Boy Scouts.”

  “You were a Boy Scout?”

  “I was an Eagle Scout, mister, so don’t fuck with me.”

  “Never again. Neither you nor I would count Fincher in that number.”

  “No,” Seale agreed.

  There was a rap on the office door, and then it opened, revealing one of the wardens from downstairs. Crocker nodded to him, then got to his feet and offered Seale his hand. Whatever the reason, it was clear then that he and COS London had reached a mutual understanding.

  “When I get Chace’s after-action, I’ll let you know,” Crocker told him.

  “It’d be appreciated.” Seale turned for the door and the waiting warden. “Should’ve been called ‘The Thousandth Woman,’ huh?”

  He left, the warden closing the door after them.

  Crocker turned his chair, opening the blinds to look out at the dawn over London. The sky had already begun to lighten, and the clouds were low, and behind the tinted windows, they looked a gangrenous green. He snorted, swiveled back around to his desk, wondering when Kate would arrive and how long after that he could coerce her into preparing a pot of coffee, and there was a knock on his door.

  “Come,” Crocker said, then got to his feet as Sir Walter Seccombe entered the room, umbrella and hat in his hand and a smile on his face. “Sir. Can I offer you a seat?”

  “No time, I’m afraid. I have to brief the Foreign Secretary so he can inform the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. But I wanted to stop by and let you know how things are shaking out. You still have your job, Paul.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “Sir Frances will be tendering his resignation this morning, with no explanation given. Best that way, for all concerned, I should think. Certainly he has no desire to explain how it was that four Starstreak MANPADs ended up in Uzbekistan. Nor does HMG wish to see a public inquiry into the same.”

  “And our involvement in Uzbekistan?”

  “Will be kept quiet as well.”

  “I see.”

  Seccombe lifted his chin slightly, regarding him with a smaller smile this time. “Any news on Chace?”

  “She was taken by the Interior Ministry, but we’ve got her back now. She should be home in the next few days.”

  “And you’ll reinstate her?”

  “If she still wants it.” Crocker ran a hand through his hair. “The irony is, she’s going to come back thinking she blew the mission. She doesn’t know that she did exactly what you wanted.”

  “This wasn’t solely about Barclay. It began exactly as I presented it.”

  “When did it change?”

  “When the Prime Minister thought better of antagonizing the White House. And as Chace was running without contact, we couldn’t rightly abort the op, could we?”

  “We could’ve,” Crocker said. “If I’d notified the Station.”

  “Hmm,” Seccombe said. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of that.”

  Liar, Crocker thought.

  “I
t all worked out in the end, regardless, Paul. I think you’ll get along well with your new C. You share a great many traits.”

  “It’s confirmed, then?”

  “Not officially. Alison will step up as acting C following the resignation. Should confirm the posting by the end of the week.”

  “She’ll need a Deputy Chief.”

  “Yes,” Seccombe said, nodding. “You should probably talk to Alison about that.”

  CHAPTER 31

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

  18 August, 0858 Hours GMT

  Time didn’t heal all wounds, not for her, but in some cases it helped. Chace had come back from Tashkent thinking she was repeating her return from Saudi Arabia, expecting to find Crocker and another trip to the Farm, and then an uncomfortable and unceremonious discharge, this time once and for all.

  Instead, she’d returned home to find Crocker acting as if she’d never left; not for Tashkent, not for Saudi, as if she’d been Minder One all along. He’d given her two weeks leave to recover and get her things in order, and to move from Lancashire back to London. So she’d continued on to Lancashire as she’d done for over a year and a half, taking the GNR to Leeds and then changing to Skipton, finally hiring a cab to take her the rest of the way to Barnoldswick.

  People either stared at her as she went or studiously avoided looking at her. The bruises on her face had swollen, and she’d been given an ointment for the scrapes, which made the wounds appear still wet and fresher than they were. The sight in her right eye was beginning to return, clearest when she stood upright, worse when she lay down. The doctor who’d tended her at the British Embassy, hovered over by a concerned Station Number One, had explained that there was blood in the eye, and that was what was occluding her vision. It would stop and be reabsorbed soon enough, he assured her. As for her feet, luckily nothing had been broken, but the blunt trauma was severe enough that he’d advised her to stay off them as much as she could. He’d given her a set of crutches.

  When Chace finally hobbled through Valerie Wallace’s door in the late afternoon of the twenty-fourth of February, she found Tamsin and Val in the front room, playing with a sorting set, plastic pyramids, spheres, and cubes that could fit into an elbow-shaped tube. Val came to her feet quickly, unable to completely hide the dismay and concern on her face, or the sharp inhale she made at the sight of Chace.

  Tamsin merely looked at her blankly, eyes wide and blue and curious.

  Chace thought her heart would break then, that her daughter couldn’t remember her. But Val saw it, too, and understood.

  “It’s your face, love,” Val told her softly. “She doesn’t recognize you.”

  Chace propped her crutches against the side table, nodding, still drinking in the sight of her daughter. Ten days had passed since she’d seen her last, and Chace was stunned by how much Tamsin had grown.

  “Hello, Tam,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”

  Tamsin dropped the ball she was holding, struggling to her feet, her face lighting with an openmouthed smile. She wobbled like a drunk, then lurched forward, arms out, a miniature Frankenstein’s Monster, babbling happily.

  Chace knelt and caught her in her arms, and held her until she was certain her heart wouldn’t break.

  She stayed in Barnoldswick for the week, and one night, after putting Tamsin to bed, sat with Val at the kitchen table, and explained her intentions. She was going to return to work, and that required her moving back to London, and she wanted Tamsin with her. She would hire a nanny, someone to live in and take care of her daughter during the day and sometimes the night, if need be.

