CHAPTER 18
London—Vauxhall Cross—Office of D-Ops
20 February, 1356 Hours GMT
“Julian Seale for you,” Kate said over the intercom.
Crocker set aside the notepad he’d been working on, flipping it over to keep his writings from prying eyes, taking up the handset on the telephone. He poked the blinking light with an index finger, then answered.
“Crocker.”
“Paul, can you come out to play?”
“In the park, you mean?”
“Preferably.”
“Regarding?”
“Better in person, I think.”
“Ominous.”
“Hoping you can answer a couple of questions for me, that’s all.”
“Thirty minutes,” Crocker told him. “Statue of Achilles.”
“And I hope there’s nothing significant in that,” the American said, and hung up.
Crocker replaced the phone, then stowed his papers in his desk, rose, and pulled his coat from the stand by the door. He stepped into the outer office, pulling it on. Kate looked up from her work.
“I’m going out. Should be back within the hour.”
“If anyone asks?” Kate prompted.
“I’m meeting Seale.”
She affected surprise. “And
“Does it matter?” Crocker snarled, heading out the door and into the hall. “If anyone asks, that’s what you’re to tell them.”
The door closed behind him before he could hear Kate’s reply.
Crocker made his way down the hall, frowning. Seale asking for a meet in short order wasn’t necessarily alarming; he could have requested it to address any number of things. It could simply be an after-action debrief between the two of them regarding the Morocco job; Lankford had returned from Casablanca, none the worse for wear, late the previous night, and Crocker had already read and approved his report of the action. It had contained nothing remarkable. The operation had been precisely as Seale had claimed.
But making his way to the lift, Crocker already knew it wasn’t Morocco that Seale wanted to talk about.
He hit the button for the lift, waited, and entered the car to find Alison Gordon-Palmer, a single folder tucked beneath her right arm, the only other occupant. The DC flashed him a smile in greeting.
“Down or up?”
“Down,” Crocker said.
“As am I. Simon and I are about to have words with the China Desk.” She indicated the folder beneath her arm.
“Seale,” Crocker said, by way of offering his own destination.
“Probably wants to know why Chace is in Tashkent, I imagine.”
“That’s my fear as well.”
“It was bound to happen. The Americans are more than a little touchy about Uzbekistan. If they think she’s tromping through their garden on official business, and if they think we’re actively keeping that fact from them, they’re going to want to know the reason.”
Crocker nodded, canted his head slightly, measuring his tone. “I didn’t know you knew it was Chace I’d sent to Uzstan.”
“I can count, Paul. And as of this morning, you still had three Minders in the Pit, one of them affixed to his desk by a chain about his ankle. No one else you
“But I didn’t tell you.”
She shook her head, her manner still mild.
“Seccombe did,” Crocker said, answering his own question.
“He’s very interested in the progress of the operation.” Alison Gordon-Palmer smiled slightly, and the elevator came to a stop. As she stepped out of the car, she said, “You’ll inform me if Chace stumbles across any MANPADs, won’t you, Paul? I know the PUS would be grateful for any such news.”
Then the doors were sliding closed, and Crocker was descending again, wondering how much lower he was likely to go.
Seale was waiting at the foot of the statue of Achilles, hands thrust in the pockets of his overcoat, squinting up at the enormous figure. Erected in 1822 and weighing in the neighborhood of thirty-three tons, it had caused something of a stir when it was unveiled as London’s first public nude. The statue has been cast from French cannon captured at Vitoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, and Waterloo, and was dedicated to Wellington and the men who had served under his command. At eighteen feet tall, it was one of the more impressive pieces of public sculpture to be found in any of London’s parks, at least by Crocker’s estimation.
“Don’t you love how the only armor he’s wearing is on his feet and shins?” the American asked. “Aside from the shield and whatever that is he’s got over his cock, I mean.”
“He was practically invincible,” Crocker said. “He could afford to stroll the battlefield naked.”
“Thing is, the greaves, they’re only on the front of his shins,” Seale mused, staring at the massive bronze. “No protection around the back. You’d think he’d have had something to cover his tendons.”
“Pride.”
“Before the downfall.” Seale turned away from the statue, his hands still deep in his pockets, and motioned with his right elbow to the branching path beyond him. “Shall we walk?”
Crocker almost smiled. When Cheng had said the same thing, his response had invariably been “I’d rather be carried.” Somehow, he didn’t think his relationship with Seale allowed for that kind of levity just yet, so he nodded, falling into step with Seale as the other man set the pace.
They walked without speaking for almost a hundred yards or so, each giving the other time to check the immediate surroundings for unwelcome eyes or ears, finding nothing. It was overcast, with drops of rain spattering down at irregular intervals, adding to the growing chill and the coming darkness. Not for the first time, Crocker wondered how much longer he’d be permitted to entertain this particular idiosyncrasy before someone from Internal Security or, worse, from Box came to have a chat with him about the dangers of discussing official business in one of Her Majesty’s parks.
“Why’s Tara Chace in Tashkent?” the American asked him.
“That’s her name, right? She’s the one Fincher replaced?”
“No, I know who she is. She’s in Tashkent?”
Seale glanced at him, annoyed, then went back to watching their surroundings. “Woman named Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle checked into the InterContinental in Tashkent on the sixteenth. Was met that night by an FSO from our embassy, in her room. He was there for several hours.”
“It’s a common name.”
“I know, and it wouldn’t be a thing, but COS Tashkent got wind of it, got a description of Miss Carlisle, ran it back through Langley. And Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, it turns out, was once-upon-a-time the work-name of Chace, Tara Felicity, formerly your Head of the Special Section. He got a description as well, and it matches. COS Tashkent wired COS London with the inquiry.”
