Private Wars

For my brother,

Nick

The police repeatedly tortured prisoners, State Department officials wrote, noting that the most common techniques were “beating, often with blunt weapons, and asphyxiation with a gas mask.” Separately, international human rights groups had reported that torture in Uzbek jails included boiling of body parts, using electroshock on genitals and plucking off fingernails and toenails with pliers. Two prisoners were boiled to death, the groups reported. The February 2001 State Department report stated bluntly, “Uzbekistan is an authoritarian state with limited civil rights.”—From “U.S. Recruits a Rough Ally to Be Jailer,” by Hans Rudolf

Oeser, for the New York Times, May 1, 2005

c. Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment

The law prohibits such practices; however, police and the NSS routinely tortured, beat, and otherwise mistreated detainees to obtain confessions or incriminating information. Police, prison officials, and the NSS allegedly used suffocation, electric shock, rape, and other sexual abuse. . . . In February 2003, the U.N. Special Rapporteur on Torture issued a report that concluded that torture or similar ill-treatment was systematic.—From “Uzbekistan,” in Country Reports on Human Rights Practices,

published by the U.S. Department of State, February 25, 2005

The government claims its efforts serve as part of the global campaign against terrorism. Yet in the overwhelming majority of cases, those imprisoned have not been accused or convicted of terrorism or charged with any other violent act. Human Rights Watch has documented the torture of many of those detained in the context of this compaign, including several who that [sic] died as a result of torture . . . including beatings by fist and with truncheons or metal rods, rape and sexual violence, electric shock, use of lit cigarettes or newspapers to burn the detainee, and asphyxiation with plastic bags or gas masks. A doctor who examined the body of a detainee who died in custody in 2002 described burns consistent with immersion in boiling water.—From “Torture World Wide,” published by

Human Rights Watch, April 27, 2005

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A thank-you is owed to the following for their assistance in bringing this work to life.

Ben Moeling, for giving freely of his time, insight, and experience. All things considered, the late hit really wasn’t that bad.

In London, gratitude to Andrew Wheeler, Alasdair Watson, and Ade Brown; in Barnoldswick, to Antony Johnston and Marcia Allas. Thanks to all for giving me the lay of the land, the turn of the phrase, and the occasional couch to sleep on.

At Oni Press, where Queen & Country continues to thrive, thanks to James Lucas Jones, Randal C. Jarrell, and Joe Nozemack, not solely for their wonderful friendship, but for their continued support as well.

As before, I am indebted to all of the gifted artists who have worked on Queen & Country thus far—Steve Rolston, Tim Sale, Brian Hurtt, Durwin Talon, Christine Norrie, Bryan O’Malley, Leandro Fernandez, Jason Alexander, Carla “Speed” McNeil, Mike Hawthorne, Mike Norton, Rick Burchett, and Chris Mitten.

Once again, to Gerard V. Hennely, who spends a lot of time thinking about the kind of things the rest of us don’t want to spend a lot of time thinking about. As always, your help has been invaluable.

To David Hale Smith at DHS Literary, and Angela Cheng Kaplan at the Cheng-Kaplan Company, who continue to represent me with diligence, passion, and only the barest hints of annoyance. Additional gratitude to Maggie Griffen.

Thanks again to the real Tara F. Chace, who would always rather be carried; to Ian Mackintosh, for creating a world where a fictional Tara F. Chace could be carried; and to Lawrie Mackintosh, who is truly one of the most profoundly generous men it has ever been my pleasure to know.

Finally, to Elliot, Dashiell, and Jennifer, who make the hard things easy.

Preoperational Background

Chace, Tara F.

As far as Tara Chace was concerned, she died in Saudi Arabia, in Tabuk province, on the rock-hard earth of the Wadi-as-Sirhan.

She died when Tom Wallace died, when she heard the chain of gunshots from the Kalashnikov, saw the spastic strobe of the muzzle-flash from across the wadi, one man, unnamed and unknown, lighting the other with gunfire even as he killed him. There were nights when she still heard her own howl of anguish, and she knew the sound for what it was, the little life within her stealing away into the desert air.

Tom was dead, and as far as Tara Chace was concerned, she was, too.

She’d been wounded in the Wadi-as-Sirhan, had fought hand-to-hand with the man who had murdered Tom. He’d tried to split her skull with the butt of his rifle, and when that had failed, tried to choke her to death with his bare hands. Chace had used her knife, and opened his lungs to the outside air, and at the School they would have called that winning. She might have called it that, too, if she’d felt there was anything left to win.

She was still numb from it all when she came off the plane at Heathrow to discover her Director of Operations, Paul Crocker, waiting for her at the gate itself. It was unheard of for D-Ops to greet a returning agent, and the surprise managed to penetrate the fogginess she now traveled in, and she had cause to wonder at it, but not for long. With Crocker as her escort she avoided Customs, winding through endless switchback corridors and through baggage claim until emerging into the drizzle of an early autumn morning.

Crocker guided her to a waiting Bentley, climbed in beside her, and the driver pulled out as soon as the door closed, and that was when Chace finally understood what was happening, and where she was being taken. Her mission in Saudi Arabia had been entirely unsanctioned, and Chace had gone AWOL to do the job. Even if they did still trust her, she had to be debriefed, and that debriefing would take place away from London, at a secure facility hidden in the Cotswolds, called the Farm.

The drive was long, and held in silence. Crocker knew better than to try to engage her in conversation, and for her part, Chace was sitting beside a man whose living guts she now hated.

When she’d fled London some ten days earlier, the boys from Box hot on her heels, she’d been a Special Operations Officer in Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. She’d been the Head of the Section, in fact, code-named Minder One, with two other Minders under her command and tutelage. Along with Minder Two, Nicky Poole, and Minder Three, Chris Lankford, she had provided HMG with covert action capability, as directed and supervised by D-Ops, Paul Crocker. He was their Lord and Master, their protection against the vagaries of government and the whims of politicians who saw agents as disposable as Bic pens, as nothing more or less than small cogs in a very large machine.

Stolen documents needed retrieving in Oslo? Send a Minder to get them back and hush the whole thing up. Potential defection in progress in Hong Kong? Send a Minder to evaluate the defector’s worth, to then either facilitate the lift or boomerang the poor bastard back into the PRC as a double agent. Islamofascist terrorist assembling a dirty bomb in Damascus? Send a Minder to kill the son of a bitch before he can deliver the device to Downing Street.

Tara Chace had left London knowing that she was one of the best—if not the best—Special Operations Officers working for any intelligence service anywhere in the world today.

She had no idea what she had returned as, but a trip to the Farm made at least one thing clear.

Tara Chace was not being welcomed home with open arms.

The Farm wasn’t, really, though from a distance, if people didn’t know what they were looking at or looking for, they could perhaps take it as such. From the lane, a single road wended through a gap in the dry stone wall, disappearing beyond a wall of trees that concealed cameras and sensors designed to keep people out as much as to keep people in. After another mile came another fence, this one more serious, of metal and chain, guarded by a gatehouse and walking patrols, and past that, one could glimpse the manor house concealed beyond further trees. Into the compound, one found the dormitories, as they were euphemistically called, bungalows constructed in the early sixties that demonstrated all of the architectural grace of the period, lined up side by side along a paved walkway, surrounded by yet another chain-link fence, this one topped with razor wire.

As far as prisons went, Chace thought that this one wasn’t half bad. Her bungalow was simple and comfortable enough, and when she wasn’t being interrogated by the likes of David Kinney and his Inquisitors from Box, or being evaluated by the head SIS psychiatrist, Dr. Eleanor Callard, or submitting to yet another physical by yet another physician she’d never met before in her life, she was left alone. She could take walks with an escort, read books from the manor library, exercise in the gym. There were no clocks anywhere she could see, and she was forbidden access to television, radio, newspapers, or the internet.

The supply of scotch and cigarettes, however, was generous, and Chace availed herself of both.

She’d been at the Farm a week when Crocker returned. The Director of Operations came to her bungalow, let in by a guard, to find Chace vomiting into the toilet, and he waited until she was finished, until she had used the sink to rinse out her mouth and slop water onto her face, before saying, “It’s time to come back to work.”

Chace dried her face on a hand towel, refolded it, and replaced it on its bar, before asking, “And what if I don’t want to?”

“Of course you want to,” Crocker said. “You’re a Minder, Tara. You don’t know how to be anyone else. You can’t be anyone else.”

It was what she’d feared the most since arriving at the Farm, the question she’d taken to bed with her every night. Not wondering what would happen if they threw her out on her ear, if they discharged her dishonorably, if they sent her packing. No, that would have made it easy; they would have made the decision for her. Shunted off with a reminder of the Official Secrets Act and an admonishment to keep her nose clean, she could have left and blamed it all on them, on Crocker and Weldon and Barclay, on politicians and analysts in London and DC who felt Tara Chace was a world more trouble than she was worth.

That would have made it so easy.

Instead, her worst fear realized, manifested now by Crocker, telling her that all was forgiven.

Telling her what they both knew.

So she went with him, back to London, and back to work.

Six weeks later, she and Minder Two went to Iraq on Operation: Red Panda, to assassinate a member of the new government who had been passing defense information to the insurgency. Things got bloody.

Things got very bloody.

Perhaps bloodier than they needed to get.

When they returned to London and had been debriefed, Chace was ordered to see Dr. Callard a second time.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Some trouble sleeping, but fine.”

“Are you still drinking?”

“I eat, too.”

Callard’s mouth twitched with a smile, and she scribbled something on the pad resting on the desk in front of her. She asked Chace more questions, and Chace answered them with requisite evasion. The whole process lasted an hour, and when Chace again descended to the Pit, the basement office she shared with Lankford and Poole, she knew what the Madwoman of the Second Floor would report to D-Ops.

Chace wasn’t a fool, and she knew herself well. She was drinking too much and sleeping too little. More often than not she started her mornings by being ill into the toilet. She was sore, and plagued by bad dreams when she could sleep. She was prone to irrational anger and sudden sorrows.

Even if she hadn’t been able to read Callard’s notes upside down, even if she hadn’t seen the words post-traumatic stress, Chace would have made the diagnosis herself. Either that or assumed she was premenstrual, but she’d already missed two periods since Saudi Arabia. That wasn’t unique in her life; there had been times of high stress in the past when she’d missed her cycle more than once.

All the same, she stopped at the Boots nearest her home in Camden on her way back from work that day, just to be certain. She read the instructions on the box, followed them, waited.

And found herself staring at two pink lines, which, according to the instructions, indicated a positive.

She left her home, returned to the Boots, bought another test, and repeated the procedure, with the same result.

Two pink lines.

“Bloody fucking hell,” she said.

The hard copy of the Minder personnel files—past and present—were held by D-Ops, or more precisely, held in the secure safe in his outer office. Keys to the safe were in the possession of Crocker; the Deputy Chief of Service, Donald Weldon; and the Head of Service, C, known outside of the building as Sir Frances Barclay. Duplicates were stored on the in-house computer network, but access to those files in particular required a password that was altered every twenty-four hours, and even then, only supplied to the aforementioned holders of the keys.

Plus one other person, Kate Cooke, who manned the desk in Crocker’s outer office, serving as his personal assistant. Not only did she have access to the password, but she had her own set of keys. After worrying the problem all night, it was Kate that Chace finally decided she stood the best chances with. First, they shared minority female status in the Firm; second, they bore a common cross, most clearly embodied in the form of D-Ops, but readily recognizable in the guise of any of the other Department Heads. That Chace was Head of Section for the Minders didn’t change this; Minders were considered in SIS to be more or less pariahs, closer to working-class thugs than to the more refined agents posted to stations around the world.

Finally, she and Kate had known one another some four years, and, in that time, managed a weak kind of professional friendship, one that began when each entered Vauxhall Cross at the start of the day, and ended when they departed again for home.

All the same, it took Chace some cajoling, and more deft lying, before she was able to get Kate to hand over the file on Wallace, Thomas S. (deceased). She scanned it quickly, and learned that Wallace was survived by his mother, Valerie, and that she lived in a town in Lancashire called Barnoldswick.

The following morning, Chace delivered her request for a leave of absence to Crocker, by hand. He read it at his desk, scowling, while she stood opposite him. When he’d finished he lit a cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and glared at her.

“Don’t be a damn fool,” Crocker said. “You can’t possibly keep it.”

It was more anger than humiliation that colored Chace’s cheeks. Of course Crocker had known. They’d given her a complete workup at the Farm; they’d have done bloodwork as well.

Which meant Crocker had sent her to Iraq knowing she was pregnant.

“I am taking a leave of absence.” She was more than a little surprised at the sound of her own voice. It was surprisingly calm.

“Is it Tom’s?” Crocker demanded. “Is that it?”

“Twelve months,” she said.

“You can’t do it, Tara, not on your life. You can’t have a child and be in the Section, it’s not possible.”

“Ariel and Sabrina,” Chace countered, using the names of Crocker’s daughters.

“Jennie.” The name of his wife.

“Twelve months’ leave. Sir.”

“Not on your life.”

“Then I quit,” Chace said, and walked out.

She caught an early train out of King’s Cross the next morning, bound for Leeds, riding in a nonsmoking carriage that reeked of stale cigarettes. The ride took some two and a half hours, and once in Leeds she changed to a local connection, taking it as far as Skipton, where she hired a car and bought a copy of Lancashire A to Z. She took a room at the Hanover International Hotel, stowed her things, and, famished, ate a late lunch while going over the maps. She went to bed early.

In the still-dark hours the next morning, Chace made the fifteen-minute drive from Skipton to Barnoldswick. She parked the car near the town square, and after a seventy-minute reconnoiter, had found four positions ideal for static surveillance of number 17 Moor View Road, the home of Valerie Wallace.

It was light surveillance, the best Chace could manage without giving herself away, the best she could manage working alone. As a result, she was careful, trailing Valerie Wallace at a distance as the older woman went about her business in the town, working at the local charity shop, meeting friends for lunch or tea at this or that house, visiting the local surgery to see her GP. Autumn brought an already cold wind that promised a fiercer chill come winter, and most of the widow Wallace’s activities were thus confined to the indoors, which made getting close difficult.

Shortly after midnight on her third day of surveillance, Chace broke into the surgery, curious as to the reason for Wallace’s visit. She spent an hour with a penlight in a darkened file office, reading Valerie Wallace’s medical history. When she was finished, she replaced everything as she had found it, and managed to relock the door on her way out.

In the afternoon of the sixth day, while Wallace was having her regular luncheon with friends at the tea shop off the square, Chace picked the lock on the back door of 17 Moor View Road, and worked her way in careful silence through the older woman’s home. If her schedule held true to form, Wallace would go from lunch to the local hospice for volunteer work that would stretch until almost the evening, and so Chace took her time. She searched in cabinets and closets, beneath the beds and in drawers, even going so far as to examine the contents of the kitchen, just to gain some insight into the older woman’s diet.

In Valerie Wallace’s small bedroom, smelling of lavender and laundry soap, Chace discovered a collection of framed photographs carefully arranged atop the dresser. There were pictures of a younger Valerie and, presumably, her late husband. Gordon Samuel Wallace had been a career soldier, and in two of the pictures stood in uniform, looking proud to be wearing it, if vaguely uncomfortable to be photographed while doing so. A third showed Valerie holding a newborn, and the remaining two were of Tom exclusively. One of them mimicked the portrait of his father, perhaps intentionally, wearing the dress uniform of a Royal Marine; the last, more recent, was taken in the sitting room of this very house, the branch of a Christmas tree reaching into the frame as Tom looked out the front window at the moor.

Wedged beneath the last was a folded letter, and Chace freed it, opened it, already knowing what it was.

Dear Mrs. Wallace: It is with great sadness that I must inform you of the passing of your son, Tom, in service to his country. . . .

Chace replaced the letter as she had found it, and departed as silently as she had come.

On the tenth day, a freezing November Tuesday, at nine o’clock exactly, Tara Chace knocked on the front door of Valerie Wallace’s home.

“My name is Tara Chace,” she said. “I worked with Tom.”

Valerie Wallace, standing in the half-opened doorway, frowned slightly, squinting up at her. She was a small woman, easily a foot shorter than Chace, with hair more gray than black, and not so much heavy as thickened by age and gravity. She let her frown deepen, and didn’t answer.

And Chace found herself at a loss, the speech she’d so carefully rehearsed abruptly gone, disappearing like the vapor from her breath. She tried to retrieve it, found only bits and pieces, incoherent and useless.

Valerie Wallace shifted, one hand holding the door, still staring at her.

“We were lovers,” Chace finally managed. “Before he died. We were friends and we were lovers, and I’m pregnant, and it’s his. It’s ours.”

She thought it would garner some reaction, at least; if not the words, at least the clumsiness of them. And it did, because, after another second, Valerie Wallace blinked, and then opened the door more fully, inviting her inside.

“Perhaps you’d like to come in for a cup of tea, Tara Chace,” Valerie Wallace said. “And you can tell me why you’re here.”

On the twenty-eighth of May, at seventeen past nine in the morning, at Airedale General Hospital in Keighley, with Valerie Wallace holding her hand as she screamed through the final surge of labor, Tara Chace gave birth to a daughter. The baby was healthy, twenty-two inches long, weighing seven pounds, eleven ounces.

She named the child Tamsin.

There were nights when, despite exhaustion, Chace found she could not sleep.

Staring out the window that overlooked Valerie Wallace’s well-tended and now fully in-bloom garden at Weets Moor, holding Tamsin in her arms as the baby slept, Chace would sit and stare at nothing. She could feel her daughter’s heartbeat, the rustle of her breath, the heat of her small body.

And Tara Chace would wonder how she could feel all of that, and still feel nothing at all.

CHAPTER 1

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—14 Uzbekiston,

Malikov Family Residence

9 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)

They gave it an hour after the husband left, just to be certain he hadn’t forgotten anything, that he wouldn’t be coming back, before they knocked on the door. Four of them went to do it, while another two waited in the second car, the engine idling.

The two who waited were jealous of the four who went. They thought they were missing the fun.

All were men, and all wore business suits of the latest style, acquired for them in Moscow and Paris and Switzerland, then altered by tailors here in Tashkent, men who were paid pennies to adjust clothing worth thousands. All six finished their look with neckties of silk and shoes of Italian leather and cashmere-lined kidskin gloves. A few wore overcoats as stylish as the suits they covered, to ward off the howling chill that blew down out of the mountains in Kazakhstan to the north.

