“I understand,” said Crocker.
Barclay shook his head, as if to say that he doubted Crocker was capable of even that much, then waved his hand, flicking his fingers as if trying to brush him away like so much lint. Crocker got to his feet once more, murmuring a thank-you, and made for the door.
As he reached it, Barclay said, “If Seccombe contacts you again, I want to know about it.”
“Of course, sir,” Crocker answered, and left C’s office to return to his own.
He’d been at his desk for less than two minutes when Kate buzzed him to say that Sir Walter Seccombe’s PA had just called, and that the PUS was hopeful that D-Ops would indulge him for a few minutes at his office at his earliest convenience. Hopeful enough that he was willing to send his car and driver around to fetch him.
Seccombe began with the pleasantries and the customary offer of whiskey, which Crocker again declined.
“So, where are we, Paul?” Seccombe fixed himself a drink, splashing water into his lowball glass to mix with his scotch.
“I should have someone on the ground in Tashkent by tomorrow forenoon,” Crocker answered. “Once there, she’ll locate Ruslan and begin planning the lift.”
“She?” Seccombe turned, the glass halfway to his lips. “Chace?”
“You remember her.”
“You used her for the Zimbabwe check, if I recall.”
“Yes.”
Seccombe took a seat in his easy chair. “She quit.”
“A little over eighteen months ago. You’re very well informed.”
“One tries to keep abreast of things. Andrew Fincher replaced her. You’ve been struggling ever since.”
“I wouldn’t say struggling.”
“Your Deputy Chief would disagree.”
“How long until Chace tries for the lift?”
“She’ll need at least two days on the ground just for surveillance, and that’s after she locates Ruslan. If she moves quickly and everything goes her way, she could try for a lift as soon as the nineteenth, Sunday. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Sooner would be better than later.”
“She is aware of that.”
“You briefed her yourself?”
“You made it very clear that this was to be between you and me,” Crocker said.
“I did.”
“And the Deputy Chief.”
Seccombe smiled, draining his whiskey and then setting the glass on the bookstand at his elbow. The stand was an antique, mahogany, its surface covered in green felt, and the lamp on Seccombe’s desk shot rainbows through the crystal glass.
“How much does she know?” Crocker asked.
“You may consider the DC an ally, Paul.”
“Not much of an answer.”
“But enough of one, I think, for the moment.”
Crocker thought for a second, then said, “Barclay called me into his office this afternoon, ostensibly to find out where I was yesterday.”
“Ostensibly?”
“He hedged, wanted to talk about a MANPAD alert that D-Int had passed along. But he knew I’d met with you, and he doesn’t like it. He feels communication between you and SIS should go through him.”
“In almost every instance, it does.”
“Which is why he’s growing suspicious.”
“Hmm,” Seccombe said. “Then I suppose this should be our last meeting until Chace is back from Uzbekistan.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Very good, then.”
Crocker rose, saying, “So if I need to pass anything along to you, I should go through the Deputy Chief?”
Seccombe laughed.
“Don’t push your luck, Paul,” he said. “You have less of it than you think.”
CHAPTER 10
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,
Office of the Political Counselor
16 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)
“Where are you going?” Political Counselor T. Lindsay McColl demanded when he caught Riess halfway out the door.
“The Ambassador wants to see me,” Riess said.
“Why?”
“Didn’t say.”
McColl’s face compressed, as if squeezing in upon itself with displeasure, and it made his cheeks color, and Riess had the thought that it made the man look like a giant lollipop in a suit, lanky, lean, with a big red head.
“You’re spending far too much time with him,” McColl said. “You’ve got work to do here.”
Riess nodded, but said nothing, waiting for McColl to realize that was because there was nothing else
“Go,” McColl said. “But you’ve got work to do here, don’t you forget. You need to deliver that demarche on the U.S. candidate to the Agency for Cotton Project Implementation by the end of the day.”
“I thought it might be useful if I sent over a copy of the resume along with the talking points,” Riess replied. “Then suggest that I could make myself available if they had any questions.”
“We want to be responsive to Washington, Charles.” The condescension in his voice was cloying. “And make sure you have the reporting cable about the meeting on the Ambassador’s desk by COB.”
