Barclay nodded, then gestured vaguely in the direction of the sitting area. Instead of preceding Crocker, he followed. He even went so far as to remain standing until after Crocker had taken a seat on the couch.
“None of my PAs are in, I’m afraid,” Barclay said. “Else I’d offer you something.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
“I suppose we could have a drink from the bar, though it seems early yet.”
“A touch, yes.”
“Well, then,” Barclay said, and stood for a moment longer before almost reluctantly taking his customary seat. He positioned himself sitting on the edge, leaning forward. He adjusted his eyeglasses, then exhaled, resolving himself. “I assume you know that Daniel called your home, and spoke to your wife.”
“You didn’t believe my daughter had broken her leg.”
“It isn’t beyond you to employ your family in a deception.”
“Why would I deceive you?”
Barclay made a single noise, the start of an abortive laugh. “Paul, I don’t think that really deserves a response.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase, then, sir. What would I be deceiving you about this time?”
“I don’t know,” Barclay replied, suddenly frank. “But I do know you’ve been to see the PUS at the FCO twice in the past week. And I know that when I make inquiries into the purpose of those visits, the answers I receive are, at best, evasive.”
“It’s as I told you before, sir. Sir Walter has been soliciting my input regarding the fiasco in KL.”
“I don’t believe you.” Barclay finally leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers together, setting his hands in his lap. He looked at Crocker. “And unfortunately, I seem to have no way to compel the truth from you, considering that you’ve little over a week left in this job.”
Crocker didn’t respond.
“You have no interest in the position in Washington?” Barclay asked.
Crocker considered his possible answers, then decided to go with brutal honesty. “None at all, sir.”
“Then I suppose the only real thing I can offer you is your job, and my promise that you will keep it if you bring me into your confidence.”
That was unexpected, and Crocker did his best to keep the fact from his face, but it answered, finally, the questions he’d been wrestling with ever since meeting with Seale in Hyde Park. For the first time, he felt confident he knew what this was about, if not in specifics, at least in generalities. Something had happened in the last five days to put Barclay not only on the defensive, but under siege. Something that he could not easily avoid or redress.
Something that threatened his career the same way, five days prior, he had threatened Crocker’s.
It had to be the MANPADs—there just wasn’t any other explanation as far as Crocker could see. And thinking that, it seemed more than plausible, possible even. Barclay on the Joint Intelligence Committee had been in position to authorize the transfer of weapons to the Northern Alliance. He’d had enough clout and seniority to initiate the move, as well as to compel Islamabad Station’s silence in the matter, either through intimidation or, more likely, the promise of later reward. Sitting at the head of the JIC, it had been understood that Barclay’s next step up the career rung would be as the Chief of Service at SIS. To a Station Number One in Islamabad, Frances Barclay would have been a very good friend to have indeed. But it had gone wrong, the missiles had vanished, and Barclay had spent the last four years looking behind him, wondering when they would return.
According to the CIA, they just had, somewhere in the south of Uzbekistan.
“You know about the Starstreaks,” Barclay said finally.
“Yes.”
“Seccombe knows about them, too. He’s known about them ever since they disappeared into Afghanistan.”
Crocker wasn’t surprised, and didn’t doubt the assertion. “Seccombe’s never mentioned them. They’ve never come up in our discussions.”
Barclay frowned slightly, unsure whether or not to believe him.
“They’ve never come up, sir,” Crocker assured him.
“Be that as it may, according to the CIA, these four Starstreaks were sold into Uzbekistan less than a month ago. You know that much from Seale, I’m sure.”
It seemed unnecessary to say that the information had come from Cheng at the NCCT, rather than the CIA, so Crocker merely nodded slightly, waiting for Barclay to continue.
“I’ve been on to the Station in Tashkent, asking them to keep an eye open. I’ve had to be circumspect, obviously, but I think I made myself clear to them. I want those missiles found, Paul. I want them found, and I want them returned to England. Either that, or I want proof of their destruction.”
“They’ve been in service for over seven years, sir. I’m sure the batteries that power them have run down by now.”
“That hardly renders them harmless, Paul. Four Starstreak missiles. If they end up in the hands of our enemies, if they’re used to bring down a military, or, heaven forbid, a commercial aircraft . . .”
Barclay trailed off, looking past Crocker, toward his desk.
“I’d hate to be responsible for that loss of life,” Barclay concluded quietly.
“The Americans seemed to think it unlikely that the missiles are still in Uzbekistan,” Crocker said. “More likely they’ve been moved farther into Central Asia. They could be in any of a dozen countries by now.”
“I know that.”
“Without more information, they’re impossible to locate.”
“I know that as well.” Barclay looked at him levelly. “But your aid in the search for them would be invaluable, Paul. And as D-Ops, it’s a reasonable directive for you to issue to our Stations. If you took the lead in this search for me, if you worked with Simon, I’d think your chances of success in doing so would be substantial.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying that I think you’re being overly optimistic, sir. We’ve been searching up MANPADs since the start of the war, and with only limited success.”
“But in this instance, you’d have hard intelligence to begin with. A place to start, a direction to head. It would scarcely be fumbling about in the dark.”
“Perhaps not, but close to it.”
“I’m asking for your help, Paul. Help that I would be grateful to receive. Help that I would reward.”
“You’d spare me my job.”
“I would see you became my next Deputy Chief.”
That stopped Crocker. “The DC is leaving?”
“She could be made to, to ensure your promotion,” Barclay rejoined levelly. “And I would, of course, follow your recommendation on the appointment of a new D-Ops. Even Poole, were you to champion him.”
Barclay waited, watching him, knowing full well the weight of the offer he had just made. Crocker had been passed over twice already for promotion to Deputy Chief, stalled at the level of Director of Operations. It was the next logical promotion in his career, one he had deeply coveted. As much as he respected, even liked, Alison Gordon-Palmer, Crocker absolutely wanted her job.
Poole wouldn’t do as D-Ops, not yet, but if he had to, Crocker could see him as Head of Section. Which would free up Chace, allow him to promote her to fill Crocker’s office. Just as he wanted the promotion to DC, he knew that Chace had wanted, eventually, to succeed him as D-Ops.
And with that hierarchy in place, with Crocker positioned between Barclay and Chace, he could do a lot of good, he was certain of it. He could move the Firm fully back into the game, begin correcting the errors of the last twenty years, the compromises, the capitulations.
It was an extraordinarily tempting offer, and looking at Barclay, he knew it was sincere.
“The offer is contingent on the recovery or destruction of the Starstreaks?” Crocker asked.
“Obviously.”
He thought again, once more considering it all, everything Barclay had told him. He thought about Alison