The only thing that marred the line of their clothing, each in turn, was the slight bump at hip or beneath an armpit, where they carried their guns.

Back before Uzbekistan had declared its independence from the creaking and cracking Soviet Union, before the failed hard-liner coup in August of 1991, when they were still called the KGB, none of them would have dreamed of wearing—let alone owning—such finery. Signs of Western excess, such garments would have flown in the face of Communism. Certainly they would have made a mockery of the subtleties required for their work.

But those days were long past, and fewer and fewer of them remembered a time when orders came from Dzerzhinsky Square. They weren’t KGB, and they weren’t Communists. They called themselves the National Security Service now, the NSS, and if they believed in anything anymore, it was in power and money, in that order. They were the secret police, and they didn’t care who knew it. They were beholden to—depending upon whom you spoke to—one of two people. Either they marched to the tune played by their nation’s leader, President Mihail Izmaylovich Malikov, the man who had led the country since he declared its independence in August 1991, or they danced to the music played by his elder child, his daughter, Sevara Malikov-Ganiev. That’s where the true power was. While President Malikov’s other child—his only son—Ruslan, had influence and friends of his own, they paled in comparison to that held by both his father and his sister.

This was why the four NSS men who entered Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov’s house at half past nine on a frigid February morning had no hesitation whatsoever in arresting his wife, Dina, for espionage and treason. This is why they did not hesitate to beat her in front of her two-year-old son when she tried to keep their hands from her body. This is why they did not hesitate when they had to drag her, flailing and screaming, down the stairs and out onto the street.

And this was why they did not hesitate at all when it came time to torture her.

They hooded her once they had her in the car, and they bound her hands, and when she made a noise, they struck her, telling her to be quiet. Best as Dina Malikov could tell, they didn’t drive for long or very far, and when the car stopped, she was dragged from the vehicle, and felt the instant bite of winter on her skin. They propelled her down echoing corridors, yanking and shoving her, sometimes pulling her hair, sometimes her shirt. There was the cold sound of heavy metal sliding on concrete, and someone shoved her so hard then that she couldn’t keep her feet, falling to the floor. Red light exploded across her vision as she was hit in the head again, and when she could see once more, the hood had been removed.

She’d seen this room before, but never in person. It was larger than she’d thought it, lit by a string of naked bulbs that dangled from the ceiling, shining too bright, banishing all shadows and all illusions of the safety to be found in them. The floor was cold, poured concrete, the walls of gray cinder block. The odors of urine and mildew and cigarette smoke combined, still not strong enough to obscure the scent of feces.

There was a table, wooden and stained, and three chairs, also wooden. A video camera stood on a tripod in one corner, and beside it, on the floor, a red metal toolbox. Other tools lay nearby, devices designed for one purpose that could be redirected to another, far crueler. Against the opposite wall, a claw-footed old bathtub sat, anchored by two pipes, one to fill it, one to drain it.

Three men stood staring at her. Two of them she didn’t know, didn’t recognize, but the third she did, and that terrified her more than any of what had come before, because it drove home to her exactly how bad things were going to get. As they had taken her from her home, as they had dragged her and beat her, she had allowed herself the illusion of hope, that Ruslan would return, that her marriage would offer her some protection, that she might survive. But looking at Ahtam Zahidov as he removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over the back of one of the chairs, for the first time, Dina Malikov thought she was going to die.

“Dina,” Zahidov said, and he gestured to her with his left hand, absently, and the two other men took this cue to move forward, and they began to strip her. She struggled, alternately cursing and pleading with them, with Zahidov, and Zahidov merely watched, and the other two hit her in the back and the belly until she had no air, until she couldn’t struggle any longer. The two men tore the clothes away from her, mocking her, mocking her husband, and when she was finally naked they forced her to the table. Again, she tried to fight them, and again they beat her until she could not, and they laid her across the tabletop, and they held her down.

Ahtam Semyonovich Zahidov moved behind her, and put one hand on the back of her neck, and with his other forced himself inside her.

“Where did you get the tape?” Zahidov asked. “Who gave it to you?”

She tried not to sob, shaking on the floor, tears and blood mingling on her face.

“Who gave it to you?” Zahidov asked.

She drew a long inhale, feeling the air burn her torn lips. “My husband—”

“Is in Khanabad for the day, making nice with the Americans at their air base, and will not be home until evening.” Zahidov canted his head to one side, as if seeing her for the first time. “Tell us what we want to know, and you will be home before he returns. Back with your boy. He needn’t ever know what happened here.”

She spat at him.

“We can blame the extremists, Dina,” Zahidov said, his voice soothing with reason. “He doesn’t ever have to know.”

The sob escaped her without her meaning it to, the shame scorching through her, hurting more than her body itself. Ruslan would believe it, if she told him, if she blamed the Islamic extremists, if she blamed Hizb-ut-Tahir, he would believe it. She could be home, she could hold Styopa again, hold her baby again, and Ruslan would come home. So easily he would believe it, he would want to believe that she had been taken, had been kidnapped, that it was the Islamic extremists who had wanted her as a hostage, but she had escaped, somehow, some way, and she could tell him, and he wouldn’t know, he wouldn’t ever have to know what had happened, what had really happened, what Zahidov had done, had let the others do, all it took was a name, one name—

“Just tell me who, Dina,” Zahidov said. “Tell me, and this will all end.”

She blinked through her tears, through the glare of the lights at him, sitting in the chair, looking at her like he was her friend.

Dina Malikov shuddered, and closed her eyes, and said, “I can’t.”

She heard him sigh, a sound of mild disappointment almost lost in the size of the room, and then she heard the rasp of metal on metal, as the toolbox was opened.

In the end, she told Zahidov everything.

She told him the name of the NSS officer who had given her the videotape documenting the torture of Shovroq Anamov’s sons while the old man watched, helpless to ease the suffering of his children. The tape that recorded the obviously false confession of the old man as he swore up and down that, yes, he had been south to Afghanistan, yes, he had met with the terrorists, yes, he had helped arrange the bombings that had struck the market in Tashkent in the spring. The tape that showed the tears running down the old man’s face and captured his keening when his eldest boy, shocked one time too many, stopped moving the way a human being moved, and instead jerked like a fish on the end of a line.

She told Zahidov how she arranged to get the tape out of the country, how she’d made contact with a junior political officer at the American Embassy by the name of Charles Riess, how it had happened at the embassy holiday party this past December, hosted by Ambassador Kenneth Garret at his residence, just outside of town. How it had been Riess she’d been passing information to, so Riess could in turn pass it on to the State Department. How it was her fault that the White House was withholding another eighteen million dollars in aid to their ally Uzbekistan.

She told Zahidov everything.

In the end, though, it wasn’t enough.

In the end, they put her in the tub and filled it with boiling water.

The NSS officer who had served as her informant was arrested before nightfall, and shot before midnight.

Zahidov would have done it himself, but he was too busy arranging the arrests of the extremists responsible for the kidnapping, rape, and murder of Dina Malikov. One of them was a schoolteacher in Chirchik who had continued to try to incorporate passages from the Qur’an into his lessons. The other two had also insisted on practicing their religion outside the manner permitted by the state, and one of them, a woman, had led a group of forty in signing a petition to be presented to President Mihail Malikov demanding their right to worship as Muslims. All three were arrested by midmorning the next day.

Near the home of the schoolteacher, half buried beneath rocks, was discovered the body of the missing Dina Malikov. She had been horribly beaten and burned, her teeth shattered and the nails of her fingers and toes torn from their digits.

She was so disfigured, in fact, that Ahtam Zahidov had to send a request to Ruslan Mihailovich asking that he come at once, to identify his wife’s body.

CHAPTER 2

London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room

10 February, 1829 Hours GMT

Paul Crocker had known Operation: Candlelight was a bad idea the moment it crossed his desk.

He’d known it the same way he’d known his elder daughter had become sexually active, long before he’d heard the fact from his wife, Jennie. He’d known it the way he’d known that he’d been passed over for promotion to Deputy Chief, long before his C, Sir Frances Barclay, had smugly confirmed it for him. He’d known it the way he’d known he was losing Chace when she came off the plane at Heathrow eighteen months earlier, and he knew it the way he knew that Andrew Fincher would be a poor replacement for her when Donald Weldon, in his last act as Deputy Chief of Service, railroaded Crocker into taking the agent on as his new Head of the Special Section.

Part of it was instinct, part of it was experience, honed from almost twenty-five years in Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, through countless operations all over the globe. Jobs he’d worked, jobs he’d planned, jobs he’d overseen. The successes, and more important, the failures.

Candlelight had been bad news from the start, and what Paul Crocker saw now on the main plasma screen of the Ops Room wall—or more precisely, what he wasn’t seeing—only drove the point home.

He should have been looking at a live satellite transmission from Kuala Lumpur, where, according to the callout on the world map on the wall, Operation: Candlelight was “Running,” and the local time was two-thirty in the morning. He should have been seeing what Minder One, Andrew Fincher, was seeing, as the Head of the Special Section made his way along the harbor to the target site. He should have been hearing it as well, the susurration of the water, the hushed transmissions relayed between Fincher and Minder Two, Nicky Poole, stationed at the ready point with the SAS brick, waiting for Fincher’s go signal.

But no, instead, Crocker got static. Static to look at on the plasma wall, in the box above Southeast Asia where the feed should have been coming through, and static to listen to on the speakers, instead of the low calm of the voices of men, preparing to do work.

Julian Seale, seated at the map table to the left of where Crocker now stood, glaring at the garbled screen, coughed politely.

“Might want to do something about that,” Seale said.

“You think?” Crocker snapped, not bothering to look at him. Instead, he strode forward, to the Mission Control Desk, where William Teagle was frantically attacking his keyboard with his fingers. “Bill, what the hell’s happened to the feed?”

“Checking now, sir.” Teagle twisted in his chair, turning to another of the consoles surrounding him at the MCO station. Teagle was new on the desk, only three months in, and Candlelight was his first major operation, and Crocker thought the stress of it showed on the man’s face, the perspiration shining on his forehead. If he’d been inclined to it, Crocker might’ve been sympathetic. As it was, he didn’t have the time.

“Is it the upgrades?” Seale asked Crocker.

Crocker frowned at the plasma wall. “Possibly.”

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 Mawi Dawn, they’ll be sitting on two hundred thousand gallons of liquefied natural gas. That blows up, windows will be shattering all the way to Bangkok. It’ll be the Revenge of Krakatoa.”

“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.

“—on approach now . . . see lights on the second floor, no signs of movement . . . hold on . . .”

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. “Songbird, this is Nightowl. We’re at stage one, taking position, please stand by.”

“Nightowl, Songbird. Confirmed. Let’s make this fast, right? I’ve got a bad feeling here. I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to.”

“Songbird, understood. Moving to position one, stand by.”

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 both KL and Panama, resourceful and capable, but, in Crocker’s view, overly concerned with avoiding risk. What had helped Fincher more than anything was his penchant for making the right friends inside the Firm. Starting with his second tour, he’d begun to make it known that he’d very much like to come to work in the Special Section, and that had made Crocker suspicious. Once he was aboard, the suspicions were confirmed.

Fincher wasn’t a bad agent, but he was station-oriented and excessively cautious, two things that translated to a lack of initiative, something that a Minder, in Crocker’s view, had to have in abundance. He couldn’t send a Minder into the field on a job only to have the agent hesitate and dither before deciding on a course of action, or, worse, repeatedly clear his intentions with both Station and London. In a Special Operation, there just wasn’t the luxury of time. Worse, though, was the fact that Fincher didn’t see anything wrong with his caution, and in fact, Crocker suspected the man believed he was a better agent than he actually was. As far as Paul Crocker was concerned, all other factors aside, that alone made Andrew Fincher absolutely wrong for the work. He wanted his Minders to think they weren’t good enough.

In fact, it was what he needed them to believe for them to do their job.

Chace had been the shining example of the principle, marrying ambition, passion, and self-loathing in a seamless blend.

“Video, sir,” Ronald Hodgson said.

“Put it up, for God’s sake.”

The empty rectangle on the plasma screen flickered, then filled with a grainy image, dark enough that it took Crocker a moment before he could begin to discern details. He was looking at three men, all of them in plain clothes, all with their torsos clad in body armor, sitting in what he presumed was the back of the van they’d acquired for the operation. Two of the men held MP-5 submachine guns, fitted with flash suppressors. The third was Nicky Poole, wearing a radio headset, crouched by the side door, one hand to his ear, straining to listen.

“Where’s the audio?” Crocker demanded.

“Switching to the MOD stream now, sir.”

There was another crackle from the speakers.

“Songbird, Nightowl. Status?”

No response.

“Songbird, Nightowl, respond please.”

On the plasma wall, in its rectangle, Crocker watched as Poole adjusted his position, shifting on his haunches, checking the radio in his hand. He could make out the frown of concentration on Poole’s face.

“What the fuck is going on?” Seale muttered. “Where is he?”

“Songbird, Nightowl, respond.”

Nothing.

Oh, sweet Jesus, no, thought Crocker.

Over the speakers came the sound of a rattle, something striking the side of the van. Crocker heard one of the SAS swearing softly, watched as Poole pulled away from the door as three MP-5s came up, and then the side door slid back, and the camera flared as its aperture tried to adjust to the abrupt change in light sources.

“Friendly!” Crocker heard Poole hissing. “Jesus, friendly, don’t fucking shoot him!”

The image resolved again, and Crocker watched as Poole yanked Fincher into the van, one hand on his shoulder, more concerned with efficiency in the move than comfort. The camera readjusted as the SAS trooper wearing the rig moved back. The view canted at an angle, and over the speakers came the bang of the door sliding closed again.

Poole leaned in on Fincher. “What the fuck happened, what are you doing here?”

Fincher shook his head, trying to catch his breath. Poole, still with his hand on Fincher’s shoulder, shook the other man.

“What the fucking hell happened? Dammit, Andrew!”

Fincher coughed, pulling himself away from Poole’s grip. “They made me. I had to withdraw. We’ve got to abort.”

Crocker cursed, hearing Seale echoing him. He swung toward the Duty Ops Desk. “Ron, MOD, now! Get me a patch to Candlelight, they cannot abort!”

“Open line, sir.” Ron handed Crocker the telephone handset.

Crocker put the phone to his ear, could hear the sounds of consternation coming from the Ministry of Defense’s operational command post. “D-Ops, who am I talking to?”

“Lance Corporal Richard Moth, sir.”

“Put Colonel Dawson on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

From the speakers, Crocker could hear Poole cursing at Fincher. “You’ve fucking blown us, you fool!”

“They made me, dammit! What was I supposed to do?”

On the screen, Crocker watched as Poole sat back, yanking the headset from his head. The expression he was seeing on Minder Two’s face was much like the one Crocker imagined was now gracing his own.

In his ear, from the telephone, Crocker heard, “Paul? James. What the hell is your man playing at?”

“God only knows. Listen, Colonel, you’ve got to give them the go order.”

“If they’ve been blown—”

“I understand the risk. They’ve got to move now, Colonel, there’s no choice.”

“Hold on.”

Crocker looked back to the video feed, watching. After a second’s pause, a squawk came over the speakers, and he watched as Poole hastily put his headset back into place.

“Nightowl, go.”

From the telephone, Crocker heard Dawson’s voice, distant, relaying the go, repeating the order twice, to make it clear.

On the screen, through the speakers, Poole said, “Nightowl confirms, we are go, repeat, we are go.”

Crocker was sure he saw Fincher blanch.

There was a rush of movement then, Poole reaching for the MP-5 that had been waiting for him as the camera jerked, heading to the doors of the van. The screen flared again, resolved, and now the view was jumping up and down, and Crocker could see Poole and the other two SAS troopers racing along the street, turning now between buildings, running hard, then slowing. They reached the door, two of the troopers taking entry positions, and the one wearing the camera made the breach, and Poole tossed the first grenade, and the sound of the explosion came back at them in the Ops Room, muffled by the speakers.

Then the shooting started.

CHAPTER 3

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—

Husniddin Asomov Avenue

11 February, 1213 Hours (GMT+5:00)

If he hadn’t been so focused on chasing the hare, Charles Riess supposed he’d have seen the car coming. But then again, if he’d seen the car coming, Ruslan Mihailovich Malikov might never have made contact with him, so all in all, Riess figured it more than made up for the scraped knee and sprained ankle.

They’d started the run up on the northeast edge of Tashkent, about ten in the morning, just north of the Salor Canal, setting off in pursuit of a particularly sneaky son of a bitch from the Embassy’s Consular Division named Bradley Walker. Turned out his surname was more than a little misleading, and with the fifteen-minute head start that Riess and the twenty-seven other Hash House Harriers had given to Walker, he’d led them on a merry chase. Most times, you could count on the run being completed in about an hour, so everyone could get to the more serious business of drinking.

Most times.

Walker had been given the go, running with a bag of flour to lay trail—or more precisely, to lay false trail—and Riess and the others had stood in the freezing morning, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands. In another two weeks the winter would be over, and Uzbekistan’s traditionally temperate climate would return, but for now it was cold enough that Riess seriously considered forfeiting his participation altogether, just so he could return to his home on Raktaboshi Avenue and crawl back into bed. Another of the Harriers, joining them from the German Embassy, had seemed to read his mind, making a joke about calling the run on account of the weather. Riess had looked north, into Kazakhstan, and seen snow on the mountains.

The chase began, the pack setting off in pursuit of the hare, heading first toward the Botanical Gardens. Riess had run long distance in college but quit upon entering the State Department, only to pick it up again after he’d met Rebecca. They’d met early in his first posting, Tanzania, and it had been part of their courtship, what Riess had supposed was some Darwinian hardwired leftover proof-of-virility ritual. He’d gotten as far as picking out a ring and preparing a speech, had scouted locations in Dar es Salaam, just to find the right place to propose.

Then the Embassy had been bombed and eighty people had been wounded, and eleven had died, and Rebecca had been one of those eleven.

Now when he ran, Riess sometimes imagined Rebecca was running alongside him, and that was how he remembered her, and it made the going easy, despite the cold. Today, he soon found himself leading the pack. He stood five ten when his shoes were off, and one-seventy-eight on the bathroom scale after a shower, wearing nothing but his towel, with long legs Rebecca had described as spindly. If his German/English heritage had given Riess anything, it was a runner’s body.

