“I trust she said no more?”
“Only to expect your call.”
“I’m grateful that you’re willing to indulge me.”
Crocker shook his head slightly, bemused by the inversion. He didn’t know what Seccombe wanted from him, but he was certain there was very little he could offer the PUS in return. Seccombe smiled again, a second time, grandfatherly in his care, then motioned for Crocker to step farther into the office.
It was a large room, and of a kind that Crocker had seen many times before, most recently that morning, in Barclay’s office. The decor, even the feel, of the space was designed to conjure the Britain of a century before, when
Seccombe continued without looking back, motioning with his right hand toward the couch and chairs that marked the more social area of the office, indicating where he wanted Crocker to sit. As Crocker removed his overcoat, Seccombe moved to his desk, gathering a selection of papers there before returning to join him. Crocker took a position on the couch, and Seccombe one of the high-backed chairs opposite.
“Would you like a drink, Paul?”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re certain you wouldn’t indulge in a whiskey? Not after the morning I’m sure you’ve had?”
Crocker shook his head. It didn’t surprise him that Seccombe knew what had transpired at Vauxhall Cross that morning. There was a very good chance that Seccombe had seen it coming well before Barclay himself had. As PUS, Seccombe tracked all aspects of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s operations, overseeing the work of no less than five Director Generals, who, in turn, guided everything from general defense and intelligence to political interaction and consular services. If the Foreign Secretary, as appointed by the Prime Minister, was the brains of the FCO, then Seccombe, in his position as the Permanent Undersecretary—emphasis here on
Crocker knew him as brilliant, both as a politician and as a diplomat, as ruthless and calculating. He could hardly be otherwise and have survived in his position.
Very few people frightened Paul Crocker. Certainly, Frances Barclay didn’t, not even with what had transpired this very day. But if someone came close, Crocker had to admit it would be Sir Walter Seccombe. It didn’t matter how friendly he appeared, how many drinks he offered, how many times he might invite Crocker to dine with him at his club, Crocker would always remain wary of the man. As an ally, Seccombe was priceless.
As an enemy, he would be terrifying.
Seccombe settled in his chair, rustling the papers he’d taken from his desk, and gave Crocker the smile for a third time before finally putting it away.
“So Barclay’s finally going to get his wish,” Seccombe said. “No more Paul Crocker at his back.”
“So it would appear.”
“Do you think you could adjust to life in Washington?”
“If that’s where I land.”
“There’s a certain prestige to be found in a posting with the Americans. That holds no appeal? I could try to arrange things so that you were put to good use.”
“I’m put to better use here.”
“So you are.” Seccombe paused, tilting his chin upward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Crocker. “I haven’t forgotten that business about Zimbabwe, Paul. You did me a good turn, and I appreciate it.”
Crocker nodded. Roughly around the time Barclay had ascended to C, Seccombe had reached out to Crocker to vet a man named Daniel Mwama, who—according to Seccombe—had approached the U.K. seeking assistance in ousting Robert Mugabe, with an eye to taking his place. Seccombe had wanted Mwama checked quickly, and quietly, and had called upon Crocker to do it. Crocker, in turn, had tasked the Minders, at that time Tom Wallace as Minder One and Tara Chace as Minder Two, for the job. It had been a politically dangerous job for Crocker, not only because it had come during a changing of the guard at SIS, but also because it had required him to have agents active in England, something Crocker was strictly forbidden from doing. In the end, he had given Seccombe the information the PUS had required, and Daniel Mwama had been sent packing.
Seccombe had gained the result he’d desired, and in return, had sheltered Crocker from Barclay’s initial onslaught. That protection had lasted until this morning.
“I’m sure Alison asked you this, but for my own purposes, I’m asking again,” Seccombe said. “You wish to stay D-Ops?”
“I had hoped to become Deputy Chief at some point.”
“I don’t think Alison is quite ready to move on.”
“No chance that Barclay is going to resign?”
“Hmm.” Seccombe ran a finger across his mustache, smoothing it. “Not willingly, no.”
“Then, yes, I’d say I’d like to remain as Director of Operations, Sir Walter.”
This time Seccombe didn’t smile. He nodded once, slowly, and Crocker sensed a change in his manner, something felt rather than seen. Whatever trap had been laid here, Crocker had just avoided it.
“Then I have a proposition for you, Paul,” Sir Walter Seccombe said. “One that I recommend you think quite seriously about accepting.”
CHAPTER 7
Lancashire—Barnoldswick,
Residence of Wallace, Valerie
14 February, 1414 Hours GMT
She was changing Tamsin when the call came, her daughter screaming in protest at either the discomfort or the indignity of it all, and Chace felt again the incredible frustration of trying to use reason on someone who has no use, nor need, of such things.
It didn’t matter that Tamsin’s struggling made the whole procedure take five times as long as it should have; it didn’t matter that what Chace was trying to do, for God’s sake, was to help the little noisemaker. No, Tamsin didn’t want to be on her back on the changing table and she didn’t want to be put in a nappy and she was damn certain it was her right, her obligation, even, to make sure that everyone from Weets Moor to the town square knew
