“Her name’s Chace.” Crocker tapped ash into the tray. “I owe you for this.”
Seale smiled. “I know you do. And I know you’ll be good for it.”
“I will.”
“You mind if I ask? What’re you going to do with Fincher?”
“We’ll find a Station for him. He was fine as a Station man. He just wasn’t made to be a Minder.”
“The Thousandth Man.”
Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Kipling?”
“Yeah, you know the poem? ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide the shame or mocking or laughter, but the Thousandth Man will stand by your side to the gallows-foot and after.’ I had to memorize it in the Boy Scouts.”
“You were a Boy Scout?”
“I was an
“Never again. Neither you nor I would count Fincher in that number.”
“No,” Seale agreed.
There was a rap on the office door, and then it opened, revealing one of the wardens from downstairs. Crocker nodded to him, then got to his feet and offered Seale his hand. Whatever the reason, it was clear then that he and COS London had reached a mutual understanding.
“When I get Chace’s after-action, I’ll let you know,” Crocker told him.
“It’d be appreciated.” Seale turned for the door and the waiting warden. “Should’ve been called ‘The Thousandth Woman,’ huh?”
He left, the warden closing the door after them.
Crocker turned his chair, opening the blinds to look out at the dawn over London. The sky had already begun to lighten, and the clouds were low, and behind the tinted windows, they looked a gangrenous green. He snorted, swiveled back around to his desk, wondering when Kate would arrive and how long after that he could coerce her into preparing a pot of coffee, and there was a knock on his door.
“Come,” Crocker said, then got to his feet as Sir Walter Seccombe entered the room, umbrella and hat in his hand and a smile on his face. “Sir. Can I offer you a seat?”
“No time, I’m afraid. I have to brief the Foreign Secretary so he can inform the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. But I wanted to stop by and let you know how things are shaking out. You still have your job, Paul.”
“I’m relieved.”
“Sir Frances will be tendering his resignation this morning, with no explanation given. Best that way, for all concerned, I should think. Certainly he has no desire to explain how it was that four Starstreak MANPADs ended up in Uzbekistan. Nor does HMG wish to see a public inquiry into the same.”
“And our involvement in Uzbekistan?”
“Will be kept quiet as well.”
“I see.”
Seccombe lifted his chin slightly, regarding him with a smaller smile this time. “Any news on Chace?”
“She was taken by the Interior Ministry, but we’ve got her back now. She should be home in the next few days.”
“And you’ll reinstate her?”
“If she still wants it.” Crocker ran a hand through his hair. “The irony is, she’s going to come back thinking she blew the mission. She doesn’t know that she did exactly what you wanted.”
“This wasn’t solely about Barclay. It began exactly as I presented it.”
“When did it change?”
“When the Prime Minister thought better of antagonizing the White House. And as Chace was running without contact, we couldn’t rightly abort the op, could we?”
“We could’ve,” Crocker said. “If I’d notified the Station.”
“Hmm,” Seccombe said. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of that.”
“It all worked out in the end, regardless, Paul. I think you’ll get along well with your new C. You share a great many traits.”
“It’s confirmed, then?”
“Not officially. Alison will step up as acting C following the resignation. Should confirm the posting by the end of the week.”
“She’ll need a Deputy Chief.”
“Yes,” Seccombe said, nodding. “You should probably talk to Alison about that.”
CHAPTER 31
London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops
18 August, 0858 Hours GMT
Time didn’t heal all wounds, not for her, but in some cases it helped. Chace had come back from Tashkent thinking she was repeating her return from Saudi Arabia, expecting to find Crocker and another trip to the Farm, and then an uncomfortable and unceremonious discharge, this time once and for all.
Instead, she’d returned home to find Crocker acting as if she’d never left; not for Tashkent, not for Saudi, as if she’d been Minder One all along. He’d given her two weeks leave to recover and get her things in order, and to move from Lancashire back to London. So she’d continued on to Lancashire as she’d done for over a year and a half, taking the GNR to Leeds and then changing to Skipton, finally hiring a cab to take her the rest of the way to Barnoldswick.
People either stared at her as she went or studiously avoided looking at her. The bruises on her face had swollen, and she’d been given an ointment for the scrapes, which made the wounds appear still wet and fresher than they were. The sight in her right eye was beginning to return, clearest when she stood upright, worse when she lay down. The doctor who’d tended her at the British Embassy, hovered over by a concerned Station Number One, had explained that there was blood in the eye, and that was what was occluding her vision. It would stop and be reabsorbed soon enough, he assured her. As for her feet, luckily nothing had been broken, but the blunt trauma was severe enough that he’d advised her to stay off them as much as she could. He’d given her a set of crutches.
When Chace finally hobbled through Valerie Wallace’s door in the late afternoon of the twenty-fourth of February, she found Tamsin and Val in the front room, playing with a sorting set, plastic pyramids, spheres, and cubes that could fit into an elbow-shaped tube. Val came to her feet quickly, unable to completely hide the dismay and concern on her face, or the sharp inhale she made at the sight of Chace.
