The entirety of the Ops Room had seen a renovation in the past year, from the plasma screens to the computers to the secure communication arrays that kept the SIS headquarters here in London in touch with stations and agents around the world. It had been long overdue, and when it had happened, Crocker had believed it to be a good thing, and it had given him hope for his new Deputy Chief of Service, Alison Gordon-Palmer. It had been Gordon-Palmer who had forced the proposal through the FCO, it had been Gordon-Palmer who had bullied C into securing the necessary funding, and it had been Gordon-Palmer who had gone out of her way to consult with Crocker as to just what the upgrades should entail. By the end of the process, Crocker had come to believe two things about the new DC.
First, that even without a background in operations, Alison Gordon-Palmer understood the Ops Directorate’s importance in the grand scheme of SIS, and as such, Crocker could count her as an ally; and second, he wanted to maintain that relationship, because he now had no doubt how difficult his life would become if she decided he was her enemy.
Crocker turned back to Seale, calling across the room. “They don’t know we’re coming? You’re certain?”
Seale shook his head. “Our intel puts the cell in place and standing by until the morning, when they’re supposed to meet their friends in the Straits. They’re being careful, but they’ve got no reason to think we’re on to them, Paul, none at all. Not unless something’s happened on your end. But nobody from the Company’s tipped the Malaysians.”
“I’ve half a mind to send an abort, call the whole thing off.” Crocker looked back to the wall, at the static, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. “If we let them slip, any chance we can catch them on the water before they try to take the tanker?”
“How?” Seale asked. “They get into the Straits of Malacca, we’re going to lose them.”
Crocker nodded quickly, as if to say that yes, he got the point. “Dammit, Bill, what’s happening with the fucking feed?”
“Lost the signal, sir,” Teagle said, turning to another screen. “There’s a tracking error on the CVT-30, I think. I can’t bring it back up.”
Behind him, Crocker heard Seale mutter a curse. He turned, covered the distance to the Duty Operations Desk and Ronald Hodgson in three long strides, saying, “Ron, get onto the MOD, now. Tell them we need to piggyback their link to Candlelight, and we need it five minutes ago.”
Ronald Hodgson nodded, already reaching for one of the four telephones arrayed around his station.
Crocker turned to Seale, said, “You’re certain we can’t abort? Try to take them at sea instead?”
“Be a totally different op.”
“I know.”
Seale unfolded his ankles, rose from his slouch in the chair to his feet, one hand brushing down his necktie. One of perhaps two handfuls of African Americans holding senior postings in the CIA, Seale had come to London as COS only four months prior, filling the post vacated by his predecessor and Crocker’s friend, Angela Cheng. Where Crocker ran to lean, even lanky, Seale went broader, exhibiting perhaps more strength than speed. The two men were roughly the same age, each sneaking up on fifty within the next year, each married, each with two children. Viewed together, they formed a strange complement, both physically as much as professionally.
“God, they try for the tanker and it goes wrong, Paul,” Seale said. “We’ll have the G-77 screaming at us like we were selling naked pictures of their mothers. And if the JI takes the
“I know that, too.”
“Worse if they plow the ship into Singapore Harbor.”
Crocker grunted, shoving a cigarette into his mouth, not wishing to contemplate the scenario any further, nor to imagine the destruction. Bad enough that the Straits of Malacca were perhaps the most dangerous waters in the world, rife with piracy. Bad enough that Jemaah Islamiyah made its home in Malaysia, with a government filled with its sympathizers and supporters. Put the two together, add one supertanker filled with LNG and one box of disposable lighters, and, yes, perhaps Seale was overstating the potential damage.
But only slightly.
From the MCO Desk, Bill Teagle uttered a small cry of triumph. “Signal, sir! Audio only, but better than nothing.”
“Let’s hear it.”
There was a shriek of static from the speakers on the plasma wall, and then the voice of Andrew Fincher, Minder One, came through, choppy and littered with squeaks and pops from the satellite. Crocker could make out the sound of Fincher’s movement, the rustle of his clothing beneath his words.
Crocker’s scowl deepened. It might have been the radio and the patch, but to his ears, Fincher sounded beyond nervous. When he glanced to Seale, now standing beside him, he saw from the other man’s expression that he’d heard the same thing.
There was another crackle, then Minder Two’s voice, as Poole transmitted.
Silence from the radios.
“Your man Fincher sounds like he’s about three steps ahead of panic,” Seale murmured softly. “You want to tell me why he’s taking the lead and not Poole?”
“Fincher’s Minder One, he worked as the KL Number Two before coming into the Special Section. He knows the ground.”
“Four years ago he knew the ground. Poole’s ex-SAS, he knows the drill.”
“Which is why Poole’s the liaison with the brick and not Fincher.”
“Yeah, but Fincher—”
“I don’t have anyone else, Julian,” Crocker snapped. “Lankford’s in Gibraltar, and Fincher is Head of Section. If it was KL, I had to send Fincher with Poole. I couldn’t hold him here in reserve.”
From the corner of his eye, Crocker saw Seale frowning at him.
“Fincher’s a tool, Paul,” Seale said. “You can hear it in his voice—he’s not made for this.”
Crocker didn’t respond, instead fishing out his lighter and finally giving flame to the cigarette that had been waiting for the last three minutes. The fact was, he agreed with Seale, not that Fincher was a “tool” per se, but that he was wrong for the job.
A year and a half ago, after Chace had left, Crocker had scrambled to find a replacement, spending six weeks poring through personnel files. The traditional method of advancement among the Minders was promotion through attrition; Minder Three became Minder Two as Minder Two became Minder One and on and on, each agent replacing the next as his or her predecessor was promoted out of the Section, retired, or perished. The problem was that when Chace departed, she’d taken the lion’s share of operational experience with her. When she’d left, Poole had just under a year as a Minder, and Lankford less than half that.
Under those circumstances, Crocker had been unable, and in fact unwilling, to promote either of the remaining Minders. They simply didn’t have enough experience, let alone enough seniority.
It was Weldon who’d proposed Fincher, and it had been the second time the former Deputy Chief had tried to get Crocker to take the man into the section. The first time, Crocker still had Tom Wallace as Minder One, and Chace as Minder Two, and it had been a relatively simple matter to find an agent in training at the School who wanted to join the Special Section. This time, though, the board had shifted to Weldon’s favor, and Crocker had found himself powerless to block the move. SIS employed roughly two thousand officers, and of those two thousand, very few had what it took to be a Minder. To Crocker’s eyes, that included Fincher.
There was simply nobody else, and with the Deputy Chief championing him to C, Crocker had been left with no other choice but to accept Fincher as his new Head of Section.
It wasn’t that Andrew Fincher was a bad agent. He’d served three tours prior to coming aboard as a Minder, the first in KL, the second in London, on the Central Asian Desk, his third in Panama. He’d distinguished himself in
