then nodded. Officially, Fincher was listed as Vice Consul of Trade Development to the Mission, which would have earned him a larger office, if it had been true. Instead, he was shunted off into a ten-by-ten room that Chace suspected had initially been used as a closet. It made the Pit back at Vauxhall Cross look spacious.
For all that, though, she was surprised to find that Fincher appeared to be remarkably at ease with himself.
“You have the documentation?” she asked him.
“Everything’ll be ready by this evening, before you leave for Termez. They had some trouble finding a picture of the boy, as you might imagine.” He slid an envelope across the desk to her, thick with paper. “Tickets for the four of you.”
“Routing?”
“RAF from Mazar-i-Sharif as far as Turkey, from there commercial, Frankfurt, then London.”
“Roundabout.”
“Best we could manage on such short notice. Easier if you’re willing to fly out of Tashkent.”
“That’s not an option.”
“No, I know it isn’t. I’ve spoken to the COS here in Tashkent, a man named Tower, you may remember him.”
“Should I?”
“Tower remembers you. He’s the one who pulled you from the Interior Ministry last February.”
“Then I owe him a very large drink.”
“I suspect you owe him a case’s worth of very large drinks,” Fincher said, opening one of the drawers at his desk and producing a small radio set and wireless earpiece. “Anyway, Mr. Tower is now at speed regarding the search for the Starstreak, and he’ll be present in Termez, with support, ready to move on Zahidov if he shows up. London is officially viewing it as a joint operation.”
Fincher handed the radio and earpiece over to Chace, who took them, examining both quickly.
“Frequency’s been set. Your call sign for the operation is Shere Khan, Stepan’s is Mowgli, Tower’s is Baloo, Lankford’s is Bagheera, and the Uzbek team’s is the Ikki. You can guess who’s Kaa, and no, before you ask, I didn’t pick the names.”
Chace laughed, making note of the frequency being used so she could share it with Lankford, before tucking the set away in the pocket of her jacket. “Seems like we’re all covered, then.”
“I can come down to Termez, if you’d like.”
“I appreciate the offer, Andrew, but if it all goes to hell, I’d rather have you here.” She considered him for a moment, then added, “Head of Station seems to suit you.”
“Or I suit it,” Fincher agreed. “Took a while to warm to it, though. Hard not to view it as a demotion.”
“I understand.”
Fincher tugged his right earlobe. “I’m better here. A better fit, I think.”
“It wasn’t personal, Andrew, you know that.”
He shook his head. “Not with you, no. But I’m not looking forward to seeing Nicky or Chris come through here anytime soon.”
“They’ll behave themselves. I’ll make certain of it.”
“Yes, I know you will.” Andrew Fincher smiled. “And you? You’re doing well?”
“Well enough at the moment.”
“I still think pushing Zahidov is a mistake. You’re taking an awful risk bringing him into play like this, especially if he does have that last Starstreak.”
“There was no sign of the missile when I tossed his apartment,” Chace replied. “Which means he’s hiding it someplace else. I had to do something to force him to bring it out into the open.”
“All the same, you can’t be certain of what he’ll do next. And Ahtam Zahidov angry with a MANPAD is an extremely risky proposition.”
“I am aware.” Chace cocked her head, brushed hair out of her eyes. “You’re keeping an eye on him?”
“Until an hour ago.”
“What happened an hour ago?”
“Hayden says he went to the airport. He lost him there.”
“Zahidov shook Bobby?”
Fincher shrugged. “Bobby can’t say if it was intentional or not, but given that President Malikov has the entire NSS out looking for him, I’d suspect so.”
“Which means that if your Number Two lost Zahidov at the airport, Zahidov certainly didn’t leave from the airport,” Chace said.
“On his way to Termez, then?” Fincher asked.
“Let’s hope.” She smiled at him, then leaned forward. “Can I use your coms, Andrew? I need to contact Minder Three, tell him we’re still running.”
“By all means.” Fincher turned in his chair, reaching to the side of the desk, to the cabinet that seemed to run the length of the wall, opening the center doors. He rose, switched on the secure telephone unit inside, then edged his way between the cabinet and the desk, passing Chace. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Thank you.”
She waited until he’d left and shut the door after him before rising, moving to the cabinet. The space was cramped enough that she ended up perched on the desk to use the phone. She dialed into the Ops Room first.
“Chace. I need a patch to Lankford in Mazar-i-Sharif.”
Chace waited, listening to the regular click of the secure line as Alexis Ferguson put her on hold. She imagined her at the MCO Desk, trying to connect with Lankford via satellite phone to the FSB in Afghanistan. It would take several minutes, and Chace tried to be patient, but waiting led to thinking, and right now thinking too much would lead to second-guessing, and she didn’t have time for that.
But as one minute folded into the next, and she waited for Alexis or, preferably, Lankford to come on the line, she couldn’t stop herself. It wasn’t the fact that Sevara had agreed to the exchange that bothered Chace. She had been dutiful enough in following the news of Uzbekistan back in London that she had months ago noted President Malikov’s attachment to the boy; it didn’t take a degree in psychology to understand that it was guilt as much as affection that kept her nephew in Sevara’s care. It wasn’t even that the Americans had agreed to allow the exchange to proceed; in the final analysis, Sevara Malikov’s decision was the only one that mattered, certainly in matters of Uzbekistan’s security.
Winding up Zahidov, though, that was the gamble, just as Fincher had pointed out. The goal had been to drive Zahidov out in the open, Starstreak in hand, by giving him a target too irresistible to ignore. But if Zahidov could actually make it to Termez with the missile, the variables increased again, because all he would need to do was wait until she, Ruslan, and Stepan were all together in the exfil vehicle, whatever it might be. As long as Zahidov had clear line of sight—and she’d seen the bridge from the air, coming across the border from the British FSB, just three days prior, and there was plenty of clear line of sight—he could park anywhere within five kilometers and easily take them out from there.
She prayed to God that Tower would find Zahidov before Zahidov found his shot.
There was a click on the telephone, and then Lankford’s voice.
“I’ll make it quick, Chris,” Chace said. “Delivery is set for oh-eight-hundred in zone tomorrow morning. Father is to present himself at your side of the bridge for eyeball verification by big sister’s team, then I take the package across.”
“With the father, as planned.”
“What?”
“It’s his son, he needs to be there.”
