“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.
Crocker blew smoke, and, still standing, opened the folder. The contents detailed all aspects of Operation: Candlelight, from conops to implementation, everything that had any bearing on the mission. He flipped through the pages quickly, looking for Fincher’s after-action. It should have been at the top, the most recent addition to the file aside from Crocker’s own assessment, written in the small hours on Saturday morning, after Candlelight had wrapped up. Instead, he found Fincher’s report at the bottom, two double-spaced pages clipped together, as if shoved into the folder at the last moment.
He read, and when he was finished reading, he swore, closed the folder, and all but threw it down on his desk. Then he stormed into the outer office, making for the door onto the hallway.
“Get on to the Pit,” Crocker told Kate. “Tell Poole I want his after-action on Candlelight, and I want it right away. I’ll be in C’s office.”
He was out the door before she could respond.
“I think you owe us an explanation, Crocker.” Sir Frances Barclay was seated behind his very large desk, in his very large chair, his hands resting side by side almost on the desktop, his thin fingers barely touching one another. His voice was placid, friendly, and he blinked slowly at Crocker from behind the thin lenses of his glasses, and he even managed a thin smile.
Seated to the left of where Crocker stood facing the desk, Alison Gordon-Palmer uncrossed and then recrossed her ankles, smoothing her long skirt.
“It’s in my report,” Crocker said.
“Your report and the report of your Head of Section seem to be at odds.”
“Head of Section’s covering himself.”
Barclay’s left eyebrow hitched itself higher a fraction. “Or you are.”
“Colonel Dawson will confirm what I’m saying.”
“He certainly confirms the firefight,” Barclay said. “He certainly confirms that his troopers followed your orders to engage the JI cell after you ignored Minder One’s recommendation to abort.”
“Respectfully, sir, Minder One doesn’t have the authority to send an abort,” Crocker responded. “I do.”
“It’s one of your responsibilities, yes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which in turn would make you responsible for what happened as a result,” Barclay said, and his smile vanished. “Six dead, another two wounded on the exfil, and the Malaysians screaming bloody murder about us interfering in their sovereign affairs. The G-77 have rallied around, and are making strenuous protest in New York and Geneva. Downing Street is embarrassed, the cousins are washing their hands of it all, and we look like a bunch of imperialist fools roaming Southeast Asia, spilling blood wherever we can find it.”
“It was a Jemaah Islamiyah cell, sir,” Crocker replied, tightly. “That’s been confirmed. We have further confirmation, including radio and internet intercepts, that the same cell intended to hijack the
“I don’t dispute any of that.”
Crocker almost shook his head, trying to conceal his surprise. “Sir?”
“D-Int, as well as CIA, confirms everything you’ve said. That is not at issue.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.”
Barclay sighed, glancing over toward the Deputy Chief. From the corner of his eye, Crocker watched Alison Gordon-Palmer again smooth her skirt. She was frowning.
Barclay moved his gaze back to Crocker, and the smile reappeared. “How long have you been D-Ops now, Paul?”
Crocker saw it then, saw it all unfurling like a banner into a breeze. He forced his jaw and his hands to relax. “Seven years.”
“That’s quite a long time.”
“I’ve had predecessors who remained for longer.”
Barclay nodded sagely, accepting this. “Many of them too long, I daresay.”
“Fincher had no authority to call for an abort, sir, and his actions jeopardized not only Minder Two and the troopers with him, but the entire mission as well. My response was appropriate, and necessary.”
“Your response generated a political and diplomatic mess, Paul.” Barclay smiled again, thinly. “I find it rather ironic that, with all of the gamesmanship and arrogance you have exhibited in your time as D-Ops, what has finally brought you to your knees is nothing of your own devising, but rather an unfortunate sequence of events that could have happened to anyone in your position. I find that most ironic, I must admit.”
Crocker glanced to Gordon-Palmer, saw that the woman was studiously looking away from Barclay, trying to conceal her scowl. Crocker felt perspiration rising to his palms, but was somewhat surprised to find that was the only physical response he seemed to be exhibiting, especially considering his now-burning desire to reach across the desk and strangle Sir Frances.
He resisted the urge. He even managed to keep his voice civil, if not pleasant, when he asked, “What do you intend?”
“I’m going to replace you, Paul,” Barclay said. “Colin Forsythe, I think, though I may tap Dominick Barnett—I haven’t truly decided yet. Both are capable, and neither will have me worrying that my D-Ops is skulking around behind my back. Honestly, it’s only a question of which of them I’d rather.
“As for you, you will remain on as acting Director Operations until the end of the month, at which point your successor will be named, and you will vacate your office. If at that time you wish to continue in SIS, I’m certain we’ll be able to find an appropriate position for you somewhere in Whitehall. If you play your cards right and make this easy on me, I might even go so far as to see you posted to the States. There’s a JIC advisory position coming open at the Embassy in Washington. You would do quite well in the position, I think.”
Crocker kept his mouth closed, concealing the fact that, for an instant, he’d had to bite his own tongue to keep himself silent. But even if he’d managed to keep his voice still, he had no doubts that Barclay was reading everything on his face.
In return, Barclay’s smile grew a fraction.
“I told you I would see you gone,” he said. “It took longer than I had anticipated, but here we are, at the end, and I have kept my word. More than you can say you’ve ever done for me.”
“Not quite at the end.”