He ran, eyes open for the trail, and just before the zoo, he saw what he was certain, at the time, was a smudged arrow of flour, pointing him toward the northwest. He pressed on, crossing the Jahon Obidova, heading northwest now, down along the Bozsu Canal. Splotches of flour appeared every hundred meters or so, keeping him on track, and behind him, he could hear the singing and laughter of the pack. Riess felt the warmth of his own breath as he ran through the clouds of condensation he was making.

It was when he saw trail indicating that Walker had crossed the canal that it occurred to Riess that this chase wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought it was.

It was an hour later, circling the TV tower along northern Amir Temur, that he realized that Walker had been planning this run for days, if not weeks, and had been laying false trails for it as well. He doubled back, heading south down Amir Temur, in the direction of the square, and it was as he crossed Husniddin Asomov that the BMW shot through the intersection, its horn blaring, and like an idiot, Riess looked to find the source of the sound rather than getting out of the way.

And it sure as hell looked like the car was going to hit him, so Riess did what people normally do in such circumstances: he dove, trying to reverse his direction, off the street. He was certain he could feel the front fender of the car brushing his sneaker as he tumbled, and then he was on the ground, trying to roll back to his feet, and that was when he twisted his ankle, and went down again, this time harder, and losing a few layers of skin off his knee as a bonus.

Riess rolled onto his back, sitting up, pulling his right knee to his chest with both hands, hearing himself curse. He was dimly pleased to realize that he was swearing in Uzbek. He’d have to drop a line later to the folks at Arlington who’d spent forty-four weeks beating the tongue into his head.

The BMW had come to a stop, and Riess saw it was an older model, maybe ten years old, and the driver’s door opened, and a man came out from behind the wheel, looking concerned, asking if he was all right. Riess’ first thought was that it was funny that he’d been hit by a man who looked just like President Malikov’s son.

“Are you all right, can you stand?” the man asked him, reaching down to take hold of Riess by the upper arms. “Can you stand?”

“It’s all right,” Riess said. “I’m all right.”

“I didn’t see you running like that, I’m very sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Riess nodded, trying to figure out what to say next. He wasn’t a spook, he wasn’t one of Tower’s cadre of case officers, he was the Deputy Chief Political Officer for the U.S. Mission to Uzbekistan, most often referred to as a poloff. He’d had some basic training in tradecraft, mostly security, ways to keep himself safe, ways to determine if he was being targeted. But when it came time for cloaks and daggers to be handed out, Riess’ job was to stay at the embassy and well out of the way. Even working with Dina Malikov had been a stretch, a job he’d only undertaken at the request of his ambassador.

He wasn’t a spook, but he knew what this was, and he was quick enough to know that if Ruslan Malikov was trying to make contact with him covertly the day after his wife’s body had been found outside of Chirchik, the odds were that they were both being watched.

Riess let Malikov help him to his feet, wincing as he tried to place some of his weight on his ankle. The pain ran around the top of his foot like barbed wire, and he hissed. Malikov put one arm at the small of his back to support him.

“Do you need a hospital? I can take you to the hospital.”

“No, I think I’ll be okay.” Riess tried it again, stepping gingerly and gritting his teeth, and found that if he turned his foot inward slightly, the pain wasn’t quite so intense. Malikov’s hands came off him, and Riess hobbled experimentally.

“You’re certain?”

“It’s okay,” Riess said. “Really, it’ll be fine. Just needs some ice. I’ll handle it when I get home.”

Malikov studied him, as if trying to discern the truth of the statement, then nodded and moved around the BMW, back to the driver’s side. Without another word, he climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door, and pulled away, back into the thin traffic on the avenue.

Riess grimaced, swore again, louder, mostly for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening. He had to assume he was being watched now, even if he couldn’t see the watchers, even if he was, just perhaps, being paranoid rather than prudent. It took him a few seconds to realize that what he needed to do next was exactly what he’d been doing before, and he hobbled back toward the street, and spent the next three minutes trying to hail a cab to take him to the Meridien Hotel, near Amir Temur Square.

Once in the taxi and in traffic, Riess leaned back in his seat and reached around, behind his back, to where Malikov had slipped the note into the waistband of his sweats. It was a small square of paper, folded over several times, and easy to conceal in his palm, and so Riess did as he bent forward to check his sore ankle. He slipped the paper into his sock.

The cab dropped him at the hotel, and he hobbled up the steps and into the lobby to find that the others were already there, in the bar, with the hare, who was now drunk almost beyond all comprehension. Lydia Straight, the press attaché at the Embassy, saw him and thus initiated the first round of heckling.

“Chuck! You made it!”

Jeers followed.

Riess showed Lydia his middle finger and took the offered beer from Walker’s somewhat unfocused grip. He drank it while leading a rendition of “The Real Story of Gilligan’s Island,” then started a second while joining in on the traditional version of Elton John’s “Rocket Man,” before excusing himself to the restroom. He used the sink first, running water to wipe the sweat from his face and the grime from his hands, then wet a paper towel to use in cleaning his skinned knee. When he finished, the only other patron in the men’s room had departed, and Riess moved to the toilet stall, where he dropped his sweats, sat on the toilet, and only then retrieved the note.

It was written in English, which surprised him, all in careful block capitals, painstakingly laid onto the paper.

CHARLES—I KNOW WHAT MY DINA WAS DOING FOR YOU AND YOUR AMBASSADOR, AND FOR THIS MY SISTER HAVE HER MURDER.MY FATHER IS SICK AND NOT FOR LAST LONG. IT WILL BE BETWEEN MY SISTER AND MYSELF THAT IS TO RULE. I AM YOUR MAN NOW. I WANT FOR MY COUNTRY MORE TO BE LIKE YOURS. I WILL DO WHAT EVER IT WILL TAKES.MY SISTER KNOWS THIS AND WILL TRY TO HAVE ME MURDER SOON.I WILL DO WHAT EVER IT TAKES.

The note was unsigned, and Riess figured that was because a signature didn’t much matter. He read it again, slower, just to be sure he understood what was being said, then got to his feet, pulling up his sweats. He flushed the toilet, and used the rush of water to hide the noise of the tearing paper. He waited until the toilet refilled, dropped the fragments into the bowl, and flushed a second time. When the bowl refilled again with nothing but dirty water, he left the stall, relieved to see that he was still alone in the bathroom.

Riess returned to the bar in time for another drink and the second chorus of “Put Your Thighs on My Shoulders,” then sang the raunchiest version of “Rawhide” he knew as a duet with Lydia. They were on the third verse when the management asked them, politely, to leave.

He took a cab home, showered, changed, and then called the Residence using the house phone. The line had been checked by the Embassy’s security staff only three weeks ago as part of their standard evaluation, and Riess was as certain as he could be that it wasn’t bugged. Even so, when the Ambassador came on the line, he kept things vague, asking when would be a good time to come see him.

“This what I think it is?” Ambassador Garret asked him.

“Yes, sir.”

“DCM is hosting a dinner tonight at his residence for a couple of the DPMs, including that bastard from the Ministry of the Interior, Ganiev. Come late, Chuck. Come very late. Hour of the wolf.”

“Hour of the wolf,” Riess agreed.

“How?” Ambassador Garret asked.

“They boiled her to death,” Riess answered. He tried to make the declaration merely factual. He failed.

“Jesus Christ.” Garret passed a broad hand over his face, wiping the sleep away from his eyes. “Jesus Christ, she’s his daughter-in-law, she’s married to Ruslan, and Malikov let the NSS lobster-pot her?”

“The Ministry of the Interior is claiming it was Hizb-ut-Tahir.”

“I know what they’re claiming. Jesus Christ.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Ambassador closed his eyes, then opened them again. “She gave you up. If they tortured her, she gave you up.”

“I think it’s a safe assumption, yes, sir.”

“When was the last time you met with her?”

“On the second, so that’s nine days ago now. That’s where I got the videotape.”

Garret frowned, remembering the recording. “Why’d they kill her?”

“It might have gotten out of control. They’re not terribly gentle about these things.”

“But they can be, Chuck, they can be. They could have fixed it so they got what they wanted and then sent her back home.”

“She would have told her husband.”

Garret looked at him, his brow creasing, thinking. “Maybe.”

“You think there’s something else to it?”

“I think that Dina Malikov was alive on Thursday, dead by Friday, and today, Saturday, her husband arranged a meeting with you to say that he wants to play ball. The timing makes me nervous.”

“I got the impression from his note that he’d been looking for an opportunity for a while, sir,” Riess said. “Dina’s death may have been the impetus he needed to make the move.”

“Which may be why they killed her in the first place. If it was the old man who did it.”

Riess heard the doubt in his voice. “You think it was Sevara?”

“I think Sevara wants the crown, Chuck. And if Malikov really is coming up on his last legs, she may be trying to clear the way for a run at the throne.”

Riess considered, watching as Garret looked away from him to the grandfather clock ticking solidly in the corner study’s corner. The Ambassador’s mouth tightened to a line, and then he used his broad hands on the broader armrests of his easy chair to push himself to his feet.

“Four in the fucking morning,” he said. “Let’s go to the kitchen. I need some coffee.”

The house was silent and dark. The trip from Riess’ house downtown to the Residence on the outskirts of Tashkent normally took half an hour, but at three in the morning, Riess had been able to make it in half that time. The roads had been almost entirely vacant, and he’d driven quickly, in an attempt to flush any possible tails. He hadn’t seen any, but that didn’t give him much confidence that he’d gone undetected. It didn’t really matter; he was known in the Embassy as the Ambassador’s legman, much to the annoyance of his immediate superior, Political Counselor T. Lindsay McColl. If Riess was called out to the Residence at half past three in the morning, then it was unusual, but not unheard of.

Riess followed the Ambassador through the house, Garret alternately switching on lights to illuminate their way, turning off others as they no longer needed them. Riess wondered if it was a security measure or a habit. Maybe he did it to keep from disturbing his wife. Whatever it was, Riess was certain there was a purpose to it. In his experience, there was very little that Kenneth Garret, the United States Ambassador to Uzbekistan, did without a very good reason.

Riess’ immediate superior in the Mission, McColl, as uptight and self-righteous a Europeanist as Riess had ever met in the Foreign Service, consistently referred to Garret as “the Grizzly,” though never while in earshot of the Ambassador. McColl did a poor job of hiding his resentment of Garret, a resentment born, Riess supposed, more of envy than of anything else. Both men shared the same political rank at State, and McColl not only had seniority, but a pedigree, and felt that Garret had robbed him of his rightful ambassadorship. The nickname was meant, therefore, as an insult of the highest order.

But limping after Garret through the Residence, Riess thought it was anything but. Six foot three and easily two hundred and forty pounds, everything on Garret had that ursine sense of scale and restrained power, from the breadth of his chest and the strength in his shoulders down to the thickness of each of his fingers. In all the time Riess had known him, first serving as a junior political officer at the embassy in St. Petersburg where Garret had been posted as Deputy Chief of Mission, and now, six years later, serving as his legman in Tashkent, he’d never once seen Garret exhibit anything but an absolute, controlled calm. No matter what he did, if he laughed, if he despaired, it was all with the same gravitas.

People underestimated the Ambassador to their peril, and while Riess himself had never heard Garret talk about it, it was well known among the Mission staffers just how tall the man could stand. No new arrival to the Chancery in Uzbekistan could make it more than a week before hearing the infamous “Fuck Off, Senator” story.

It went something like this:

Seems that Kenneth Garret had spent a year at CENTCOM as a political adviser after one of his DCM stints. His job had been primarily to offer political insight and counsel to General Anthony Zinni. After CENTCOM, Garret had rotated back to State, and then, the following year, had been nominated as Ambassador to Kuwait by the Clinton White House. It was a done deal as far as the White House was concerned, and even the Senate Foreign Relations Committee had looked to be smooth sailing, a rubber-stamp proceeding.

Except that the Committee in question was chaired by Senator Jesse Helms, and Helms’ history with Zinni was, as one of Riess’ colleagues had described it, “defined by white-hot hatred,” as a result of a particularly harsh facing Zinni had delivered to the Senator following the Gulf War. After the war, Helms had gotten the not-very-bright idea of turning the Iraqi army-in-exile around on Saddam with CIA backing, in an attempt to overthrow the dictator. It was a plan that suffered from a legion of problems, small and large, so many in fact that General Zinni, in a public hearing, had referred to the idea as a “Bay of Goats.”

The Senator was not well pleased.

Garret, so the story went, was approached by one of Helms’ staffers prior to confirmation. The staffer informed the Ambassador-in-waiting that his confirmation would positively sail on through, but that, during the closed hearing, the Chairman would ask Mr. Garret some pointed questions about General Zinni. And if Mr. Garret then took it upon himself to perhaps criticize the General’s judgment and leadership, well, it would be appreciated. Certainly such comments in a closed hearing would be a small price to pay for Mr. Garret to finally achieve a posting of importance and prestige, one he’d been pursuing throughout his professional career.

According to the story, Garret embarked on one of his infamous pauses, lasting—depending on who was recounting the tale—anywhere from fifteen seconds to an ungodly two and a half minutes, before offering his answer.

“Fuck off.”

When the staffer regained his ability to speak, he informed Garret that any confirmation hearing would not occur until the Chairman moved for the nomination to be considered by the Committee, something that Mr. Garret, by his answer, had just guaranteed would never happen. Not just this job lost, no sir. No position requiring a Senate confirmation. Ever.

Nice knowing you, Mr. Garret.

The Clinton White House, on the other hand, upon hearing of what had transpired, rewarded Garret for his loyalty with a position on the National Security Council. And it was on the NSC that Garret remained until Colin Powell came aboard as S and heard the story himself. Didn’t hurt that Powell and Zinni were tight, and so Garret found himself back at the State Department, working in Counterterrorism . . . a position that became the epicenter of the policy universe only a few months later.

Riess liked the story for a number of reasons, but mostly because it had a happy ending. Helms and his winged monkeys on the SFRC left the Hill, and the moment they were gone, Powell pushed for Garret to get the Uzbekistan job. This was pre-Iraq but post-9/11, and the posting was second in importance only to the Mission in Islamabad, given the situation in Afghanistan. More, it was a reward for loyalty, for a job well done that put Garret in line for even greater things. After Uzbekistan, the Ambassador could expect his next posting to be in Turkey, or Australia, or Moscow, wherever he damn well pleased.

This was, in part, why what Garret was undertaking was so potentially dangerous. If it failed, it could end the Ambassador’s career.

And Riess didn’t even want to think about what it would do to his.

“I want Ruslan in charge,” Garret told Riess. “He’s the best bet we have going to turn this country into something resembling a free society.”

“I agree.”

“Problem is, Ruslan doesn’t have the muscle to take over when his old man kicks it. And right now, everyone back in Washington likes the looks of his sister. They think Sevara’s their girl. She’s made some overtures already, she’s indicated her willingness to play ball. As far as the old guard back at State are concerned, she’s already halfway into power.”

“She’s as corrupt as her father is,” Riess said. “She’s just more subtle about it.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Garret said. “It’s the Kissinger legacy, Chuck. The realists are looking at her as someone who can get the job done, who’ll hold the line against the extremists, and who’ll continue to support the war. And we can’t lose Uzbekistan, we need the conduit into northern Afghanistan.”

“We’d get all those things from Ruslan. If we supported him, we’d get all those things, and it’d be better for the country, to boot.”

Garret studied him thoughtfully, not speaking for several seconds, and Riess wondered if he’d perhaps stepped over some unknown line. If it had been McColl he was speaking to, he’d never say these things, but the Ambassador had always encouraged him to speak his mind. Even so, Riess worried that he’d gone too far.

“You’re going to have those ex-KGB bastards crawling all over you, you know that?” Garret asked, finally. “Even if Dina didn’t give you up, Ruslan’s contact with you today guarantees it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Ambassador gave him a small, paternal smile, then turned to the coffeemaker and proceeded to fill two cups. He handed Riess one, then asked, “You ever meet Ruslan? Before today, I mean?”

“At the Independence Day party—theirs, not ours. That’s it.”

“According to Tower, Malikov wants control of the country to stay in the family when he kicks it. Hasn’t chosen one kid over the other, as far as the CIA can tell. God knows, if he doesn’t designate a clear successor before he kicks it, all hell will break loose. Might break loose anyway, even if he does. The DPMs would eat their own young if they thought it would put them in charge.”

“Sevara’s married to Ganiev—”

“Yeah, the Deputy Prime Minister of the Interior, though it’s an open secret that she’s the one running the Ministry.”

“That’s not all she’s doing,” Riess said. “There’ve been reports of her selling girls into the UAE, that she’s formed and armed her own militia. We know she’s got her own secret police force, her own courts. And we’re not even discussing her legitimate—and I use the word in the loosest possible sense—business interests, from her wireless communications company to owning something like three spas and a movie studio.”

“Whereas Ruslan has a two-year-old son and has just become a widower.”

“Ruslan’s the Chairman of the Constitutional Court, which means he’s responsible for writing the laws that his father wants written. He’s got some people, but it’s nothing like what Sevara’s assembled. That’s never been how he does business.”

Garret drained his cup and again looked to the clock, this one hung on the wall beside the refrigerator. He frowned, and Riess knew from the expression on his face that the Ambassador was doing time-zone math, most likely calculating the hour in Washington.

“Have to start with my calls.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing for the time being.”

Riess tried to keep the confusion off his face. “Sir?”

“Nothing. Don’t try to contact Ruslan, don’t go near him. Just do your job, keep McColl happy. He already thinks you spend too much time with me as it is.”

“Ruslan believes his life is in danger, sir. If we don’t do something—”

“Easy, Charles. I didn’t say I wasn’t going to do anything, I just told you to steer clear for the time being.” Garret looked at the clock again, frowning. “What’s London, five hours behind us?”

“Uh . . . five or six, I think.”

“He won’t be in yet,” Garret said, more to himself than to Riess, then sighed. “I’ve had enough, Chuck. Thirty years in high diplomacy and not enough time actually spent keeping the people on the ground from being tortured to death. Realpolitik be damned, I’ve had enough. Malikov goes. One way or another, he goes. We’re staging a coup, Chuck. A nice, quiet coup, and when it’s over the White House gets to say we did the right thing, even if they’d rather we hadn’t done it at all.”

