hands on his shoulders, and he felt the thrill of her touch again, and again wondered how it was she could make him feel that way every single time her skin touched his own.
“You don’t have to like it,” Sevara told him. “It’s what I want. It’s what is best for us, Ahtya. Just like you, everything I’m doing, I’m doing it for us.”
If the words had come from any other woman, he’d have dismissed them utterly as fiction. But from this woman, he knew it was the truth, and Zahidov put his hands on her hips, feeling the warmth of her skin through the silk, pulling her down on him more firmly.
“I worry,” he said. “Because I love you.”
She smiled, her upper lip curling with mischief, and unfastened her robe.
“Show me,” she said.
CHAPTER 13
London—Hyde Park—Lover’s Walk,
Park Lane Entrance
17 February, 1114 Hours GMT
Julian Seale was waiting for him, the CIA Station Chief holding a black umbrella large enough to shelter a family of three. Crocker saw him, stepped across a puddle, and offered his hand. Seale shook it firmly once, then released, and Crocker wondered how many more times they’d begin their meetings with a handshake before they were comfortable enough with each other to dispense with the pleasantry.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Crocker said.
“No, I like standing around in the rain.” Seale turned toward the west, then hesitated. “Which way?”
“South, then right. It’ll take us into the park.”
They began walking, Seale shifting the umbrella to his other hand to avoid hitting Crocker with the canopy.
“You and Angela did this a lot?”
Crocker finished lighting his cigarette, stowed his lighter, nodding as he exhaled. “She used to say she liked the exercise, but I think it appealed to the traditionalist in her.”
“Oh, the plots that have been hatched in this park.”
“And those are the ones we know about,” Crocker agreed. “You wanted to see me?”
“About two things, actually. One is a favor, the other is more an FYI point.”
“Is the FYI in exchange for the favor?”
Seale chuckled, a low rumble not unlike the sounds of traffic coming from the road behind them. “The FYI is free, actually.”
“Now I’m nervous.”
Seale chuckled again.
“What do you need?” Crocker asked.
“Wondering if you can offer any Special Section support for an operation in Casablanca.”
“Supporting what?”
“We’ve located two members of a GSPC cell we’d like to bring in for further questioning. Problem is, all of our Executive Action staff is tasked elsewhere at the moment. The soonest we’d be able to free up an agent would be tomorrow late, putting him in theater late on Sunday at the earliest.”
“By which time they will have jumped?”
“Or worse, gone and done whatever it is they’re planning to do.”
“Which members?”
“Mohammud Belkadem and Hamed Hamouche.”
Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Confirmed?”
“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if it wasn’t confirmed. We just need someone who knows the drill to help our Station with the snatch.”
“Moroccan authorities are aiding?”
“We’re leaving them out for the moment.” Seale flashed Crocker a grin. “You know how the Moroccans feel about the Algerians. We don’t want them getting overexcited.”
“No, I can see why not.” Crocker pulled on his cigarette again, squinting into the rain, considering. “All right, I’ll bring it to the Deputy Chief. She should approve it before close of play. One Minder should do it.”
“Poole or Lankford, if you don’t mind.”
“You don’t want Fincher?”
“Paul,
Crocker didn’t bother to argue. “What do we get in trade?”
“Our continued goodwill in the spirit of cooperation during the Global War on Terror.”
“That’s nice, but it won’t sell it to the DC.”
“The goody bag is pretty much open on this one, Paul. Tell the DC to make her list, I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ve gotten that from Langley?”
Seale nodded. “We really want these guys.”
“I’ll tell the DC.”
“Lankford or Poole, not Fincher.”
“I’ll tell her that, too.”
“I’m serious, Paul, you can’t give this to Fincher. That’s part of our deal.”
They reached a fork in the path, where it branched in three separate directions. Seale stopped, and Crocker pointed them to the northwestern path, and they resumed walking.
“Give me a couple more meetings, I’ll have this down,” Seale said.
“I half expected you’d want me to come to Grosvenor Square. You haven’t seemed very much like a walk-in- the-park fellow.”
“Angela said it was how you preferred to do business. I guess you’re as much of a traditionalist as she is.”
Crocker flicked his cigarette into the grass, watched the smoke vanish in the rain. “Have you heard from her?”
“Talked to her today. She’s still at the NCTC, playing counterterror expert.”
“Let’s hope she’s doing more than just playing.” The National Center for Counterterrorism was one of the by-products of the recent restructuring of the American intelligence apparatus. In theory, the office oversaw all civilian and military counterterrorist operations, and served as both a clearinghouse and a main communications center for intelligence gathered on the same. The Center was directed by the National Intelligence Director, a new post created at the time of the restructuring, and the highest intelligence office in the U.S. Government, outranking