  Valerie nodded, failing to hide her disappointment or her hurt. “If you think it’s best, then.”

  “It’s what’s best for me, and in the long run, I think that makes it best for Tam as well,” Chace said. “I’ll be traveling again, though. I don’t know how much, and I’ll never know when. But if you’re around, I’d like it so that Tamsin stayed with you while I’m away.”

  “Here? Or in London?”

  “Whichever you’d rather, Val.”

  “Don’t much care for London.”

  “Then here, by all means.”

  Val considered, then nodded. “She’s my granddaughter, and far as I’m concerned, Tara, you’re my daughter-in-law. You’ll always have me, the both of you.”

  “You’ve been generous beyond reason, Val, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Val reached for her hand on the table, resting beside her mug of tea. Her touch was warm and soft and dry, and the look she gave Chace was grave.

  “And this is what you want? What you truly want?”

  “It is.”

  “And it’s the same work, the same work you and my Tom were doing before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Either you’re good at it, or you’re a glutton for punishment, Tara. For Tamsin’s sake, and for yours, I hope you’re good at it.”

  “I’m very good at it,” Chace told her.

  And so she returned to London.

  Her feet had recovered enough that she could walk on them without the crutches for short stints. It made it easier to go about the shopping, the acquisition of those things that would be required to turn her bachelorette’s house into a home for a single mother. She contacted a service, set about interviewing nannies, and before the end of the second week had spoken with three she liked the looks of, forwarding their names to the Firm’s Security Division for the appropriate checks. Two of them came back clean, and Chace hired them both, a young woman from Salisbury named Missi, twenty-one years old and studying art history, and an older girl who’d grown up in Bristol, named Catherine, who was planning on a career in early childhood education.

  Then she called Val and asked her to bring Tamsin down to London, to be with her mother.

  By the time she reported for work on the thirteenth of March, the shakeout had already occurred, and she entered the Pit to find Lankford and Poole already there, greeting her with applause. The Minder One Desk had been cleared of the previous occupant’s personal belongings, and a bouquet of flowers sat at its center, waiting for her. Chace had brought her go-bag, and as she felt her cheeks redden with the applause, turned and put it up on the shelf, beside Poole’s and Lankford’s.

  “Like your bouquet?” Lankford asked.

  “His idea,” Poole said. “He’s a romantic.”

  Chace moved to the desk, took a closer look, then burst out laughing. They weren’t flowers at all, but rather an artfully arranged display of condoms in red, purple, yellow, green, and blue, most of them out of their wrappers, folded and tied to appear as blossoms. A card was taped to the vase, reading, “For God’s sake, be careful!”

  “We got you the extra-big bouquet, boss,” Lankford told her. “Forty-eight, jumbo-size.”

  “She’ll go through them in a week,” Poole said.

  “I’m not like that anymore,” Chace said, mildly. “I’m a mother, I have to set an example.”

  “Half a week, then,” Poole said.

  The internal circuit on her desk rang, the same infinitely annoying bleat she remembered, and all of them, Chace, Lankford, Poole, stared at the phone.

  “Minder One,” Chace said when she answered, and she felt herself smiling, and saw Lankford and Poole quietly laughing at her as a result.

  “Come and see me,” Crocker said, and hung up.

  So she’d gone to Crocker’s office, and he’d given her a seat, and had redrawn the map of the Firm for her. There was no Frances Barclay, there was Alison Gordon-Palmer. Simon Rayburn was no longer D-Int, but instead was awaiting confirmation of promotion to Deputy Chief. Paul Crocker was D-Ops, Tara Chace was Minder One, and Kate Cooke still believed she ran SIS.

  “I’m sorry,” Chace told him when he was finished.

  “For? You did your job, you did it damn well, and you didn’t even know what the bloody job really was.”

  “About Rayburn. I know you wanted the p
romotion.”

  Crocker took out a cigarette, then offered her the pack. Chace hesitated, then accepted.

  “I can live with it,” he told her. “Besides, you’re not ready to take over for me yet, and if I move on, I want you to fill this desk.”

  “I’m flattered,” Chace said. “I think.”

  “It’s not because I like you,” Crocker said. “It’s because you can’t be any worse at it than Fincher would have been.”

  “And where is Mr. Fincher now?”

  “Out at the School, taking a refresher before his reassignment.”

  “He’s being reassigned?”

  Crocker pulled a face. “Our new lady mistress on the floor above feels he is a damn fine officer. For that reason, he’ll soon be off to parts unknown to head up the station there. As long as he doesn’t end up as the new D-Int, I’ll be content.”

  “Is that all, sir?”

  “No.” Crocker shoved the stack of folders on his desk toward her. “This is homework. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Minder One.”

  Chace laughed, taking the stack and getting to her feet. “Then I’ll start reading. You know where to find me.”

  “Yes,” Crocker agreed. “I do.”

  So it was that, six months after she’d returned from Tashkent, Tara Chace waited in D-Ops’ outer office, two blue internal distribution folders in her hand, joking with Kate Cooke and waiting for Crocker to see her for the morning brief.

  “It’s a new perfume,” Chace said. “There’s a boy.”

  “There is not a boy,” Kate responded, indignant, offering her a cup of coffee.

  Chace took the cup, sipped at it, grinning. “It’s Lankford, isn’t it? You’ve got a thing for my Minder Three.”

  Color crept into Kate’s cheeks, and she settled at her desk, putting her attention on the files she’d been sorting before Chace had entered. It seemed to Chace that she was trying very hard to avoid eye contact.