“If it works,” Riess murmured.

“If it works.”

They left it at that, neither of them wishing to say what would happen if it didn’t.

CHAPTER 4

London—Spice Quay,

Residence of Poole, Nicholas

12 February, 1748 Hours GMT

“Thought you were bringing Tamsin,” Nicky Poole said after he’d let Chace inside and taken her coat. “Didn’t leave her on the train, did you?”

Chace smacked her forehead with her palm, just hard enough to make an audible impact.

“Oh, damn,” she said. “I wondered what that bloody racket was.”

She shrugged and grinned, and Poole laughed and asked her if she’d like a glass of wine before dinner, saying that he’d opened a passable French Syrah that he thought she might enjoy. Chace followed him through the flat, past the windows overlooking the Thames, at the rain that was falling hard enough to hide the view of Tower Bridge. She took the glass he offered, raised it to his, and each took a sip to the other’s health, before Poole set his back down and returned his attention to the salad he was preparing as a starter.

“You’re looking good,” Poole remarked. “Thought you’d have gone all dumpy with motherhood by now.”

“Nursing is a wonderful thing,” Chace said. “I think I’m back to my fighting weight, so to speak. You look like hell, incidentally.”

“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Job?”

He shook his head slightly, not so much as an answer, but rather to warn her off as he added a handful of goat cheese to the salad. “You know I can’t talk about it.”

Chace nodded, took another sip of her wine, hoping it would soothe her curiosity. It surprised her how much she wanted to know the details, where he’d been, what he’d done, why he’d done it.

“So,” Poole said, changing the subject, “where is the little precious?”

“I told you, I left her on the train. Should be in Dover by now, I’d think.”

Poole arched an eyebrow at her, then scattered chopped figs on the salad before sprinkling the mixture with a vinaigrette he’d apparently prepared himself. He picked up the salad bowl, snapping his wrist forward, then back, catching the greens as they flipped into the air.

“Very fancy,” Chace said. “Tam’s fine, she’s in Barlick, Val’s watching her. We’re weaning, and it’s easier if I’m not there for it.”

“I was worried.” Poole set the bowl down, began dishing the salad onto plates. “For a moment I was beginning to wonder if you had abandoned her.”

“Nice to know you think so very highly of me, Nicky.”

“I do think very highly of you, Tara.” He handed her a plate, then picked up his own, taking his wineglass in his free hand. “To the table, please. We need to eat it before it wilts.”

“Words to live by if ever I’ve heard them,” she said, and followed him to her seat.

They ate well, Gressingham duck served with rosemary potatoes and freshly minted peas. The conversation was easy at first, and each laughed more often than not. Twice Chace tried to steer the conversation around to SIS and happenings at Vauxhall Cross, and the first time, Poole let it continue, going so far as to share the few pieces of information that were harmless, or at least considered open secrets. He liked their new Deputy Chief; Kate still guarded the door to Crocker’s office; Lankford had gotten himself a girl; Barclay continued to make life miserable. After he’d served the apple crumble and coffee, Chace tried a second time, asking pointedly how her replacement was working out, and Poole set down his utensils and stopped just short of glaring at her.

“I can’t talk about it, and I can’t talk about him, and you know that, Tara. So leave it be, right? Enjoy the meal, tell me about your little girl, talk about religion, sex, and politics, if you like. But please, don’t ask me questions you know I’m not allowed to answer.”

Chastened, Chace nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“You miss it so much, reapply. Crocker would take you back in an instant.”

“Crocker can burn in hell.”

“Fine, then. Shall we talk about the weather?”

Chace shook her head, and let it go, lapsing into silence as she started on her dessert. The dinner marked the third time she and Poole had gotten together since she’d quit SIS eighteen months prior. The first time, he’d come to visit shortly after Tamsin’s birth, while Chace was still in the hospital, with flowers and good wishes from both him and Lankford, saying only that he’d heard there were now two of her, and he had to see it himself before he could believe it. Chace suspected that Crocker had let him know about the birth, though how he’d found out, she couldn’t guess. It wouldn’t have been that hard.

The second visit had been just before Christmas. Poole had come to Barnoldswick bearing gifts for Tamsin and Valerie, and had stayed with them overnight, even going so far as to cook dinner for the three of them. When he’d left in the midafternoon the next day, Valerie had told Chace that, if she was smart, she’d get her grip on that Mr. Poole right quick, before some other lady beat her to the punch, as he’d be a wonderful father to her baby. Chace had smiled and explained that such an arrangement was unlikely to happen, as Mr. Poole preferred the romantic company of other men to that of women. Valerie had digested that, frowning.

“Homosexual?” she’d asked, for clarification.

“Devout.”

“No wonder he’s so good in the kitchen, then,” Valerie had mused, and then gone off to continue wrapping Christmas presents.

They finished the meal just after eight in the evening, and Chace stayed to help with the dishes, clearing the table. By the time all was dry and back in its proper place, Chace could tell Poole was halfway to sleep. Whatever he’d done, wherever it had been, it had taken a physical toll, she could read it in his movements, in his expression when he thought she was looking away. He was angry, too, and she was certain it was related.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went out the door, saying that he hoped they’d get together again soon, and she echoed the sentiment, slipping into her coat and wrapping her scarf around her neck as she went down the hall, catching the lift back to the street. Once outside, though, walking through the rain, she admitted that she probably wouldn’t see him again at all, in fact, that this had most likely been the last time they would ever come together for a social visit.

The gulf was too wide, she realized as she walked toward the tube stop to catch the train back to Camden, and each time they got together, it only made the distance between them that much wider. It had nothing to do with friendship, nothing to do with the respect or fondness that either had for the other.

He lived in another world now, one she’d departed of her own choosing.

Riding the tube, looking with contempt at the other passengers pursuing their minor lives, it struck her that she was just like them now.

She was just like everyone else.

CHAPTER 5

London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

13 February 0922 GMT

Crocker’s day, when he could rely on that mythical creature called a “routine,” normally began at half past five in the morning, with the cruel blare of his alarm as it dutifully roused him from the four or so hours of sleep he’d managed to steal. He would tumble from his bed, and, on days like today, curse the draftiness of the old house as the cold radiated through the rug on the floor. He would lurch more than walk to the bathroom, and let the shower finish what the alarm had begun. He suffered from regular headaches and regular muscle aches, both the result of tension, and depending on how sorry his state, would remain under the water for anywhere from five to fifteen minutes in an attempt to lessen the impact of both, before emerging to shave and dress.

Lately, his showers ran to the long side.

Once in his suit, always three pieces, always gray or navy, he would descend to the kitchen to find Jennie already there, and she would hand him his first cup of coffee for the day, and he would drink it while they shared a quick breakfast, cereal if there was time, a piece of fruit stuffed into a pocket if there wasn’t. Crocker would use the telephone, and call the Ops Room, to inform the Duty Ops Officer that he was on his way into the office. He would kiss his wife, promise that he’d be home by dinner, grab his government case, and make his way to the train. If the commute was easy, he could count on reaching Vauxhall Cross by half past seven; if it was hard, it could take him until half past eight, or longer.

On a normal day, Kate Cooke would have arrived before him, early enough that she could present Crocker with his second cup of coffee as he entered his office, taking his government case in trade. While Crocker hung his coat from the rickety stand in the corner of his office, Kate would unlock the case using one of the keys that hung from the chain at her waist, and begin removing and sorting those files and papers that had accompanied Crocker home the previous night. Throughout this, she would provide a continuous commentary, informing Crocker of any matters outstanding that required his immediate attention, or in fact of anything that she thought might be of interest to him at all.

Crocker would settle behind his desk, light his first cigarette, and then begin the necessary but tedious process of vetting the stack of reports as Kate departed, leaving the door open to the outer office so she could remain within earshot. Crocker would scan the files, circulars, and memorandums that had arrived while he’d been away, initialing each as he went, to signify that he had, in fact, seen and reviewed its contents. The stack was always prepared in the same fashion, with those items marked “Immediate” at the top, down to those graded “Routine” at the bottom.

More often than not, Crocker would discover multiple items requiring his attention, and bellow for Kate to return. Dictation would follow, or directions, or curses, or any combination thereof, and Kate would again return to her desk to carry out the latest series of instructions. Crocker would then direct his attention to the Daily Intelligence Brief, as prepared by his opposite number, the Director of Intelligence, Simon Rayburn. This, in turn, would lead to more instructions to Kate, and frequently, those instructions would require the Minders in some fashion or another to join him in his office, more frequently using the house phone to inform the Head of Section of D-Ops’ wishes.

On a good day, it would be nine in the morning by the time this particular regimen was completed. On a bad day, it could last well into the late morning.

What happened next depended on a variety of different variables. Should the world appear to be behaving itself, Crocker would move to the Deputy Chief’s office, joined by D-Int, and together, sitting opposite the DC, the three would review the events of the day before, and plan for the events of the day ahead. The DC would then excuse them, and depart to carry that briefing up to C, leaving Crocker and Rayburn to return to their offices to oversee their respective domains. If an operation was in the offing, Crocker would make a visit to the Ops Room first to check on the status of the mission, and to make certain that the Operations Room staff was appropriately briefed. He would then return to his office, and continue to attend to matters there, both political and operational. Letters would be drafted, phone calls made, and always more meetings. The minutiae of Intelligence in all of its tedious glory, from budget allocations to changes in security protocols to correspondence sent in response to this department or that ministry.

And so it would go until, inevitably, the red phone on Crocker’s desk would ring, and the Duty Ops Officer would be on the line, his voice soft, efficient, controlled, informing D-Ops that something, somewhere, had happened, requiring his attention. The Paris Number One had been arrested for soliciting a prostitute, for instance, or a journalist for the BBC had been arrested in Darfur, accused of espionage, or a car bomb had exploded in Moscow, or the Director of Global Issues at the FCO had been spotted at the airport in São Paulo, when in point of fact she was supposed to be vacationing in California, or Operation: Fill-in-the-Blank had hit a snag.

And Crocker would respond, depending on what was needed, giving his orders, rushing to brief the DC and C, struggling to secure the approval required to do whatever it was that would be needed next. Politics would rear its ugly head, and arguments would ensue, and somewhere, someplace in the world, time would be running out to do whatever it was that needed to be done.

Crises, and more, dealing with crises, was, after all, his line of work.

If things went well, the crisis would resolve in short order, but of course, things rarely went well. Assuming the crisis resolved, Crocker could count on leaving Vauxhall Cross at six in the evening, to negotiate his morning commute once more, this time in reverse, carrying his government case, loaded and locked by Kate before he’d sent her home. If he was fortunate, he’d arrive to find that Jennie had held dinner for him, and if he was extraordinarily lucky, he’d find his daughters at the table as well, Ariel, thirteen, and Sabrina, sixteen. He would use the telephone, and inform the Duty Ops Officer that he was now at home, then sit down to dine and enjoy what little time he could with his family.

Later in the evening, after the children had gone to bed, Crocker would unlock his case, and go through the papers he’d brought home with him. He’d make notes, draft responses, and inevitably fall asleep while reviewing the papers, only to be awoken by Jennie, and redirected to his bed. Sometimes, they even managed to make love before he fell asleep again.

That was the routine.

Monday morning, the routine lasted until he reached his office, and then it went all to hell, pretty much as Crocker had expected it would.

“C wants you in his office right away,” Kate informed him as she followed Crocker from the outer office to the inner, taking his case.

“Is Fincher in the Pit?”

“Not yet, sir, no. Poole and Lankford.”

Crocker shrugged out of his overcoat, placed it on the stand. “How many times has he called down?”

“Just the twice. Deputy Chief as well, only once.”

“We have Minder One’s after-action?”

“It’s on top of the stack.” Kate closed the now-empty case, setting it beside the document safe that stood just inside Crocker’s office, to the left of the door. “KL went badly, I presume?”

“Fincher bollixed it up.”

“Hardly surprising,” Kate murmured.

Crocker stopped moving long enough to glare at her. “What was that?”

“It seems surprising,” Kate said, sweetly, adjusting her grip on the stack she’d taken from the case. “Shall I inform Sir Frances that you’re on the way up?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother. And perhaps you’d like to inform the Deputy Chief as well?”

“I would be delighted.”

He waited until she was out of the room before starting a cigarette, taking the first folder off of the top of the stack sitting on his desk. The folder was red, indicating that its contents were operational in nature, and a tracking sheet was affixed to its front, along with a bar code. It was stamped “Most Secret,” and the tab on the side read “Candlelight.” According to the tracking sheet, the contents had most recently been received by the Deputy Chief’s office at 0818 that morning, and by C’s at 0844. Kate had signed for possession at 0902.

Crocker blew smoke, and, still standing, opened the folder. The contents detailed all aspects of Operation: Candlelight, from conops to implementation, everything that had any bearing on the mission. He flipped through the pages quickly, looking for Fincher’s after-action. It should have been at the top, the most recent addition to the file aside from Crocker’s own assessment, written in the small hours on Saturday morning, after Candlelight had wrapped up. Instead, he found Fincher’s report at the bottom, two double-spaced pages clipped together, as if shoved into the folder at the last moment.

He read, and when he was finished reading, he swore, closed the folder, and all but threw it down on his desk. Then he stormed into the outer office, making for the door onto the hallway.

“Get on to the Pit,” Crocker told Kate. “Tell Poole I want his after-action on Candlelight, and I want it right away. I’ll be in C’s office.”

He was out the door before she could respond.

“I think you owe us an explanation, Crocker.” Sir Frances Barclay was seated behind his very large desk, in his very large chair, his hands resting side by side almost on the desktop, his thin fingers barely touching one another. His voice was placid, friendly, and he blinked slowly at Crocker from behind the thin lenses of his glasses, and he even managed a thin smile.

Seated to the left of where Crocker stood facing the desk, Alison Gordon-Palmer uncrossed and then recrossed her ankles, smoothing her long skirt.

“It’s in my report,” Crocker said.

“Your report and the report of your Head of Section seem to be at odds.”

“Head of Section’s covering himself.”

Barclay’s left eyebrow hitched itself higher a fraction. “Or you are.”

“Colonel Dawson will confirm what I’m saying.”

“He certainly confirms the firefight,” Barclay said. “He certainly confirms that his troopers followed your orders to engage the JI cell after you ignored Minder One’s recommendation to abort.”

“Respectfully, sir, Minder One doesn’t have the authority to send an abort,” Crocker responded. “I do.”

“It’s one of your responsibilities, yes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which in turn would make you responsible for what happened as a result,” Barclay said, and his smile vanished. “Six dead, another two wounded on the exfil, and the Malaysians screaming bloody murder about us interfering in their sovereign affairs. The G-77 have rallied around, and are making strenuous protest in New York and Geneva. Downing Street is embarrassed, the cousins are washing their hands of it all, and we look like a bunch of imperialist fools roaming Southeast Asia, spilling blood wherever we can find it.”

“It was a Jemaah Islamiyah cell, sir,” Crocker replied, tightly. “That’s been confirmed. We have further confirmation, including radio and internet intercepts, that the same cell intended to hijack the Mawi Dawn as it entered the Straits of Malacca this morning, and then to drive the supertanker into Singapore Harbor.”

“I don’t dispute any of that.”

Crocker almost shook his head, trying to conceal his surprise. “Sir?”

“D-Int, as well as CIA, confirms everything you’ve said. That is not at issue.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir.”

Barclay sighed, glancing over toward the Deputy Chief. From the corner of his eye, Crocker watched Alison Gordon-Palmer again smooth her skirt. She was frowning.

Barclay moved his gaze back to Crocker, and the smile reappeared. “How long have you been D-Ops now, Paul?”

Crocker saw it then, saw it all unfurling like a banner into a breeze. He forced his jaw and his hands to relax. “Seven years.”

“That’s quite a long time.”

“I’ve had predecessors who remained for longer.”

Barclay nodded sagely, accepting this. “Many of them too long, I daresay.”

“Fincher had no authority to call for an abort, sir, and his actions jeopardized not only Minder Two and the troopers with him, but the entire mission as well. My response was appropriate, and necessary.”

“Your response generated a political and diplomatic mess, Paul.” Barclay smiled again, thinly. “I find it rather ironic that, with all of the gamesmanship and arrogance you have exhibited in your time as D-Ops, what has finally brought you to your knees is nothing of your own devising, but rather an unfortunate sequence of events that could have happened to anyone in your position. I find that most ironic, I must admit.”

Crocker glanced to Gordon-Palmer, saw that the woman was studiously looking away from Barclay, trying to conceal her scowl. Crocker felt perspiration rising to his palms, but was somewhat surprised to find that was the only physical response he seemed to be exhibiting, especially considering his now-burning desire to reach across the desk and strangle Sir Frances.

He resisted the urge. He even managed to keep his voice civil, if not pleasant, when he asked, “What do you intend?”

“I’m going to replace you, Paul,” Barclay said. “Colin Forsythe, I think, though I may tap Dominick Barnett—I haven’t truly decided yet. Both are capable, and neither will have me worrying that my D-Ops is skulking around behind my back. Honestly, it’s only a question of which of them I’d rather.

“As for you, you will remain on as acting Director Operations until the end of the month, at which point your successor will be named, and you will vacate your office. If at that time you wish to continue in SIS, I’m certain we’ll be able to find an appropriate position for you somewhere in Whitehall. If you play your cards right and make this easy on me, I might even go so far as to see you posted to the States. There’s a JIC advisory position coming open at the Embassy in Washington. You would do quite well in the position, I think.”

Crocker kept his mouth closed, concealing the fact that, for an instant, he’d had to bite his own tongue to keep himself silent. But even if he’d managed to keep his voice still, he had no doubts that Barclay was reading everything on his face.

In return, Barclay’s smile grew a fraction.

“I told you I would see you gone,” he said. “It took longer than I had anticipated, but here we are, at the end, and I have kept my word. More than you can say you’ve ever done for me.”

“Not quite at the end.”

“Two weeks from it, then. And don’t think for a minute that I shall let my attention wander from you, Crocker. No, my eye will be on you up until the moment you leave this building for the very last time, of that you can be certain. You may leave now.”

Crocker left the office without another word.

