Private Wars (16 page)

CHAPTER 18

London—Vauxhall Cross—Office of D-Ops

20 February, 1356 Hours GMT

“Julian Seale for you,” Kate said over the
intercom.

Crocker set aside the notepad he’d been working on, flipping it over to keep his writings from prying eyes, taking up the handset on the telephone. He poked the blinking light with an index finger, then answered.

“Crocker.”

“Paul, can you come out to play?”

“In the park, you mean?”

“Preferably.”

“Regarding?”

“Better in person, I think.”

“Ominous.”

“Hoping you can answer a couple of questions for me, that’s all.”

“Thirty minutes,” Crocker told him. “Statue of Achilles.”

“And I hope there’s nothing significant in that,” the American said, and hung up.

Crocker replaced the phone, then stowed his papers in his desk, rose, and pulled his coat from the stand by the door. He stepped into the outer office, pulling it on. Kate looked up from her work.

“I’m going out. Should be back within the hour.”

“If anyone asks?” Kate prompted.

“I’m meeting Seale.”

She affected surprise. “And
are
you meeting Mr. Seale?”

“Does it matter?” Crocker snarled, heading out the door and into the hall. “If anyone asks, that’s what you’re to tell them.”

The door closed behind him before he could hear Kate’s reply.

Crocker made his way down the hall, frowning. Seale asking for a meet in short order wasn’t necessarily alarming; he could have requested it to address any number of things. It could simply be an after-action debrief between the two of them regarding the Morocco job; Lankford had returned from Casablanca, none the worse for wear, late the previous night, and Crocker had already read and approved his report of the action. It had contained nothing remarkable. The operation had been precisely as Seale had claimed.

But making his way to the lift, Crocker already knew it wasn’t Morocco that Seale wanted to talk about.

He hit the button for the lift, waited, and entered the car to find Alison Gordon-Palmer, a single folder tucked beneath her right arm, the only other occupant. The DC flashed him a smile in greeting.

“Down or up?”

“Down,” Crocker said.

“As am I. Simon and I are about to have words with the China Desk.” She indicated the folder beneath her arm.

“Seale,” Crocker said, by way of offering his own destination.

“Probably wants to know why Chace is in Tashkent, I imagine.”

“That’s my fear as well.”

“It was bound to happen. The Americans are more than a little touchy about Uzbekistan. If they think she’s tromping through their garden on official business, and if they think we’re actively keeping that fact from them, they’re going to want to know the reason.”

Crocker nodded, canted his head slightly, measuring his tone. “I didn’t know you knew it was Chace I’d sent to Uzstan.”

“I can count, Paul. And as of this morning, you still had three Minders in the Pit, one of them affixed to his desk by a chain about his ankle. No one else you
could
send, really.”

“But I didn’t tell you.”

She shook her head, her manner still mild.

“Seccombe did,” Crocker said, answering his own question.

“He’s very interested in the progress of the operation.” Alison Gordon-Palmer smiled slightly, and the elevator came to a stop. As she stepped out of the car, she said, “You’ll inform me if Chace stumbles across any MANPADs, won’t you, Paul? I know the PUS would be grateful for any such news.”

Then the doors were sliding closed, and Crocker was descending again, wondering how much lower he was likely to go.

Seale
was waiting at the foot of the statue of Achilles, hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, squinting up at the enormous figure. Erected in 1822 and weighing in the neighborhood of thirty-three tons, it had caused something of a stir when it was unveiled as London’s first public nude. The statue has been cast from French cannon captured at Vitoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, and Waterloo, and was dedicated to Wellington and the men who had served under his command. At eighteen feet tall, it was one of the more impressive pieces of public sculpture to be found in any of London’s parks, at least by Crocker’s estimation.

“Don’t you love how the only armor he’s wearing is on his feet and shins?” the American asked. “Aside from the shield and whatever that is he’s got over his cock, I mean.”

“He was practically invincible,” Crocker said. “He could afford to stroll the battlefield naked.”

“Thing is, the greaves, they’re only on the front of his shins,” Seale mused, staring at the massive bronze. “No protection around the back. You’d think he’d have had something to cover his tendons.”

