Private Wars

“Not necessarily,” Crocker said. “If Ruslan and his son are lifted, they can be positioned for an eventual return to the country and an attempted ouster of the sister.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barclay snapped. “The operation is pointless, at least as declared. It does nothing but expose Ruslan and force his sister and her supporters to move against him, perhaps overtly, and the results of an overt move will do nothing but damage U.K. relations with Uzbekistan. In the final analysis, it solidifies her power, not diminishes it.”

Crocker held his tongue, mostly because he couldn’t argue the point. Until three hours earlier, he would have argued that Ruslan had every chance to become Uzbekistan’s next President, especially with Seccombe’s promised support for the coup. But that was no longer the case. According to Gordon-Palmer, in fact, it never had been.

So he stayed silent and let Barclay and the Deputy Chief continue their bitter dance, all the while struggling with his own guilt. It was one thing to have failed Chace before, in Saudi Arabia, to have been boxed both politically and professionally, and thus prevented from helping her. In that case, he had done everything in his power to protect her, and had, quite simply, been defeated. He had never, however, lied to her.

This time he had, and he had known he was lying when they stood in the Pendle churchyard. A lie of omission rather than deceit, but a lie nonetheless, because Crocker had known—he had known— that Seccombe was using him. But he had permitted it, desperate to keep his job. And in so doing, he’d put himself and his career ahead of Chace’s safety and well-being.

Espionage was ultimately a game of sacrifice. Truths revealed to protect lies, relationships twisted to steal secrets, lives surrendered in exchange for gains that could range from the incremental to the absurd. But sacrificing Chace had never been in Crocker’s plans, and now, more than anything, he feared he’d done precisely that. He would argue until the day he died that what happened to send Chace to Saudi Arabia was not his fault, that Tom Wallace’s death, as much as it pained him, was not his to own. Her anger, while righteous, he still believed was misplaced.

But if Tara Chace managed to come back from Tashkent alive, Paul Crocker was sure that she would never forgive him.

And at this moment, standing in Barclay’s office, listening with half an ear to Gordon-Palmer’s soothing falsehoods and Barclay’s rapidly dwindling patience, Paul Crocker knew that if Tara Chace didn’t come back from Uzbekistan, he would never forgive himself, either.

“And you,” Barclay was snarling at him. “I offered you a hand in friendship, and you returned it with betrayal.”

Crocker blinked, looking at his C. “As the Deputy Chief has said, I was acting under orders from the FCO. And as for your hand of friendship, if I may be so blunt, you offered nothing of the sort. You were blackmailing me.”

The red phone on Barclay’s desk began trilling for attention. “And now the both of you are blackmailing me.”

Turnabout is fair play, thought Crocker.

Barclay answered the phone, listened, then thrust it out to Crocker. “For you.”

Crocker took the phone. “D-Ops.”

“Duty Ops Officer,” Ronald Hodgson said. “Latest from Tashkent, sir.”

“Give it to me.”

“It’s just come in, sir. State media has issued a statement saying that Ruslan Malikov and his son were kidnapped from their home early this morning by members of Hizb-ut-Tahir, possibly the same cell responsible for the kidnap and murder of Dina Malikov earlier this month. The statement goes on to say that the terrorists used a surface-to-air missile to destroy the Malikov home in an attempt to cover their tracks, but that police and state forces were able to recognize the misdirection and engage in an immediate pursuit along the M39, the main road out of Tashkent toward Samarkand.

“During this pursuit, a second SAM was used to shoot down a state helicopter, killing twelve. State forces surrounded the terrorists and attempted to negotiate. The terrorists then executed Ruslan Malikov, at which point state forces moved in and rescued the son.”

Crocker felt his throat constricting, closed his eyes. “Confirmations?”

“None as yet, sir.”

“I’m coming down.”

He replaced the phone on Barclay’s desk. Both C and Gordon-Palmer were watching at him, waiting.

“Ops Room, Tashkent,” Crocker said. “State media reports that Ruslan Malikov is dead.”

“Paul—” Alison Gordon-Palmer began.

“Later,” Crocker said. It was petulant, and he believed it was unintentional, but he slammed the door on the way out.

“Call Grosvenor Square,” Crocker ordered as soon as he hit the floor. “Have them wake Seale and get him over here, now.”

Ronald Hodgson put his headset over his ears, began dialing, saying, “What do I tell him?”

“Just tell him it’s about Chace.”

Ron faltered for a second, and all movement in the Ops Room came to a halt as the staffers who knew the name reacted to it, and those who didn’t wondered at the sudden silence. At the MCO Desk, Alexis turned in her seat, the same look of confusion now on her face that the rest of the room seemed to be wearing.

“You heard me,” Crocker barked at Ron. “Do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Crocker strode to the MCO Desk, where Alexis was still staring at him. Her astonishment might have been amusing in any other circumstance. Now it just made Crocker all the more anxious. “Anything?”

She took a second, almost dithering, then nodded and punched at her keyboard. “Yes, possibly related.”

“Are you going to tell me or do I have to take you out to dinner first?”

Alexis stiffened. “There are reports that President Malikov is dead, and that both chambers of the Oliy Majlis are being called into session for later this morning. That’s unofficial—the Number Two picked it up from a contact in the NSS, who apparently heard it from a man named Ahtam Zahidov.”

Crocker swore, moved his glare from Alexis to the plasma wall. “Name the operation, put it up on the wall, and tag it as pending, bring in a control.”

He heard the clattering of her keyboard, scowled as the central quadrant of the plasma screen redrew its picture of Central Asia, a red highlight outlining Uzbekistan, with a red dot now pulsing brightly on Tashkent. On the map, to the south, a yellow dot appeared over Khanabad, marking the Karshi-Khanabad air base, Air Base Camp Stronghold Freedom, where the Americans launched their missions from the country into Afghanistan. The callout came up next, and he watched as the text Alexis was typing at her keyboard translated to the screen, filling the information box.

Operation: Crystalgate.

Status: Pending.

“Allocate Chace.”

Alexis stared at him blankly.

“Allocate Chace, she’s the agent of record. It’s a Special Op.”

“But—how? As what? What designation?”

“Don’t be a fucking fool, Alex,” Crocker snarled. “She’s Minder One.”

At Duty Ops, Ron called out, “Sir!” and Crocker turned away from the MCO station to see that he was holding out a telephone. He grabbed the phone, pinning it between his ear and shoulder, leaving his hands free to find his cigarettes.

“Crocker.”

“Seale. What the fuck is this about?”

“You damn well know what it’s about. Get on to your people in Tashkent and find out what the hell’s happened there, and find out where my agent is. I’ve got nothing, I’m getting bits and pieces, and they’re no use at