Alison Gordon-Palmer caught him just as he was stepping into the elevator, preparing to ride back down to the sixth floor.

“Paul!”

What he truly wanted then was to be alone, at least for a moment, so he could indulge the rage that was now roaring inside him. But the Deputy Chief was almost running, trying to catch him before the doors closed, and at the last moment Crocker thrust out his hand, so that she could enter and ride the lift down with him.

“I’m sorry. You must know I tried everything to talk him out of it,” Gordon-Palmer told him after the doors had closed. “He’s had it in for you from the start, Paul. This thing in KL was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.”

Crocker grunted in agreement. His history with Barclay stretched back to his days in the field, to when he’d been a young Minder Two during the twilight days of the Cold War. He’d gone to Prague to lift a KGB defector named Valeriy Karpin, and it had gone wrong, and Crocker had barely escaped with his life. Karpin hadn’t been as lucky, shot to death as he hung in the barbed wire on the border with Austria. Barclay had been Head of Station–Prague at the time, and it was Crocker’s belief, even now, that Karpin’s death was Barclay’s fault. Like Fincher, he’d lost his nerve when it had been needed most, and like Fincher, Frances Barclay had done an expert job of passing the blame for the failed operation onto another’s shoulders.

Barclay, like so many other civil servants in countless bureaucracies around the world, had gone on to survive and even to thrive. When Sir Wilson Stanton-Davies, the previous C, had been forced into premature retirement as the result of a stroke, Barclay had assumed the position as head of SIS with a sense of entitlement that had made Crocker’s stomach turn. Barclay had also made it abundantly clear that he would do everything in his power to convince Crocker to step down.

But before he had been D-Ops, Crocker had been a Minder, and more of that remained in his blood than Barclay had anticipated. Crocker had entrenched himself. While Barclay headed the Firm, Crocker knew his opportunities for advancement were limited, if not nonexistent. His intent had been to wait Barclay out. Eventually, he was certain, the current C would retire, and the sun would once more shine down upon the Ops Directorate. All he’d needed to do was outlast him.

“Paul?”

Crocker brought himself back to the moment, looking at the Deputy Chief.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m thinking of firing Fincher, to begin with.”

“He’ll file a grievance, say it’s politically motivated.”

“He’s been a disaster since he started. He’s all but crippled the Section. If the job hadn’t been in KL, I would never have sent him.”

“All the same, you fire him, you’ll lose. Which means that you’ll depart, but Fincher will still be here. Bad for the Service, certainly.”

“Maybe I can find a job in Iraq that needs doing,” Crocker said. “Somewhere in the Sunni Triangle, perhaps.”

Alison Gordon-Palmer allowed a soft laugh to escape her before shaking her head, amused. She was in her early fifties, slender, with shoulder-length brown hair that had about as much life to it as the bristles found on the average broom. She favored suits of brown or, rarely, a deep burgundy, and she avoided the use of makeup unless forced to walk the corridors of Whitehall on SIS business. As far as Crocker was concerned, she was the second smartest person in the building—the first being Simon Rayburn, the Director of Intelligence—and, unlike the man she had replaced as Deputy Chief, Donald Weldon, appropriately aggressive for the job. Weldon had been, by his nature, cautious, and disinclined to the risks inherent in intelligence work. Alison Gordon-Palmer, on the other hand, understood that risk came with the territory.

Crocker wondered again, not for the first time, how it was that Frances Barclay had settled upon her as Deputy Chief. He’d been certain the job would go to Rayburn, and had been surprised when she’d been named as DC instead.

It was one of the very few decisions Barclay had made that Paul Crocker could find no fault with.

The lift came to a halt, the doors opened, and Crocker and Gordon-Palmer stepped out, walking through a cluster of junior officers who parted hastily to let them pass. Their offices shared the same floor, and they walked through the maze of white corridors in silence. When Crocker made the turn toward his office, she stuck with him.

“Do you want to stay?” she asked him suddenly.

The question was unexpected, and Crocker responded before thinking. “Of course I bloody want to stay.”

Gordon-Palmer nodded slightly, her lips tightening in thought. She waited until he had his hand on the doorknob to his outer office, then said softly, “Seccombe is going to call you.”

Crocker stopped, looked at her curiously, waiting for further explanation. She shook her head.

“I recommend you see what you can do for him when he calls, Paul,” the Deputy Chief said, and then turned away, heading to her own office.

Leaving Paul Crocker to wonder what it was the PUS at the FCO could possibly want with him, and why the Deputy Chief seemed so certain he would be able to deliver.

CHAPTER 6

London—Whitehall. Office of Sir Walter

Seccombe, Permanent Undersecretary and

Head of the Diplomatic Service (FCO)

13 February, 1559 Hours GMT

Sir Walter Seccombe’s smile was wide and genuine, and he shook Crocker’s hand firmly, pumping it twice before releasing his grip.

“Paul, good of you to come,” Seccombe said. “I’m afraid we’ll need to make this fast—I have to join my Minister for a Cabinet meeting at half past.”

“I could hardly refuse the invitation,” Crocker said. “Certainly not after the Deputy Chief let me know it was coming.”

“I trust she said no more?”

“Only to expect your call.”

“I’m grateful that you’re willing to indulge me.”

Crocker shook his head slightly, bemused by the inversion. He didn’t know what Seccombe wanted from him, but he was certain there was very little he could offer the PUS in return. Seccombe smiled again, a second time, grandfatherly in his care, then motioned for Crocker to step farther into the office.

It was a large room, and of a kind that Crocker had seen many times before, most recently that morning, in Barclay’s office. The décor, even the feel, of the space was designed to conjure the Britain of a century before, when empire was spelled with a capital E beneath a sun that never set. But where Barclay’s office was more effect than truth, Seccombe had the real thing, from the seventeenth-century globe resting in its mahogany stand to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all loaded with leatherbound volumes with spines lettered in gold leaf. The carpet beneath his feet was certainly silk, certainly over two hundred years old, and Crocker became painfully aware that his shoes were still wet from the rain outside.

Seccombe continued without looking back, motioning with his right hand toward the couch and chairs that marked the more social area of the office, indicating where he wanted Crocker to sit. As Crocker removed his overcoat, Seccombe moved to his desk, gathering a selection of papers there before returning to join him. Crocker took a position on the couch, and Seccombe one of the high-backed chairs opposite.

“Would you like a drink, Paul?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re certain you wouldn’t indulge in a whiskey? Not after the morning I’m sure you’ve had?”

Crocker shook his head. It didn’t surprise him that Seccombe knew what had transpired at Vauxhall Cross that morning. There was a very good chance that Seccombe had seen it coming well before Barclay himself had. As PUS, Seccombe tracked all aspects of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s operations, overseeing the work of no less than five Director Generals, who, in turn, guided everything from general defense and intelligence to political interaction and consular services. If the Foreign Secretary, as appointed by the Prime Minister, was the brains of the FCO, then Seccombe, in his position as the Permanent Undersecretary—emphasis here on permanent—was its nervous system. Quite literally, nothing happened in the FCO without Seccombe knowing about it, more often than not before it came to pass.

Crocker knew him as brilliant, both as a politician and as a diplomat, as ruthless and calculating. He could hardly be otherwise and have survived in his position.

Very few people frightened Paul Crocker. Certainly, Frances Barclay didn’t, not even with what had transpired this very day. But if someone came close, Crocker had to admit it would be Sir Walter Seccombe. It didn’t matter how friendly he appeared, how many drinks he offered, how many times he might invite Crocker to dine with him at his club, Crocker would always remain wary of the man. As an ally, Seccombe was priceless.

As an enemy, he would be terrifying.

Seccombe settled in his chair, rustling the papers he’d taken from his desk, and gave Crocker the smile for a third time before finally putting it away.

“So Barclay’s finally going to get his wish,” Seccombe said. “No more Paul Crocker at his back.”

“So it would appear.”

“Do you think you could adjust to life in Washington?”

“If that’s where I land.”

“There’s a certain prestige to be found in a posting with the Americans. That holds no appeal? I could try to arrange things so that you were put to good use.”

“I’m put to better use here.”

“So you are.” Seccombe paused, tilting his chin upward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Crocker. “I haven’t forgotten that business about Zimbabwe, Paul. You did me a good turn, and I appreciate it.”

Crocker nodded. Roughly around the time Barclay had ascended to C, Seccombe had reached out to Crocker to vet a man named Daniel Mwama, who—according to Seccombe—had approached the U.K. seeking assistance in ousting Robert Mugabe, with an eye to taking his place. Seccombe had wanted Mwama checked quickly, and quietly, and had called upon Crocker to do it. Crocker, in turn, had tasked the Minders, at that time Tom Wallace as Minder One and Tara Chace as Minder Two, for the job. It had been a politically dangerous job for Crocker, not only because it had come during a changing of the guard at SIS, but also because it had required him to have agents active in England, something Crocker was strictly forbidden from doing. In the end, he had given Seccombe the information the PUS had required, and Daniel Mwama had been sent packing.

Seccombe had gained the result he’d desired, and in return, had sheltered Crocker from Barclay’s initial onslaught. That protection had lasted until this morning.

“I’m sure Alison asked you this, but for my own purposes, I’m asking again,” Seccombe said. “You wish to stay D-Ops?”

“I had hoped to become Deputy Chief at some point.”

“I don’t think Alison is quite ready to move on.”

“No chance that Barclay is going to resign?”

“Hmm.” Seccombe ran a finger across his mustache, smoothing it. “Not willingly, no.”

“Then, yes, I’d say I’d like to remain as Director of Operations, Sir Walter.”

This time Seccombe didn’t smile. He nodded once, slowly, and Crocker sensed a change in his manner, something felt rather than seen. Whatever trap had been laid here, Crocker had just avoided it.

“Then I have a proposition for you, Paul,” Sir Walter Seccombe said. “One that I recommend you think quite seriously about accepting.”

CHAPTER 7

Lancashire—Barnoldswick,

Residence of Wallace, Valerie

14 February, 1414 Hours GMT

She was changing Tamsin when the call came, her daughter screaming in protest at either the discomfort or the indignity of it all, and Chace felt again the incredible frustration of trying to use reason on someone who has no use, nor need, of such things.

It didn’t matter that Tamsin’s struggling made the whole procedure take five times as long as it should have; it didn’t matter that what Chace was trying to do, for God’s sake, was to help the little noisemaker. No, Tamsin didn’t want to be on her back on the changing table and she didn’t want to be put in a nappy and she was damn certain it was her right, her obligation, even, to make sure that everyone from Weets Moor to the town square knew it.

The telephone, then, with its jangling bell, was just insult added to injury, and Chace heard it, acknowledged it, and then discarded the information just as quickly, because she was certain the call wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—for her. No one called Valerie Wallace to speak to Tara Chace. Not on Valentine’s Day, or on any other day for that matter.

It wasn’t that Chace hadn’t tried to fit in with town life. She had, she truly had. She’d attended the church services and the teas and the social get-togethers, she’d worn the stoic face and said all the right things, as much as for Valerie’s peace of mind as her own. And it wasn’t that people were unkind, certainly not once Valerie had explained that Chace’s baby was her grandchild, that her son had died before he’d even learned that Tara was pregnant. That particular tragedy had earned her a unique respect, even, with Valerie’s friends and neighbors clucking in placid concern.

“Eeee, the poor dear, having to raise the wee thing alone.”

“Ooo, all alone, but it’s good she’s come back here, raise the child right.”

“Oh yes, raise a good Lancashire girl, among her own people.”

And so on, and on, and ever on.

But there was a pity to it as well, and Chace couldn’t stomach that. She didn’t want to be pitied, nor did she wish to become prey to self-pity, and so she had come to avoid people, describing an orbit to her life that included Tamsin and Valerie, and not much more. When she went out, she went out pushing the pram, walking alone. She carried out her business around town with the barest of interactions, the most minimal of required pleasantries. She avoided conversation and contact; she steered clear of people when she saw them coming.

She was that poor girl who’d lost her baby’s father. A little distant, a little odd, not unpleasant, but best to leave her alone for now, you know how it is. She’ll speak when she’s ready, when her daughter’s out and about, the wee thing will lead the mother back into the world, and the mother will follow, to be sure. Just you wait and see.

When Valerie stuck her head into the bedroom, then, as Chace was snapping Tamsin back into her clothes, she’d already forgotten that the telephone had rung at all.

“It’s for you, Tara,” Valerie said.

“What is? Dammit, Tam, stop fidgeting!”

“The phone, dear. I’ll take Tam, you go and answer it.”

Chace looked at Valerie with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, hoisting Tamsin to her shoulder, stroking her daughter’s hair. It was coming in faster now, soft as silk and so blond as to be almost white, and whenever Chace found her patience running short with her daughter, she would stroke Tamsin’s hair, amazed by the feel of it, always surprised by the way her baby would nestle against her in response.

“I’m not making it up, dear, it really is for you,” Valerie said again, almost laughing at her expression.

“Who?”

“Didn’t get his name. But he asked for you straightaway, quite polite.”

Chace frowned, and Tamsin shifted, responding to the tension suddenly coming from her mother, pushing her face against her shoulder with a soft whimper. If it had been Poole calling, he’d have said as much, and Valerie would have shared it. So it wasn’t Poole on the phone, and there was only one other person Chace could think of who knew where to find her.

“Shall I tell him to ring again later?”

Chace shook her head, then reluctantly handed Tamsin over to Valerie. The baby resisted, taking hold of Chace’s hair, and she had to free her daughter’s fingers before she could slip out of the room down the narrow flight of stairs back to the ground floor, to the telephone in the hall. Behind and above, she heard Tamsin cry again, then go quiet.

Chace picked up the handset and said, “What do you want?”

“I’m in Colne,” Crocker said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You can meet me outside.”

“I don’t want to meet you at all.”

“Fifteen minutes,” Crocker repeated, and hung up.

Chace replaced the handset in its cradle, slowly, then stared at the phone for several seconds, thinking.

From the top of the stairs, Valerie asked, “Who was that, Tara?”

“Nobody,” Chace said, and then added, “I have to go out for a while.”

Valerie adjusted her grip on the baby, repositioning her at her hip, fixing Chace with a stare from above, her expression draining, the corners of her mouth tightening. It had been well over a year now that Chace had shared her home, and in that time they’d talked about Tom only a little, and about the work they’d done together even less. But Valerie Wallace wasn’t stupid, and Chace was certain she’d long ago deduced at least the broad strokes of the job Chace had shared with her son, if not the specifics.

“You go on,” Valerie told her. “We’ll be fine here without you for a while.”

Crocker surprised her, not because he was on time, but because he was driving a red Volvo wagon, and the car was at least ten years old. She didn’t know why, but it seemed an absurd choice for him, and as she climbed into the front passenger seat beside him, she told him as much.

“It’s my wife’s,” Crocker replied. “We’re going someplace we can talk. Where’s someplace we can talk?”

“The Yorkshire Dales aren’t too terribly far,” Chace responded, belting herself in. “Though I’m not certain you want to take me anyplace away from witnesses.”

“You’re going to murder me?”

“I haven’t decided yet, to tell the truth.”

“Then let’s hope what I have to say doesn’t push you over the edge,” Crocker said.

Crocker waited until he’d found his way onto the Skipton Road before speaking.

“You think I sent you to Iraq knowing you were knocked up.”

“You did send me to Iraq knowing I was knocked up,” Chace retorted.

Crocker shook his head, flicking the indicator, turning onto one of the narrower lanes. It was a clear day, cold, windy, and out the car windows Chace could see the rolling Lancashire hills, the beautiful houses and the winter-stripped trees, smoke rising from occasional chimneys. The heat was on in the Volvo, the hot, dry air blowing hard from the vents, and both of them had to raise their voices to be sure they were heard.

“When I got to the Farm, I was given a complete workup,” Chace said after another mile. “A complete workup, and that included a fucking blood draw.”

“And the blood work showed you were pregnant,” Crocker confirmed.

“Yes,” Chace said, emphatic. He’d made her point.

“I didn’t see the results until after you’d come back from Red Panda.”

“That’s the best you can come up with? You had the entire drive up from London, and that’s the best lie you could come up with?”

“Which should tell you that I’m not lying at all.”

“Or that you don’t think terribly highly of me.”

“If that were the case, I wouldn’t have made the drive in the first place.”

Crocker signaled again, turning them onto an alarmingly narrow strip of road that curled along one of the hillsides. Dry stone walls bordered the way on both sides, and Chace wondered what Crocker would do if they encountered an oncoming car.

“Do you really believe that I’m that much of a bastard?” Crocker asked. “That I’d not only keep that information from you, but then put you into harm’s way besides?”

“Yes,” she answered immediately.

“Well, at least we’re being honest with each other.”

“It wasn’t always that way, Paul,” Chace said. “Don’t misunderstand. I mean, I always knew you were a bastard, from the moment you brought me into the Section. But I believed you were, at least, our bastard. That was the rule, wasn’t it? D-Ops says ‘frog’ and the Minders jump, never mind how high, all with the understanding that you’ll be there to catch us when we come down. That was the agreement. You broke the trust, and Tom died for it.”

Crocker shook his head angrily. “No, that one’s not mine. I have more than my share of ghosts, but Tom Wallace is not one of them. He is not one of them, and I won’t let you put that blame on me. You brought him into it, not me. You went to Tom for help, not me.”

“Of course I went to Tom for help! What else was I supposed to do? You’d fucking abandoned me! You were supposed to protect me, damn you!”

“I did! For God’s sake, I did everything in my power to keep you safe!”

“Safe? You were going to sell me to the Saudis!”

“It wasn’t me!”

A blue Ford, a squat and square little car, came around the bend ahead of them, and Crocker braked hard, turning the wheel, and Chace heard the tires on the Volvo leave the tarmac, felt the vehicle vibrate as it slid onto gravel. The Ford passed by, hitting its horn, and Chace winced in expectation of the inevitable sound of scraping metal, but it never came.

“It wasn’t me,” Crocker insisted.