“Pride.”

“Before the downfall.” Seale turned away from the statue, his hands still deep in his pockets, and motioned with his right elbow to the branching path beyond him. “Shall we walk?”

Crocker almost smiled. When Cheng had said the same thing, his response had invariably been “I’d rather be carried.” Somehow, he didn’t think his relationship with Seale allowed for that kind of levity just yet, so he nodded, falling into step with Seale as the other man set the pace.

They walked without speaking for almost a hundred yards or so, each giving the other time to check the immediate surroundings for unwelcome eyes or ears, finding nothing. It was overcast, with drops of rain spattering down at irregular intervals, adding to the growing chill and the coming darkness. Not for the first time, Crocker wondered how much longer he’d be permitted to entertain this particular idiosyncrasy before someone from Internal Security or, worse, from Box came to have a chat with him about the dangers of discussing official business in one of Her Majesty’s parks.

“Why’s Tara Chace in Tashkent?” the American asked him.

And another point for the Deputy Chief,
Crocker thought. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s her name, right? She’s the one Fincher replaced?”

“No, I know who she is. She’s in Tashkent?”

Seale glanced at him, annoyed, then went back to watching their surroundings. “Woman named Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle checked into the InterContinental in Tashkent on the sixteenth. Was met that night by an FSO from our embassy, in her room. He was there for several hours.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chace,
Crocker thought.
You didn’t
.

“It’s a common name.”

“I know, and it wouldn’t be a thing, but COS Tashkent got wind of it, got a description of Miss Carlisle, ran it back through Langley. And Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, it turns out, was once-upon-a-time the work-name of Chace, Tara Felicity, formerly your Head of the Special Section. He got a description as well, and it matches. COS Tashkent wired COS London with the inquiry.”

Seale stopped, turned to face Crocker.

“So now COS London is inquiring. The CIA wants to know, Paul. Why didn’t you tell us you’ve got an operation running in Tashkent?”

“Why’s your COS Tashkent watching one of your FSOs?”

Seale shook his head. “You first.”

Crocker freed his pack of cigarettes from inside his coat, taking his time to pick one, then to light it. Taking the time to think. In all honesty, he was surprised Chace had made it this far before being made; he’d half expected to hear similar news via Tashkent Station, asking the very same thing and more than a little irate at the thought of an ex-Minder in their midst with no forewarning. That it had come from the CIA instead, and through these channels specifically, gave him something else to worry about.

It meant that COS Tashkent, whoever that was—Crocker couldn’t remember the name—truly had been watching the FSO in question for one reason or another. His knowledge of American embassy workings was limited, but he was reasonably certain that it wasn’t the CIA who was responsible for maintaining the security of the mission staff. So the FSO, whoever the hell he was, had earned the attention somehow.

That couldn’t be good news for Chace, not unless Crocker could somehow shut down Seale’s inquiry. Which meant giving the Americans something plausible, and that, in turn, meant burning either Seccombe or Barclay. One of the truths would have to come out now. Which one was the only question.

“Paul?” Seale asked. “If you’re fucking us in Uzstan, things are about to get ugly.”

Crocker hoped to hell that he was reading the tea leaves right.

“It’s about the Starstreaks, Julian.” Crocker took another drag on his cigarette, meeting Seale’s eyes. “The ones you told me about. Barclay lost them four years ago. He’s understandably anxious to get them back.”

“I told you about the Starstreaks on the seventeenth, Paul. Chace was apparently riding our FSO to the heights of passion on the night of the sixteenth. Which means she left England some twenty hours prior to that, which means you briefed her before
that,
which puts me back to around Valentine’s Day. So either you’re lying to me—”

“Or I already knew about the Starstreaks when we met on the seventeenth,” Crocker said.

“Which is it?”

“You can take your pick, but think about it. Barclay’s the one who is ultimately responsible for those MANPADs being lost. Which means if they surface in any fashion that includes civilian or Coalition casualties, he’s dead. He asked me to get them back for him.”

“He’s firing you.”

