A Gentleman's Game

27

London-Camden, Regent's Park Terrace 15 September 1921 GMT Soaked from the rain, Chace limped through her front door, bumped it shut with her hip and locked it, shucked her coat to the floor, and dropped onto the couch. She took her left shoe off, tossing it away toward the television, and then gingerly unlaced the right, easing it free, before stopping and taking in her flat once again. Lights burning the way she had left them; dishes piled in the sink; mail scattered on the end table; cans of paint haphazardly stacked in the corner; canvases rolled and propped against the wall, waiting for abuse; latest letter from her mother crumpled and still resting where it had landed on her bookshelf, dangerously close to the never-been-used aromatherapy candles a rich schoolmate had sent for her most recent birthday.

She got to her feet, wincing at the pressure on her still-injured foot. The staples or stitches or whatever had been used to close the wound itched almost constantly, and Chace had to remind herself to not drag her heel, to not scratch at it.

She made her way into the bedroom, taking in the unmade bed, the dirty clothes heaped in the corner. Kittering's SAS beret was still hanging from the bedpost, her masochistic reminder that she would never be the woman he had wished her to be. Shoes half under the bed, closet door half open, bathroom door half closed…

No, she thought. Couldn't be that, could it? Nothing so elementary, nothing so bloody fundamental. Didn't they think to take Polaroids before searching the place?

It was so obvious, in fact, that Chace had to wonder if she hadn't left the door half open herself.

She went to the nightstand and searched for the penlight she kept there, digging past matchbooks, condoms, an old and uncapped lipstick, a bottle of aspirin, a notepad, and several cheap pens before finding it. She flicked it on, saw the beam was still strong, flicked it off. On her belly, she shined the penlight beneath the fraction of a gap at the bureau's base and saw in the dust there flakes of white.

With a deep breath, she blew beneath the bureau at an angle, then sat up in time to watch the thin wisps of flour, like vapor, curl from the far side.

Turning the penlight off a final time, Chace sat back, resting against the footboard of her bed, tongue poking slightly over her lower lip as she thought. The white powder on the floor was the clincher, and she didn't need to open the bottom drawer for further proof. There were six drawers in her bureau, two side by side at the top, accessories and what little jewelry remained in her life. First down, lingerie, stockings, socks, the like. Second, shirts, seasonal. Third, sweaters, scarves. Bottom, nothing worthwhile. Bottom was a tease, holding only her old rugby shirt and the sweater her father had worn the Christmas before he'd died. She never went into that drawer except to move it enough to coat its rails with a dusting of flour.

Someone had been in her bureau.

Someone had been in the bloody flat.

It occurred to her that, had it been someone with murder in mind, she'd have been in a lot of trouble, the way she'd come home. It had been sloppy of her, London eyes, not field eyes, an entry she'd never had made during a job. But concerned with a sore foot and a desire to get out of the rain, she'd forged ahead, and been fortunate.

It has to be Box, she thought, and she almost said aloud something unkind about Mr. David Kinney and his also-rans, then thought better of it. If it had been Box, they'd tried to go carefully, and they may have planted listening devices during their visit. Maybe cameras as well, but if there were cameras, it was too late for sneaky; whoever was watching would know she was on to them.

She used the footboard to get to her feet, strode into the front, heedless of the pain, and began pulling on her shoes once more.

Only one way to find out. • It took her most of three hours to confirm-or more precisely, reconfirm-and to move suspicion to fact. But when she returned to her flat, dumping the CDs and books she'd bought during her foray, Chace was certain she was being watched, and that it was Box doing the peeking.

More, it wasn't routine surveillance. It was a targeted operation, at least four teams, at least sixteen people, on foot and motorcycle and automobile, and they had done everything they could to avoid detection. This worried her. She knew she'd been checked recently, and that had been a completely different game. One team, on foot, total of four people, working in shifts. Nothing on this scale.

She couldn't see a reason for it. There was no reason for it. She'd looked at it from every direction she could conceive and still saw no logic to it.

But there is a logic, Chace told herself as she watched herself brushing her teeth in her bathroom mirror. There's always a logic, you just don't know it yet.

She undressed, climbed into her bed. Maybe it was a training exercise? Not impossible, Kinney using a Minder to hone his people's technique. Stranger things had happened. If that was the case, it would have to have been cleared by Crocker; at the least, D-Ops would have been informed.

Wrapping the covers around her shoulders, burrowing deeper into her pillows, Chace told herself that had to be it. Training exercise, Kinney trying to one-up Crocker: Hey, mate, my men followed your gal, rifled her flat, she never noticed. Not so special as all that, hmm, your Special Section?

She'd ask him in the morning, she decided, and relaxed, sleepy, feeling the bed too big to occupy alone. She'd ask in the morning, and Crocker would tell her, she had no doubt.

That was the rule. All the world could turn on them, but D-Ops would always defend the Minders. At the cost of prospects, career, friends, liberty, life, Crocker would protect them. He would sacrifice everything for them, because that was what he expected in return, that was the agreement. He would order them over the hills and far away, then demand the impossible of them upon their arrival. And Chace, and Poole, and perhaps one day Lankford, too, would give it to him without hesitation, without questioning the reasons or the merits or the causes; they would do as ordered, as they were expected. They would go, and they would even die, if he demanded it.

And in return, Crocker sheltered them, guarded them, fought for them, lied for them. All of Whitehall could turn on the Special Section, but Crocker would remain, lone against the tide, to give cover to his Minders.

Crocker would protect her.

She fell asleep.