She ended up giving him directions around Pendleside, through Foulridge and then the villages of Blacko and Roughlee, finally pointing him to Newchurch-in-Pendle. Crocker parked them on a steep incline, and they walked uphill another hundred meters or so, to the Church of St. Mary. Chace opened the gate, descended onto the grounds, surrounded by ancient gravestones and slabs. The first recorded construction on the site dated back to 1250, though the current building, a small stone nave and chapel with a squat tower, was most likely built four centuries later. The church and its grounds served as a minor tourist attraction, purportedly linked to the infamous Pendle Witches. Nine women had been hanged in 1612, and one had died in her prison cell. Two of the dead were said to be buried in the yard. Chace suspected it was utter nonsense; the women in question had both been convicted of witchcraft, and, thus declared to be in league with devil, would never have been interred on holy ground.

Etched into the stone tower was a small, odd oval. Called the Eye of God, it was said to have been added as a ward against the witches who had once roamed the nearby hills. Now it overlooked the steps down from the road, the trees, and the distant Forest of Trawden, part of the larger Forest of Pendle.

Chace walked down past the church, finally stopping on the grass beside one of the weathered grave slabs. The wind snapped at her coat and trousers, making the temperature feel even colder. From behind her came the ring of Crocker’s lighter opening, closing, and the scent of his tobacco whipped past her, torn through the air in the wind. She’d given up smoking as soon as she’d learned she was pregnant, just as she had given up alcohol, and it pleased her to discover that the proximity of Crocker’s cigarettes failed to entice. She’d had a few drinks since Tamsin had been born, wine at dinner, whiskey on occasion, but thus far, that was the only vice of hers to have returned home.

“There’s a job,” Crocker said.

“I don’t want a job. I have a job, I’m Tamsin’s mother.” She turned, looking up the slope at him, her expression daring him to call her a liar.

Crocker squinted past her, into the wind, into the distance, and decided to continue as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s in Uzbekistan, and it needs to happen soon, within the week. Have you been following the news?”

Chace refused to answer.

“You know the strategic importance,” Crocker said. “You know that Uzbekistan is considered a crucial ally. The Americans have been using the country as a staging ground for their operations, working with the Uzbeks to gather intelligence on al-Qaeda, on what’s happening in northern Afghanistan. They’ve built air bases, put troops on the ground, all manner of infrastructure and support for personnel and operations.

“You know the human rights angle. What happened with Ambassador McInnes.”

She simply stared at him, trying to resist his attempt to draw her in. Robert McInnes had been the U.K.’s Ambassador to Uzbekistan, recalled in late 2004 because of his insistence on publicizing Uzbekistan’s appalling record on human rights. He’d made the papers, in particular the Guardian, with his descriptions of the NSS’ use of torture. McInnes had openly condemned both the U.K. and the U.S. for its tacit complicity in such crimes.

It had stuck in Chace’s memory because, among his targets, McInnes had pointed a finger directly at SIS, accusing the Firm of profiting from the questionable intelligence gained from these torture sessions. McInnes had been recalled to London following his final outburst and forced out of the Foreign Service within a week of his return home. The last she’d read, the former Ambassador had retained an attorney and was planning on suing the Government.

“President Malikov is not long for this world, Tara,” Crocker said. “The old man’s got two kids, and it’s anyone’s guess which one of them will take over when he goes. There’s a daughter—”

“Sevara Mihailovna Malikov-Ganiev.” She shook her head, angry that she’d taken the bait, unsure whether or not he was testing her, or if he was expecting a faulty memory. Whichever, it was galling. “The son’s name is Ruslam Mihailovich Malikov.”

“Ruslan Mihailovich,” Crocker corrected. “Roughly four days ago, Ruslan’s wife was arrested, tortured, and murdered, most likely by the NSS, possibly by Sevara’s agents. We think Ruslan may be next on Sevara’s hit list, that she’s preparing to clear the way for a run at her father’s position.”

“Ruslan should probably leave, then.”

“Yes, well, what you don’t know is that Ruslan Mihailovich also has a two-year-old son, Stepan Ruslanovich.”

Chace folded her arms across her chest. “So he should take the boy with him.”

“Your job is to get them out of the country,” Crocker said. “Both of them. Get them out, and bring them safely back to England.”

She stared at him.

“We’ve been told that Ruslan is pro-West, that he’s a reformer in the making. If you can confirm that as well, so much the better. We get him here, we can discuss the viability of a coup, either against his father or against his sister, whomever, depending on the situation. Since you’ll already have a working relationship with Ruslan, you’ll be expected to help facilitate and implement that also.”

Chace continued to stare at him.

Crocker drew a last time from his cigarette, then dropped the butt, watching as the cinder died in the wet grass. From inside his overcoat he withdrew a large gray envelope, creased lengthwise from where he’d carried it, folded, in an inside pocket. He held the envelope out to Chace, who made no move to take it.

“There’s one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in an account at HSBC,” Crocker said. “It should cover expenses for the operation, anything that might arise. I’ve included contact protocols as well; you’re to report directly to me on this, and not through official channels. The documents enclosed, and the account, are in the name of Carlisle, Tracy Elizabeth, the same identity you used during Dandelion, you remember.”

“You’re recycling a cover?” She looked at him, now even more suspicious.

“There’s no reason to believe it was compromised. It’s still current, all the paper, right up to the passport.”

“It was used. That’s what compromises it.”

“Would you take the damn envelope, please?”

“I don’t want the envelope, Paul. I don’t want what’s inside it. I don’t want the job.”

Crocker lowered his hand, the wind catching the envelope in his grip, bending it skyward, as if trying to make it into a kite. Chace saw his eyes flick along the fence that bordered the lane, as paranoid as she was that they might be observed. Somewhere, from farther below on the hillside, they heard a child’s laughter.

“There’s nobody else,” he said. “It has to be you.”

“There should be three others else,” Chace responded. “Unless you’ve managed to kill all of them, too, and as I saw Nicky only Sunday last, you’d have been working damn quick at it.”

“I can’t use the Minders.”

“Go to Cheng.”

“Cheng’s in Washington, and that’s beside the point. I’ve been asked to keep the involved parties to a minimum.”

“How minimum?”

“Barclay and the CIA are not included on the distribution list, shall we say.”

A gust caught her hair, sent strands across her eyes, and Chace pushed them clear with her finger, tucking the strays back behind her ear. “So it’s unsanctioned. You’re trying to sell me an unsanctioned lift from a hostile theater, and you want me to do it without alerting either our people or the Americans.”

“Ideally. Though I’m told there’s the possibility of limited American support once you’re on the ground in Tashkent. What form that support will take, I can’t say.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“It’s not unsanctioned, it’s unofficial. I have permission for the operation, just not through the traditional channels.”

“How high?”

“I can’t say.”

“Intelligence and Security Committee? FCO? Cabinet level? Ministerial?”

“I can’t say, Tara.”

“But you’re telling me that you’ve secured approval at either C’s level or higher, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“You understand why I ask, don’t you? Because I’d hate to take a job only to discover that I’m going to be sold out again upon completion. Once was enough for me, you understand.”

She saw Crocker’s mouth twist slightly, his approximation of a smile.

“I didn’t say I’d do it, Paul,” she warned. “Don’t get excited.”

“You want to do it.”

“So I can become Whitehall’s bitch again? No, thank you.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“You did it so well last time.”

“I’ll protect you,” Crocker repeated, more insistent. “You do the job, I’ll bring you home, Tara. You’ll be Minder One again, you’ll be Head of Section again, back where you belong. Where you should be right now.”

“I should be back in Barlick right now, with Tamsin.”

“I hope you’re convincing yourself with that line, because you’re sure as hell not convincing me.”

“Don’t tell me—”

“This isn’t about love,” Crocker interrupted. “Of course you love her, you’re her mother. But you’re dying by inches out here. You hate it, and you hate yourself for wishing you were back in London, and back on the job. But you need to be back on the job, and we both know it, so perhaps it’s time you stopped pretending.”

Chace shook her head again.

“I know, Tara.” He lowered his voice, speaking more slowly, picking the words more carefully. “I understand, I really do. I was Minder One with a wife and two children; trust me, I know. You’re not abandoning her, you’re not betraying her.”

Chace swallowed, turned away. To the northeast, clouds were sweeping in over the summit of the hill, dragging a curtain of rain along with them.

“She’s not even a year old.”

“She’ll be all right.”

Chace heard the rustle of Crocker’s coat, knew that he was offering her the envelope again, could imagine the contents. The papers and the passport, the file photos of Ruslam—correction, Ruslan—Mihailovich Malikov and his two-year-old son. Maybe a map, certainly a two- or three-page briefing paper, culled from the Intelligence Directorate, of what to expect from Uzbekistan, from Tashkent. Options and suggestions and Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, a nice single girl from Oxfordshire who was quite possibly already known to the world as a tissue of lies.

“She’ll be fine, Tara,” Crocker said. “And so will you.”

“I was right,” Chace said. “You are a bastard.”

She took the envelope.

Preoperational Background

Zahidov, Ahtam Semyonovich

So the Old Man was finally dying, and the irony was, of course, that now was not the time. Had his body chosen to begin failing him even six months earlier, things would have been different, before Ruslan’s self-righteous cunt of a wife had started playing at spy. But no, as much as President Mihail Malikov walked and talked and spoke and dressed as a post-Soviet statesman, he had the heart and soul of an old Communist bastard, the kind who would go on living out of sheer will, out of sheer spite, refusing death with pure outrage born of the unthinkable. Death, in the final estimation, was the ultimate relinquishment of all the power Mihail Malikov had spent a lifetime greedily accumulating.

But death didn’t really give a damn, and the President’s third heart attack in as many years made that abundantly clear. Death was coming for Mihail Malikov, and when it claimed him, then all hell would break loose.

Unless Zahidov could get the pieces in place. Unless he and Sevara could make not only the President but the DPMs and the Americans see the benefits to an orderly succession. And if Sevara could convince her father to state, publicly, that she must assume control in the event of his passing, the battle would be all but won before it started.

The appropriate gestures would have to be made, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that hadn’t been done before in one fashion or another. Sevara’s assumption of power would have to be accompanied by the requisite statements of regret and humility, and the immediate declaration that she would call for a general election at the end of her term, the term that she completed now only at her father’s specific behest. They most likely would have an election, too, to appease the Americans and the British, but that was no matter. Like the two elections President Malikov had won already, this, too, would be a formality.

This time, Zahidov mused, perhaps they would give Sevara a little less of the vote. The last time President Malikov had run, he’d “won” office with over ninety-six percent of the vote in his favor, and that after having outlawed the opposition parties.

Sometimes, Zahidov wondered why the President hadn’t just claimed ninety-nine percent of the vote. If he was going to be that obvious, what was another three percent? Or even four?

If Sevara won with, say, sixty-five percent, that would be more than enough. And if they arranged it right, it might even look moderately legitimate, too.

So that was the first part, getting the President aboard, and Ahtam Zahidov had to admit that his handling of Dina Malikov had gone a good distance toward bringing that to pass. It had been tricky to negotiate, and Sevara had warned him as much.

“One thing to remove an extremist,” she’d told him, watching Zahidov as he dressed at the foot of her bed. “Another thing entirely to kill the mother of his only grandchild.”

“You should have children,” Zahidov had responded. “Show him that his dynasty can spring from you as easily as from your brother.”

“That would require Deniska’s cock. Which, unfortunately, would also require the rest of him.”

“Put a bag over his head.”

Sevara had laughed at the thought, then pulled back the bedsheet and come toward him on her hands and knees. Zahidov had stopped dressing, watching her approach, drinking in the sight of her. Sevara Malikov-Ganiev would have been beautiful even if she didn’t work at it, even if she didn’t use spas and personal trainers and stylists. Under the warm light of the chandelier her skin seemed lustrous, her hair as rich a red as the petals on a rose, her eyes shining. They’d made love twice already, and watching her coming toward him, the smile playing at her mouth, her tongue touching her lower lip, he wanted her again.

When she reached him, he took her in his arms, fastened his mouth to hers, kissing her with all the passion, all the love he had, feeling each returned. She touched his cheek when their lips parted, stroked a lacquered nail over his mouth.

“Our children,” she’d promised. “Our dynasty. In time.”

“In time,” he’d echoed. After she was President, when Malikov was gone, and beyond caring about things like marriage and divorce and paternity.

She was his biggest weakness, and each of them knew it. It gave Zahidov shallow comfort to know that he was hers, too.

Sex was so easy to come by at the worst of times, and in Uzbekistan even the lowest official could slake that thirst. But whores did nothing for Zahidov, no matter how beautiful, how willing, how young, how expensive. Even the rape of Ruslan’s wife had done nothing for him; it was just another method of interrogation, a way to break the bitch’s will, to demonstrate his absolute power over her. In truth, he wouldn’t have even bothered, instead leaving it to two or three of his men to have their way with her.

But Dina had threatened Sevara, and that had angered Zahidov. More, Dina had feared him, and so Zahidov had felt it was important that he take her, just to set the proper direction to the interrogation.

When he’d brought the video of the interrogation to Sevara, she asked him to stay and watch it with her. It had aroused her, and that had in turn aroused him. She’d taken him then and there, in her husband’s office at the Interior Ministry, bending over the desk, looking back at him over her shoulder.

“Like Dina,” Sevara had commanded.

It wasn’t as if the Americans didn’t know how business was done in Uzbekistan, the same way it hadn’t bothered anyone—at least, not anyone who mattered—when Ambassador McInnes had gone weeping and wailing to the press. Certainly, President Malikov had felt the displeasure from each country, had felt the pressure to loosen his grip, but in the end, everyone involved understood the stakes. There was a war on, after all, a Global War on Terror, a conflict that now raged around the world, and one that required new rules. The Coalition might not approve of how the NSS acquired its intelligence, but disapproval didn’t stop the FBI or the CIA or the SIS from using it all the same.

But McInnes, and Dina, and now that new American Ambassador, Garret—they could make things difficult for President Malikov. Every time a tape was released, every time a new report of so-called human rights abuses was filed, the pressure built and kept building until someone, either U.S. or U.K., decided something had to be done. If not to actually redress the perceived problem, to at least appear to be doing so.

This redress took the form of sanctions, more often than not, and that, in turn, meant the withholding of promised aid. In the last four years alone, the U.S. had held back over fifty million dollars in promised funds, all in the name of encouraging President Malikov to improve his record on human rights. The hypocrisy of it made Zahidov want to spit. As if the Americans weren’t just the same, as if the British weren’t just the same. Abu Ghraib and Camp X-Ray and countless other facilities, Zahidov was certain they were all the same. But when someone pointed a finger at America or at Britain, who sanctioned them?

Just like the rape of Dina Malikov, it was an exercise in power, nothing more.

In the end, the money would come again. Uzbekistan was just too important to the war.

And everyone knew it.

But that didn’t keep President Malikov’s ego from being bruised each time he was pilloried in the eyes of the world. When the Old Man saw the proof that it was Dina Malikov who had been responsible for the latest round of editorials, angry letters, and sanctions, when he heard her talking about just how much she had given the Americans, it made the loss of his grandson’s mother that much easier to bear.

It was a small thing, then, to suggest that perhaps his son had known all along what his wife was doing. That he had perhaps if not encouraged it, certainly permitted it. And if Ruslan had encouraged it, well, the reasons behind such treachery were easy enough to see.

Sevara, the dutiful daughter, devoted to her father, found it hard to say the words.

“He wishes to replace you, Father.”

If only it were that simple, and that easy. But Zahidov knew from experience that Mihail Malikov wasn’t a fool. The Old Man wouldn’t have survived for this long if he were. He knew the ulterior motives in bringing this incident to his attention. He knew that Sevara coveted his power just as greedily as Ruslan did.

It would take more than simple suspicion to fix the ascension.

But this was a start, Zahidov had to admit, and a strong one. Before Dina’s confession, Ruslan had been the clear choice, his father’s favorite, and male, to boot.

Now, at least, Sevara stood a chance at gaining her father’s blessing.

The rest, Zahidov was certain, would come in time.

President Malikov was the first part. The second, more easily handled in a fashion Zahidov preferred, were the Deputy Prime Ministers of the various and sundry offices who held power throughout the country. If they opposed Sevara’s ascension, it would make things difficult.

Fortunately, there were three easy ways to deal with the DPMs. Threats, which, Zahidov knew from experience, worked remarkably well when properly delivered. These could be delivered by himself or by his agents. He preferred video for this tactic, because he felt the moving image provided much more immediacy, and thus a greater sense of peril. Played for a recalcitrant DPM in a darkened room, two or three minutes of footage showing a loved one, spouse or lover or child, as the person went about his or her daily business, oblivious, could be all it took. If more pressure was needed, some physical evidence, perhaps, a particular piece of jewelry, or—Zahidov found this particularly effective if there was a romantic attachment—an undergarment of some sort. Presented to make the point perfectly clear: see how close we can get, see how you cannot protect your son/daughter/wife/mother/lover/friend.

It was not the first choice, but should it be required, he had no doubt of its efficacy.

The second option was money, of course, and this was likely to be the most successful tactic. President Malikov had, for obvious reasons, filled the posts of the DPMs with men of like mind, and thus, like the President, their greed was abundant. Payoffs in cash, transfers to Swiss or Cayman Islands bank accounts, these things could be easily arranged, and Sevara had the money to spare. This would not be a wasted expenditure for her, but rather an investment on future gains. In the last two years alone, she had cleared something in the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars American by using the Interior Ministry to facilitate the transport of heroin from Afghanistan into the ever-hungry veins of Moscow.

The poppy had returned with a vengeance with the fall of the taleban to the south, and all that was needed was a way to bring it to market. Uzbekistan, with its unique position bordering no less than five other countries, was an ideal transfer point. Unlike her father, Sevara had no qualms about moving the drugs through the country, and Zahidov had no doubt she would continue to work with the drug lords in Afghanistan when her ascension came to pass.

There was but one rule when dealing with the heroin, and it was inviolate, and Zahidov himself had proposed it to Sevara, who instantly saw the wisdom in it. The rule was this: heroin could enter Uzbekistan, and it could leave Uzbekistan, but it could never be sold in Uzbekistan. This was done for no reason associated with the health and well-being of the Uzbeks, but rather out of sheer self-preservation and protection. Should the heroin find its way into the arms of the American soldiers stationed in the country, the Americans would respond with a vengeance, a headache Sevara most certainly didn’t want, or for that matter, need.

Which, in its way, brought about the third method of dealing with the DPMs. This was by far the most cost effective, and the most efficient, but also the hardest to achieve.