“This is how I keep my job,” Crocker said, bitterly. “He doesn’t want anyone to know it was he who lost the fucking missiles. That’s why I’m using Chace, not one of the Minders. That’s why she’s running free, without Station contact. No one is supposed to know she’s there. I save C’s career, he saves mine.”

A wind rattled the leaves, followed by another spattering of rain, icier than before. Crocker resumed walking, waiting for Seale to fall abreast.

“And that’s why she’s using a blown cover.”

“I was expressly forbidden to use any SIS assets for the mission,” Crocker confirmed. “Barclay’s paranoiac, Julian. He’s afraid someone will find out, use the information against him.”

“A nice, altruistic motive.”

“Those are still around?”

“I hear rumors.” Seale fell silent for several more long strides, apparently thinking about what Crocker had just told him. “So Barclay offered to let you keep your job. . . .”

“He actually offered me Gordon-Palmer’s job, if you want to know the truth. He seems to think that he’ll be getting rid of her soon.”

Seale digested that, then said, “Fine, you get made DC. What does Chace get? She’s got a kid now, doesn’t she? How’d you get her to agree to this lunacy?”

“Chace wants to come back. I told her if she does the job, I’ll make her Minder One again.”

“And will you?”

“If she does the job? In a heartbeat.”

“Then here’s hoping she does the job.”

“Amen.”

“Doesn’t explain why she met with the FSO, though.”

“I think you have your explanation already,” Crocker said, and then, in answer to Seale’s look, amended, “Libido.”

“You expect me—no, better—you expect the Tashkent COS to believe it was coincidence?”

“No. She probably made your guy as a member of the U.S. Mission, tried to use him for information. Where she picked him up, I can’t begin to guess. She’s under orders not to make contact with me until she’s located the missiles. I would guess—and it’s only a guess—that she made your FSO, then got everything she could off him, and indulged herself a bit in the process. That’s if she did actually sleep with him; she could have had him drawing her maps of Tashkent, for all we know.”

“Regular Mata Hari, this Chace.”

“A spiritual daughter, yes.”

Seale slowed, then stopped, and Crocker had to stop as well, turning back to face him. He couldn’t read anything in the American’s expression, no sign if he was buying the story or if he was merely allowing Crocker to dig himself in deeper.

“You have no contact with Chace at all?”

“None.”

“Then you don’t know where she is?”

“Tashkent, I presume.” Crocker frowned. “Why? Do you?”

Seale shook his head. “She checked out of the InterContinental the morning of the seventeenth, hasn’t been seen since. COS Tashkent hadn’t bothered to put her under hard surveillance—he was more concerned with the FSO.”

“It’s possible the trail has taken her out of the city, or even out of the country.”

“Chechnya, you mean?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“How’d you guys get on to the Starstreaks, anyway? Angela was sure she was giving you a gift, not confirming something you already know.”

“I don’t know,” Crocker said. “Barclay approached me, remember? I’m assuming he picked up word of the sale from D-Int, or another source entirely.”

“That’s possible.”

“You’d be doing me one hell of a favor if you get a line on where these things are, Julian. I don’t know how I can get word to Chace, but if CIA locates these Starstreaks and she can recover them . . .”

“Yeah, I get it.” Seale massaged his earlobe with a thumb and forefinger. “You know Malikov’s circling the drain?”

“Yes.”

“Looks like the daughter is going to take over,” Seale said. “She’s already had communication with State and the White House.”

“And State and the White House approve?”

“We want someone who’ll continue the relationship begun with her father, someone who’s on the same page about the war. We have to step carefully in Uzbekistan. Malikov’s a tried-and-true fucker, no doubt about it, and his daughter isn’t much better.”

“Then why support her?”

“You know why. We lose Uzstan, we’re down to Pakistan and southern Afghanistan as our primary staging areas in the region, and neither is what I’d call secure. We
need
good relations with Uzstan, at least for the foreseeable future. And if we put too much pressure on the country, either by pushing too hard on the human rights angle or by cutting off aid or whatnot, there’s a risk of alienating the leadership there. China’s awfully close to Uzbekistan, and the last thing Washington wants to see is the PRC replacing us in Uzbek affections.”