If the Americans supported Sevara Malikov-Ganiev as the next President of Uzbekistan, the DPMs would fall into line like eager soldiers on a parade ground. If the White House backed Sevara, that would be all it took.

If.

This was why, on the morning of February, Ahtam Zahidov found the surveillance report he was reading so very alarming. After demanding why it had taken four days—four days!—for it to reach him, he had the officer responsible for the report brought in to speak with him. It took another forty-seven minutes to locate the man, but only three minutes after that to get a positive identification from a photograph.

Concerned, Zahidov left his office in the Ministry of the Interior on Yunus Rajabiy, quickly making his way across town to the Oily Majlis, the Parliament Building, on the west side of Alisher Navoi National Park, named after the famed Uzbek humanist and artist who had died over five hundred years ago. It took Zahidov another twenty minutes of searching before he found Sevara, locked in a meeting with the State Customs Committee. He interrupted, knocking twice on the conference room door before entering, and Sevara, seated at the head of the table, her papers around her, an aide standing to the side, turned sharply at the unprecedented interruption.

When she saw it was him, though, she smiled, and despite the message he was bearing, the smile lifted him as well.

“Excuse me, please,” Sevara said, and rose from the table, the committee members all sliding their seats back in response, getting to their feet. “No, sit—we’ll continue in just a moment.”

Zahidov held the door for her as she stepped past, into the corridor. The carpet had been replaced recently, a deep blood-red color, still new enough that it gave slightly beneath his feet. When she was out and beside him, he put a hand on her elbow, taking her another few feet down the hall, making certain they would not be overheard.

“Ahtam? What is it?” The concern in her expression and her voice made it clear her first thought was for him.

“Ruslan is reaching out to the Americans.”

The concern on Sevara’s face dissipated, replaced by a sharper intensity. “How do you know this?”

“He had an automobile accident on Saturday, and it wasn’t an accident. He nearly ran over one of the men from the American Mission.”

Her brow creased. “The same man?”

Zahidov nodded. “Charles Riess.”

“They spoke?”

“According to my man’s report, not more than a few words. But I am certain it was no accident, not the day after his wife’s body was found.”

“You think he passed a message?”

“He must have.”

Sevara made a noise, sucking on her lower lip for a moment as she thought, and Zahidov cursed himself silently, because it made him desire her there and then, even with this problem, even with what it could mean for them. She seemed to know it, too, because she met his eyes, and her smile was sudden and pleased.

“You look so worried, Ahtam. But my brother’s given us just what we need. We bring proof that he’s trying to move things along with the Americans to my father, my position will be secured.”

“Unless he’s gone to the Americans to secure his own position.”

“With what? What does he have?”

“He won’t need much if the Americans support him.”

Her smile faded as she considered his response. “You’re still watching him?”

“Three men. They’re old KGB, so they know what they’re doing.”

“Dina was one thing,” Sevara said softly, and he could tell from her tone that she was still thinking, albeit aloud. “My father could accept that. But removing Ruslan . . . that would be much harder.”

“Not that much harder.”

“No?”

“Not if the extremists set off another bomb in the marketplace.”

“Something to consider.”

“I can arrange it.”

She shook her head. “No, not yet.”

“Sevya,” Zahidov said, using the diminutive of her name, “if Ruslan gains the support of the White House, we will not be able to oppose him.”

“But he can’t have it yet, and he has nothing to offer them but his good word. And the Americans no longer support rulers on the basis of the promises they make, alone. If Ruslan wants their support, it will take time to arrange it.”

“And while he is arranging his support?”

“We arrange ours.” She paused. “You deal with the Embassy, the CIA. Talk to your contact, make sure he knows how well I can fill my father’s shoes. Make it clear that we are the other option, that Ruslan is only one choice.”

“And if, having done that, the Americans decide they prefer your brother?”

Sevara shrugged, then pushed up on her toes, to brush Zahidov’s cheek with her lips.

“Then you can have your bomb,” she said, and returned to her meeting.

CHAPTER 8

London—Holborn, 22 High Holborn,

the Cittie of Yorke

15 February, 1553 Hours GMT

It turned out that Crocker wasn’t a total bastard, in that, aside from the documents and the account at HSBC, he’d also been kind enough to kick-start the op by providing Chace with the name of a pilot, one Geoffrey Porter, and contact information for the same. The background on Porter that he’d included in the envelope had been terse but serviceable, and Chace supposed it was Crocker’s way of trying to prove himself to her, this token offering, as if he was saying, Yes, I screwed you once, but this time, you see, I’m giving you an escape route up front.

Getting into Uzbekistan, into Tashkent, wasn’t going to be the hard part. There were regular commercial flights, and if Tracy Carlisle couldn’t get Chace that far, then the identity was absolutely of no use whatsoever. Getting in, then, that wasn’t the problem.

Getting out again, with a grieving widower and his two-year-old son and God only knew who in hot pursuit, that was the trick. Chace had known the moment—the absolute moment—that Crocker had presented her with the op that the exfil would be the hardest part. It was some comfort that he’d anticipated it himself, and offered Geoffrey Porter as the solution.

They’d stayed in Newchurch for most of the afternoon, in the churchyard for another hour, then walking the narrow, steep streets of the little village, talking it over. Crocker had stressed—repeatedly—that Chace was to stay below the radar until she had Ruslan and son back in England. As to the method of extraction, he was leaving that to her discretion.

“Quiet?” Chace asked him. “Noisy? Do you even care?”

“If you can do it quiet, that’s always preferable. But I doubt you’ll have the luxury.”

They returned to the Volvo just after four, as it began to rain, and he dropped her back in Barlick, two blocks from the house, at ten of five, telling her that he’d expect contact at completion of the op, once she was back in-country. Otherwise, there was to be no communication between them at all.

“Good luck,” he said.

“There’s a room in hell waiting for you, you know that, don’t you?”

“It’s a flat, actually,” Crocker said. “The one below yours, I believe.”

The Volvo pulled away, leaving Chace standing in the rain and the dark and the cold at the edge of the town square. She watched his taillights disappear around the bend, then turned and walked the three minutes to Val’s house, letting herself in the back, through the kitchen, expecting to hear Tamsin screaming and Val trying to soothe the baby.

Instead, the house was quiet, Val sitting in the front room, looking out the window that overlooked her now-fallow garden. She had a cup of tea in her hand, and Chace could see the steam rising from it. She wondered how many Val had gone through already, how long she’d been waiting.

“Tam’s sleeping,” Val said without prompting.

“A minor miracle.”

“She squawked for a bit after you left, then settled.” Valerie Wallace turned her head, rather than her body. There was a single lamp burning in the corner past her shoulder, and the light gave the older woman’s skin a warm glow, turned the silver in her hair to bronze, and made the lines of worry on her face seem more like canyons than valleys.

“When do you leave?” Val asked.

Chace hesitated. “First thing in the morning.”

“Is it what you did before? What you and my Tom did, is that it?”

Chace shook her head.

“I’m not asking for particulars. I know it’s government work—I know that, I’m not daft—and I know it’s secret as well. I’m asking if it’s the same work, that’s all I’m asking.”

“I can’t say, Val.”

Val made a soft clucking noise and turned back to look out at her dead garden, raising her cup of tea.

“I shouldn’t be gone too long. One week, maybe two, at the most.”

“Was this the plan, then, Tara?” Val asked without looking at her. “You’d come to me and have the baby, and when the time was right and all of that, you’d just go back and leave me to care for my granddaughter? Was this the plan all along?”

“God, no, Val! Never, not at all.” Chace crouched, dropping onto her haunches, extending one hand, first to touch Val’s own, and then, thinking better of it, feeling guilty, settling for the chair’s armrest. “Please don’t think that. Please don’t.”

“I don’t know what to think, Tara.”

“It’s something I have to do, that’s all it is. Then I’ll return.”

“Is it the same work, Tara?”

She needed a second before answering. “Yes, it’s the same work.”

“Then you can’t really promise that you’ll be coming back, can you, dear?” Val turned then and looked down at her, and the canyons had eroded, smoothed, and her expression now was the same open, understanding look she’d worn almost two years before, when she’d found Chace tongue-tied and terrified on her front doorstep. “I mean, really, you can’t promise that at all, I know that much. Let’s be honest about that, at least.”

Chace tried to find something to say, some way to answer that wasn’t a lie, wasn’t more of a lie than the ones she’d already made, but couldn’t. In the old house, listening to the rainfall outside, the creak of the radiator in the hall, in the warmth and the darkness, there was only the truth of what Val was saying, and the guilt that came with it. That, and the emotion of the day, the impotent anger and the regret and the hurt, and again, the guilt, all of it now swelling in her chest like some cancer.

She started to cry.

After a moment, Valerie Wallace put her hand in Chace’s hair, and Chace rested her face against the older woman’s leg, and she sobbed and she sobbed, and upstairs, in her crib, Tamsin, too, began to cry.

She’d called Geoffrey Porter from the train station in Leeds the next morning, and after two rings the phone was answered by a woman with an American accent, somewhere from the South.

“I’m trying to reach Geoffrey Porter,” Chace said.

“Just a moment,” the woman said, and then Chace heard her muffled shout, and there was more rustling, and then Porter came on the line.

“Can I help you?”

“My name’s Carlisle,” Chace said. “You’ve been recommended to me for a charter.”

“Recommended? By whom?”

“Someone who knew you in Sandline.”

She heard Porter’s hesitation over the line at the mention of the company. “Sandline folded.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.”

“What kind of charter are we talking about?”

“I’d rather not give particulars over the phone. Would it be possible to meet? This afternoon, perhaps?”

“Could do, I suppose. You know the Cittie of Yorke? It’s a pub, on High Holborn.”

“I can find it.”

“I’ll be in the main room at sixteen hundred, the one with all the wine butts on the scaffolding, the bloody things look like they’re going to tumble down on you. I’ll be at the back.”

“How will I recognize you?”

“Ask your friend from Sandline,” Porter said, and hung up.

There’d been a pub of one sort or another at 22 High Holborn since 1430, though it had obviously seen several changes over the centuries. One of its later incarnations had been as a coffee shop in the late 1690s, and a partial demolition and renovation in the late 1890s had somehow managed to preserve elements of the original façade. Within, the main room was more evocative of a church than a pub, with high ceilings and an oddly shaped stove positioned in the center of the floor to provide heating, something it apparently managed to do without the aid of any obvious chimney. A long bar ran along the left-hand side upon entry, and above it, positioned on scaffolding, were several wine butts, each of them easily capable of holding up to one thousand gallons at a time.

At seven minutes to four in the afternoon, the pub was experiencing the calm before the storm. In just over an hour, solicitors and attorneys and their clients would pour from the nearby Criminal Courts, to fill the pub and wash down the remains of the day with Samuel Smith’s selection of beers. But for now, as Chace entered, it was quiet and warm, and she thought it was the kind of pub she’d probably have wanted to spend a lot of time in, once upon a time.

Chace stopped at the bar, ordered a lager, and adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag as she looked around the room, waiting for her drink to arrive. She counted a baker’s dozen of patrons, nine of them men, and seated at one of the cloisterlike tables, she saw a man who was most likely named Geoffrey Porter, nursing a pint of his own. He was slight, and shorter than she’d imagined, though it was difficult to be certain with him seated. His hair was straight, brown, receding slightly, and he sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, wearing a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt. He caught her looking, met her stare for a fraction, then went back to peering into his drink. Chace didn’t mind that he’d made her, because his reaction confirmed it. She’d found her pilot.

She paid for her lager, took the pint, and settled at the table opposite him, shrugging the bag off her shoulder onto the bench beside her.

“Mr. Porter?” she asked. “Tracy Carlisle.”

“Suppose if I didn’t want you to find me, I’d have worn a suit, hmm?”

“It would have been a start, yes.”

Porter nodded slowly, looking her over. A pack of cigarettes rested on the table beside an enormous ashtray, and Porter’s fingers idly traced a line around it.

“You know me from Sandline?”

“I know you through a man who knows you through Sandline,” Chace said. “Though I understand you’re running your own service now, International Charter Express?”

“ICE, yes. Not the same work.”

“No. Fortunately, I’m not looking for a mercenary.”

Porter didn’t try to hide his scowl. “We weren’t mercs. We weren’t one of those ‘civilian contractor’ fly-by-nights, nor a bunch of washouts who got their kicks fondling SA-80s and playing at soldier, Ms. Carlisle. Sandline was a private military company. We were the real thing.”

“I meant no offense,” Chace said, as sincerely as she could manage, even though the slight had been intended, to gauge his reaction.

So far, she liked what she was seeing.

Porter ran his finger around the packet of cigarettes again, slower, looking at her, thoughtful. “So tell me about this charter.”

“It’s in Uzbekistan.”

Porter nodded, his expression remaining neutral. “How many passengers?”

“Three, exfil only.”

“Hot or cold?”

“Most likely hot.”

“How hot? MANPAD hot?”

“I shouldn’t think so, but it’s a possibility.”

“How much of a possibility?”

Chace shook her head, not so much refusing to answer as to indicate she was unwilling to hazard a guess. “You’ve flown under fire before.”

“Iraq, Bosnia, Sierra Leone.” Porter stopped playing with the pack long enough to free a cigarette and light it. “But if you know me through a man who knows me through Sandline, you know that, too.”

Chace smiled.

“Where in Uzbekistan?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to need some details. Tashkent?”

“Unlikely.”

“Am I picking up at an airport, what?”

“No, it won’t be an airport, of that I’m certain.”

“So a helicopter.”

“At the start, though I doubt one will get us back to England.”

Porter shook his head, annoyed. “Perhaps you better just lay this out for me straight, and I’ll tell you what we’ll need. Unless you’re a pilot yourself and have already worked out the particulars?”

“I’ve worked out some of them.” Chace hefted her shoulder bag onto her lap, opening it. She removed a small pager, molded black plastic, and set it on the table between the cigarettes and the oversized and much-used ashtray. “It’s a satellite pager. You flip down the faceplate, you’ll find a little keyboard, it’ll send messages as well as receive them. Today is the fifteenth. You turn it on as of the eighteenth, and it stays on until the twenty-fifth. That’s the operational window. When I’m ready, I will page you with the GPS coordinates for the pickup, somewhere in Uzbekistan. You make the RV, take on myself and two other passengers, and bring us back to England.”

“Not in a helo I won’t.”

“I’m not the pilot,” Chace said. “I’ll leave the particulars to you. Can you do it?”

Porter pulled again from his cigarette, then followed it with a pull from his pint, and Chace saw the sequence for what it was, buying time to think. He needn’t have bothered; if he was the sort to agree to the job without considering the angles, he was the wrong sort for the job to begin with.

“If I don’t hear from you by the twenty-fifth?”

“If you don’t hear from me by the twenty-fifth, the job’s off, and you can head home.” Chace leaned forward slightly. “But I reserve the right to extend the window if necessary.”

“And you’ll contact me if that’s the case.”

“Of course.”

Porter frowned, still thinking it over, looking past Chace at the rest of the pub. “What if I need to contact you?”

“You won’t be able to.”

“If it goes bad on my end?”

“I’m optimistic that it won’t,” Chace said. “You get the aircraft on station, you wait. I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve done this kind of job, Mr. Porter.”

“These passengers,” Porter said, “I mean, aside from yourself. They’re coming willingly?”

“I’m not certain how that’s relevant.”

“It’s relevant to my fee.”

“Give me a quote.”

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“We’re talking pounds?”

“Do I look American to you?”

“Fifty.”

“I have to cover expenses—most of it will go to the aircraft, Ms. Carlisle. I’ll need a helicopter for the RV and the exfil. I’ll need to have it maintained, ready, and fueled. I’ll need to then fly you and your . . . guests to another location, where we’ll need to switch to a private plane. I’ll need that plane fueled, permitted, and ready as well, and I won’t be able to sit on it if I’m at a make-ready station waiting for a go signal from you. It gets expensive. Can’t do it for less than seventy.”

“Sixty.”

“We’re not in a bloody suq, Ms. Carlisle. Seventy or you find another pilot.”

Chace made a show of wrestling with the number, furrowing her brow. “Seventy, then. Half up front, half on completion.”

“No, three-quarters up front, the rest on completion, and that’s not counting my incidentals.”

“For seventy, you can cover your own incidentals, Mr. Porter.”

He crushed out his cigarette, drained the rest of the beer from his glass. “Deal.”

“Give me the account information and I’ll have the funds wired to you first thing tomorrow. How long will it take you to get to the theater, set up a staging position?”

“I can be in place and ready by the eighteenth, don’t worry about that.” Porter scooped up the package of cigarettes, dropped them into an inside pocket of his jacket, then produced a pen from the same pocket. He moved his empty glass, then flipped over the cardboard coaster it had been resting upon, and scribbled down a sequence of letters and numbers. Finished, he slid it across to Chace, taking hold of the pager on the return trip.

“I don’t move until I confirm the funds have been deposited,” he said, pocketing the pager.

“I wouldn’t expect you to do otherwise.”

Porter nodded curtly, then got to his feet, offering his hand. Chace rose, and confirmed that he was, in fact, smaller than she’d expected, no more than five foot eight. His handshake was firm and businesslike, and she liked that he didn’t muscle the grip, nor did he soften it because he was dealing with a woman.

“See you in Uzbekistan, then,” Geoffrey Porter said.

CHAPTER 9

London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

15 February, 1611 Hours GMT

When he’d left for Barnoldswick early the previous morning, the only person who knew where Crocker was going was Kate Cooke. He’d told her for two reasons, the first being that, should all hell break loose, she would know where to contact him; the second was that, as far as Crocker was concerned, Kate was almost as facile a liar as he was, and he needed her to cover for him. She wasn’t as experienced at it as he was, but she played the part of a dutiful servant well, and if push came to shove, Crocker had great faith in her ability to look C in the eye, smile prettily, and say, “I honestly don’t know, sir.”

Which would ideally have been enough, except that when Crocker returned to the office on Wednesday morning, the first thing Kate told him was “C wanted to know where you were yesterday.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Simple wage slave, aren’t I? I told him you’d had a family emergency.”

Crocker looked at the memo in front of him, for the moment not seeing it. “Nothing more specific?”

“I thought it best to leave it vague, so you could fill in the details.”

Crocker grunted. “Good.”

Kate scooped up the pile of files Crocker had already vetted, then paused. “DC didn’t know where you were, did she?”

“The only person who knew where I was yesterday was you, Kate.” Crocker looked at her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Only it was C who asked where you were, not DC. I’d have thought it would come from the DC in the first instance, that she’d be the one doing the asking.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Kate shrugged. “Simple wage slave. Why should I worry?”

Crocker watched her leave his office, closing the door as she went, and again turned his attention to the memo open before him, then abandoned it, turning his chair to look out the window. It was triple-paned glass, coated on the outside so that, from the street, the windows took on a slight verdigris tinge. The spaces between the panes were filled with argon, to prevent eavesdropping through the use of directional laser microphones. The blinds themselves were similarly treated and lined with lead, to further deter surveillance. But through the slats in the blinds, there was just enough space to see, and from Crocker’s office, if the weather permitted, he had a view across the Thames, to the Tate Britain. Farther north, blocked by the angle and intervening structures, stood Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, and then, continuing along, the offices of Whitehall, the land of Seccombe.

Kate was correct: it should have been Gordon-Palmer who’d been asking after Crocker, not C. As Deputy Chief, it was Gordon-Palmer’s job, in part, to attend the day-to-day running of SIS, leaving Barclay free to deal with the more time-consuming and arguably more important work of liaising with the rest of HMG. That it had been C and not Gordon-Palmer who had come looking for him was troubling. It meant C was keeping the promised close eye on Crocker.

But that didn’t explain why Barclay had come calling and not Gordon-Palmer. It was possible, Crocker supposed, that, occupied elsewhere in the building or Whitehall, Gordon-Palmer simply hadn’t known that Crocker was away. Yet even as he considered it, he discarded the idea. It wasn’t the kind of thing she was liable to miss.

The only answer to it that Crocker could see, in fact, was that Gordon-Palmer had known he was away, and had known why. And as it had been Gordon-Palmer who had pointed Crocker to Seccombe, the conclusion therefore was that, whatever game Sir Walter Seccombe, PUS at the FCO, was playing, Gordon-Palmer was playing it with him.

The intercom on his desk buzzed and Crocker reflexively reached back to the telephone, hitting the button without looking. “What?”

“Minder One to see you, sir,” Kate said.

Crocker thought about refusing Fincher, telling him to return to the Pit, but it would simply postpone the inevitable. “Roll him in.”

The intercom clicked off, and Crocker swiveled around in time to watch Kate open the door for Andrew Fincher. She withdrew silently, closing the door after her.

“Sir,” Fincher said.

“Andrew.” Crocker rifled through the stack in his inbox and pulled the Candlelight after-action from where he’d been keeping it at the bottom of the pile, holding it up to show to Fincher before dropping it once again. The file landed on his desk with a soft but significant slap. “Explain this.”

Fincher hesitated, stiffening, as if coming to military attention. He stood five nine, average build, with ginger hair and the faded memory of freckles on his face, wearing the same dark blue Marks & Sparks suit he always wore to work. Crocker didn’t hold that against him; at the wages the Minders earned, if Fincher owned more than three suits, Crocker would have been surprised. Today’s shirt was ivory, the tie the same navy as his trousers.

“I’d been blown, sir,” Fincher said. “When I approached as advance for the strike team, I noted activity at the site and several lights burning, as well as sentries posted, including one on the rooftop. I . . . I determined that the strike was not feasible at that time, and withdrew to Holding One to inform London of my recommendation that we abort—”

“I’ve yet to hear anything indicating that you’d actually been blown, Andrew,” Crocker interrupted.

“Sir, as I state in my report, the sentries—”

“In which case you should have given the go signal immediately. Instead, you withdrew and further exposed yourself.”

“If I had done so, sir, I would have remained in the open until the Strike Team arrived.”

Crocker stood up, bathing Fincher in his glare. “Minder Two’s after-action differs from yours.”

“Respectfully, sir, Minder Two wasn’t responsible for the recce.”

“They had no reason to know we were coming. There should have been little to no resistance during the strike. As it was, the Strike Team encountered stiff resistance, and was forced to overcome it, with the result that local police responded to the firefight, and witnessed your withdrawal.”

“I am aware of that, sir.” Fincher wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing past Crocker’s shoulder, at the Chinese dragon print on the wall.

“You tipped them,” Crocker said. “They made you on the withdrawal.”

“Respectfully, sir—”

“You lost your nerve.”

Fincher went silent, and from his expression, Crocker knew he was right, and that Fincher knew it as well.

“You’re suspended from active duty at this time,” Crocker told him. “Administrative duties only. You’re expected to remain in the Pit in case I need you.”

“I’m Head of the Special Section, sir.”

“And for the time being, you can still call yourself that.” Crocker came around his desk, passing Fincher and heading for the door.

“Am I fired, sir?”

“If I had anyone to replace you with, Andrew, you would be.” Crocker pulled open the door to the outer office, and from the corner of his eye saw Kate, at her desk, look immediately up. “Now get out of my sight.”

Fincher remained motionless for a fraction longer, then nodded slightly. Crocker watched him go, waited until the door to the hall had shut again, then turned to head back into his office.

“Sir?” Kate said.

“What?” He put the glare he’d been using on Fincher on her.

“C wants you.”

“Where were you yesterday?”

“Family emergency, sir. Ariel took a fall, broke her leg.”

Barclay blinked at him, and Crocker could see him trying to penetrate the lie. It wouldn’t be that difficult to verify, Crocker knew, but he doubted that Barclay would take the time to have his assistant call his home, to speak to Crocker’s wife. Even if he did, it was covered. Crocker had told Jennie that, should anyone ask, Ariel had broken her leg in a bicycle accident the previous morning.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barclay said, after a moment. “Your daughter will be all right?”

“We had a scare, sir, but she’s enjoying the crutches for the moment.”

“A ready means of sympathy.”

“Exactly, sir.”

Barclay nodded slightly, as if satisfying himself. Crocker waited, and after another second Barclay motioned to the chairs in front of the desk. It surprised Crocker. He’d expected to be dismissed, rather than invited to stay longer. He took the chair.

“There’s been another MANPAD alert,” Barclay said, after a second. “Coming out of Chechnya this time.”

Crocker frowned. Man-portable air defense systems—MANPADs—stood in a place of pride at the top of the counterterror nightmare list, mostly because they were an embarrassment to the West in addition to their obvious destructive potential. While the media focused on the more dramatic scenarios of bioterror and dirty bombs, every Western intelligence agency ranked the MANPAD threat much higher, both because it was easier to execute and because, should it come to pass, it would be beyond embarrassing to the governments in question.

Stinger missiles were a MANPAD. And Stinger missiles had been rather liberally handed out to onetime U.S. allies in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, long before the Global War on Terror had begun. The GWOT had happened, and CT analysts in Langley and London had sat up straight in their uncomfortable chairs and begun firing off insistent memos and shrilly worded reports, describing in detail what a single member of Jemaah Islamiyah or the EIJ or any other al-Qaeda-associated terror cell could do with but one of the missiles to, say, a Boeing 777 taking off from Heathrow.

Or, for that matter, to a C-130 Hercules delivering troops into Baghdad.

The Americans had given the world the Stinger, but it was not the only MANPAD system out there. The Russians had the Grouse and the Gremlin; the French, the Mistral; the Israelis, the Barak. There were countless others, of varying efficacy and availability.

And England had first the Javelin, then the Starburst, and now, more recently—and much more effective—the Starstreak.

“I didn’t see anything in the daily brief,” Crocker said.

“No, Simon just brought it to my attention,” Barclay replied. “Nothing hard yet, just a whisper that something might be coming.”

“Someone should inform the Russians.”

“If they don’t know already.” Barclay shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the conversation. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“No, sir?”

“You’ve been meeting with Sir Walter Seccombe.”

“I’ve had a meeting with him, yes, sir.”

“Why is a junior director from SIS meeting with the Permanent Undersecretary at the FCO, Paul?”

“He wanted an explanation for the disaster in Kuala Lumpur.”

“I briefed the Cabinet myself, including the Foreign Secretary and the PM.”

Crocker resisted the urge to shrug. “Sir Walter asked to see me, sir. I’m hardly in a position to refuse him.”

“Indeed. You’re hardly in much of a position at all, at the moment.”

Crocker didn’t say anything.

“We discussed, earlier, your future prospects. I’m willing to appoint you as Washington liaison, to move you to the States. It’s not a terminal posting, Paul, and it will preserve your future prospects. You could find yourself back here within two or three years.”

“I understand.”

“But the posting is conditional on your behavior and performance until your replacement arrives. As I said, if you make this transition difficult, I’ll have you manning a station in Outer Mongolia. Somehow I doubt your wife or your daughters would appreciate that.”

“No, sir, I don’t think they would.”

Barclay leveled a glare at him. “Then consider this. If you’re playing a game with me, if you’re withholding information from me, if you’re cooking something—anything—of which I would not approve, not only will you end up in Outer Mongolia, but you’ll end your career there as well.”

“I understand,” said Crocker.

Barclay shook his head, as if to say that he doubted Crocker was capable of even that much, then waved his hand, flicking his fingers as if trying to brush him away like so much lint. Crocker got to his feet once more, murmuring a thank-you, and made for the door.

As he reached it, Barclay said, “If Seccombe contacts you again, I want to know about it.”

“Of course, sir,” Crocker answered, and left C’s office to return to his own.

He’d been at his desk for less than two minutes when Kate buzzed him to say that Sir Walter Seccombe’s PA had just called, and that the PUS was hopeful that D-Ops would indulge him for a few minutes at his office at his earliest convenience. Hopeful enough that he was willing to send his car and driver around to fetch him.

A hearse might be better, Crocker thought.

Seccombe began with the pleasantries and the customary offer of whiskey, which Crocker again declined.

“So, where are we, Paul?” Seccombe fixed himself a drink, splashing water into his lowball glass to mix with his scotch.

“I should have someone on the ground in Tashkent by tomorrow forenoon,” Crocker answered. “Once there, she’ll locate Ruslan and begin planning the lift.”

“She?” Seccombe turned, the glass halfway to his lips. “Chace?”

“You remember her.”

“You used her for the Zimbabwe check, if I recall.”

“Yes.”

Seccombe took a seat in his easy chair. “She quit.”

“A little over eighteen months ago. You’re very well informed.”

“One tries to keep abreast of things. Andrew Fincher replaced her. You’ve been struggling ever since.”

“I wouldn’t say struggling.”

“Your Deputy Chief would disagree.”

Second time she’s come up in this room, Crocker thought.

“How long until Chace tries for the lift?”

“She’ll need at least two days on the ground just for surveillance, and that’s after she locates Ruslan. If she moves quickly and everything goes her way, she could try for a lift as soon as the nineteenth, Sunday. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Sooner would be better than later.”

“She is aware of that.”

“You briefed her yourself?”

“You made it very clear that this was to be between you and me,” Crocker said.

“I did.”

“And the Deputy Chief.”

Seccombe smiled, draining his whiskey and then setting the glass on the bookstand at his elbow. The stand was an antique, mahogany, its surface covered in green felt, and the lamp on Seccombe’s desk shot rainbows through the crystal glass.

“How much does she know?” Crocker asked.

“You may consider the DC an ally, Paul.”

“Not much of an answer.”

“But enough of one, I think, for the moment.”

Crocker thought for a second, then said, “Barclay called me into his office this afternoon, ostensibly to find out where I was yesterday.”

“Ostensibly?”

“He hedged, wanted to talk about a MANPAD alert that D-Int had passed along. But he knew I’d met with you, and he doesn’t like it. He feels communication between you and SIS should go through him.”

“In almost every instance, it does.”

“Which is why he’s growing suspicious.”

“Hmm,” Seccombe said. “Then I suppose this should be our last meeting until Chace is back from Uzbekistan.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“Very good, then.”

Crocker rose, saying, “So if I need to pass anything along to you, I should go through the Deputy Chief?”

Seccombe laughed.

“Don’t push your luck, Paul,” he said. “You have less of it than you think.”

CHAPTER 10

Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,

Office of the Political Counselor

16 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)

“Where are you going?” Political Counselor T. Lindsay McColl demanded when he caught Riess halfway out the door.

“The Ambassador wants to see me,” Riess said.

“Why?”

“Didn’t say.”

McColl’s face compressed, as if squeezing in upon itself with displeasure, and it made his cheeks color, and Riess had the thought that it made the man look like a giant lollipop in a suit, lanky, lean, with a big red head.

“You’re spending far too much time with him,” McColl said. “You’ve got work to do here.”

Riess nodded, but said nothing, waiting for McColl to realize that was because there was nothing else to say, and no way that McColl could justify keeping the Ambassador waiting. It took McColl four seconds to reach the same conclusion, whereupon his face seemed to tighten even further before relaxing.

“Go,” McColl said. “But you’ve got work to do here, don’t you forget. You need to deliver that démarche on the U.S. candidate to the Agency for Cotton Project Implementation by the end of the day.”

“I thought it might be useful if I sent over a copy of the resume along with the talking points,” Riess replied. “Then suggest that I could make myself available if they had any questions.”

“We want to be responsive to Washington, Charles.” The condescension in his voice was cloying. “And make sure you have the reporting cable about the meeting on the Ambassador’s desk by COB.”

“Yes, sir,” Riess said, and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him and hearing the lock snap in place. He went the fifteen feet down the hallway to the security checkpoint and the Marine standing guard there, swiped his pass in the reader, listened as the locks snapped back in the access door. He pushed through, out of the Political/Economic Section, turning through the Public Affairs Section and nearly bumping into Lydia Straight as she emerged from Cultural Affairs Office with Emily Cachet, the CAO. He hit a second checkpoint, swiped through again, deeper into the building, passing the Warden’s office and yet more guards and another access door, which led to Tower’s domain of spooks and spies. He’d never been through that door, and never expected to be, either.

The last time he’d been home, he’d gone to the movies, seen some thriller where a secret agent had led the Marines on a merry chase through the halls of one U.S. embassy or another. He’d laughed so hard tears had run down his face at the ridiculousness of it all. Forget the fact that the Marines in question had been armed to the teeth with M-16s and M-89s, body-armored and laden with grenades—to Riess’ knowledge, there were perhaps a half-dozen weapons available to the Marines on post, and if even one of them needed to be drawn for active use, the Gunney in question would have demanded written permission from everyone up to and including the Ambassador himself—not even the Vice President of the United States could move through an embassy with such freedom. There were places in the building that Riess had never seen and never would see, and that was called security, and that was the way it was.

A last checkpoint, this time with two more Marines, and he was in the office of the Chief of Mission, waiting in the secretarial pool. He didn’t wait long.

The door of Garret’s office opened within a minute of his arrival, and the Ambassador emerged with Aaron Tower, both men looking grim. Tower, like Garret, was a big man, perhaps ten years younger, in his mid-forties, blond, and perpetually slouched. Tower acknowledged Riess with a nod, then turned back to the Ambassador.

“I should know more in the next few hours,” Tower said.

“Keep me posted.”

“Oh, I will, believe me.” Tower turned toward Riess. “Chuck.”

“Sir.”

Riess followed the Ambassador into his office. It was, as far as Riess knew, the biggest office in the building, with a view of the garden from the three windows that overlooked the chancery grounds. The desk was large enough to handle a computer, credenza, telephones, and an endless supply of papers, with a leather-backed executive chair for the Ambassador to park himself in while working. A round table, currently bare, was positioned off in the corner. The couch and four chairs in the center of the room were for more informal meetings. From a flagpole in the far corner hung an American flag, anchoring the requisite glory wall of photographs, the History of Kenneth Garret, spanning a career of thirty-plus years and five presidents. Shots of the Ambassador with Zinni at CENTCOM and Yeltsin at the Kremlin and with the President on Air Force One, and others, the faces of people less famous but no less important in Garret’s life. On the desk were an additional two framed photographs, one of Garret’s daughter at her wedding, the second of his son’s family, including Garret’s two grandchildren.

Garret moved behind his desk, pressed a blinking light on his phone, killing a waiting call, then looked up at Riess.

“Malikov’s been hospitalized,” he said. “They’re saying he had a stroke in the small hours this morning, but we don’t have confirmation yet.”

Riess stopped himself from swearing. “Can he speak?”

“We don’t know, but I’d be damn surprised if he could.”

“Ruslan can’t take it. If Malikov goes, Ruslan doesn’t have the backing.”

“I know.”

“If he tries for it, it’ll get ugly. That’s if Sevara doesn’t try to remove him preemptively.”

Garret looked at him patiently, waiting for Riess to stop stating the obvious.

“Is it natural?” Riess asked. “I mean, the stroke?”

“It’s possible, but it’s just as possible the old man was helped along.” Garret hesitated, then added, “That’s not why I wanted to see you.”

That was even more of a surprise. “Sir?”

“There’s a woman arriving sometime today, name of Carlisle. She’s here to lift Ruslan. Starting tonight, you need to hit the hotels. The Meridien, the InterContinental. Make contact with Carlisle, find out what she needs, if we can help. And it goes without saying that we don’t want the NSS knowing what you’re up to. For that matter, we don’t want Tower or McColl finding it out, either.”

Riess shook his head, trying, and failing, to hide his confusion. “This woman . . . who is she?”

“She’s a Brit, she’s here to get Ruslan and his kid out, that’s all you need to worry about.”

“She’s SIS?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Garret stopped, reading Riess’ expression, then sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t even remember who I’m lying to anymore. Sit down.”

Riess sat, looking at the Ambassador, bewildered. Garret sighed a second time, now regarding him more kindly, then came around the big desk and took the seat beside him, turning his chair so they could sit face to face. He kept his voice low when he spoke.

“After we talked about Ruslan, I floated a query back to State about Malikov’s replacement. And the situation is exactly what we knew it would be—it’s the Kissinger realists, and they think they can work with Sevara. We’re getting no backing there, nothing, and you can bet your ass that Tower’s already informed Langley that Malikov is circling the drain, and Langley’ll pass that on to POTUS first thing in the morning, and we’re going to be right back where we started.

“So I reached out to a friend at the FCO. Upshot is, the British are willing to aid in the transition: they’ll back Ruslan. Hence the presence of this operative.”

Riess thought, and all he had immediately were questions, so he began voicing them. “Then why isn’t she going through their Station? Why involve me?”