A Gentleman's Game

by Greg Rucka

  What Weldon thought of the whole affair, he’d never said.

  Crocker’s largest problem with Barclay—and he was about to see it in action yet again, he was certain—was that his new C was too susceptible to the whims of Government, as opposed to the needs of the Firm. After Prague, Barclay had gone on to a position in Washington, D.C., liaising with American Intelligence on the political level, and from there parlayed his way onto the Joint Intelligence Committee and, ultimately, to a seat at the head of the table. It affected how Barclay saw SIS, its capabilities, and its mandate. At his core, C believed in Intelligence above all else.

  Which left Operations to stand outside like an unwelcome guest, until all hell was breaking loose and Crocker and his Minders were asked to pick up the pieces.

  But Barclay’s devotion to Intelligence had come back to haunt him today. If there was blame to be laid, it was there, and not in Operations.

  “How certain are we that it’s the HUM-AA and not some other organization?” Barclay asked.

  “Based on what we’ve seen on this tape?” Rayburn said. “Not certain at all. But there are signifiers that point to the organization. The phrasing and the rhetoric. Everything we’ve seen is extraordinarily deliberate, from the choice of words to the order in which the cards were shown, right down to the heart of the message.”

  “The HUM signed bin Laden’s 1998 fatwa?”

  “Yes, sir. War against the U.S., the West, Jews, and Christians. The whole package.”

  Barclay grunted, then swiveled his chair away from the desk, putting himself into profile. No doubt rehearsing his presentation to the Cabinet, Crocker thought.

  “Who leads the HUM?” Barclay asked.

  “Farooq Kashmiri,” Crocker said. “But if this is the Abdul Aziz faction, then it’s led by Sheikh Abdul Aziz Sa’id.”

  Barclay’s head came around quickly, and he narrowed his look on Crocker. “Not the other one, what’s his name? Not Dr. Faud?”

  “Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari has no direct ties to any terrorist organization,” Rayburn said. “He is still considered to be a spiritual leader and a respected imam, Wahhabist rhetoric aside. That said, the message as relayed was pure Faud, right down to the phrasing and, indicatively, the omission at the end.”

  “Omission?”

  “‘There is but One God, and Muhammad is His Prophet.’ Faud leaves the last bit out, in opposition of conventional Islamic belief. Again, it’s pure Wahhabism, sir, the belief that naming Muhammad in prayer is akin to praying to Muhammad.”

  “And hence an act of polytheism,” Weldon added.

  “Is Faud linked to al-Qaeda?”

  “The fatwa, nothing more,” Crocker said. “At the most, the only connection to bin Laden is that the same Wahhabism factors into HUM-AA ideology.”

  “But isn’t that precisely the situation with UBL?” Barclay asked, turning his chair back to face his deputies and now leaning forward, resting his arms on his desk. “No direct link to terrorist action other than by association?”

  “No, sir. UBL leads al-Qaeda. There is no evidence that Faud has any presence in the HUM hierarchy, or any organization’s hierarchy, for that matter.”

  “D-Int has just said otherwise.”

  “He’s speaking of rhetoric.”

  “That rhetoric may have been directly responsible for what’s happened on the Underground today, Crocker.”

  To his left, Crocker saw Weldon shift uncomfortably with the escalating tension. Rayburn stayed still, listening and reserving comment.

  “We’re getting ahead of ourselves, sir,” Crocker said, trying to change tack. “We cannot begin to formulate an operational response before we know the facts of what’s happened.”

  “You’re normally quite eager to task Minders to the field.”

  “With clear conops, yes, when it is clearly identified Special Operation, yes. But at this moment, you’d have me sending the Minders to Kashmir on the hint of a whisper.”

  There was a moment of quiet while Barclay considered his responses, and the intercom on his desk took the opportunity to cry out for attention. He pressed the key with a manicured finger, listened as one of his assistants told him that his car was ready to take him back to Downing Street.

  “I’ll be right down,” Barclay said, then came off the intercom, settling his attention on Crocker. “When it comes, it will be a Special Op, make no mistake. And when it comes, when the Government presents you with conops—whatever that concept of operations may be—I will not abide argument or hesitation. I will expect my Director of Operations to implement HMG’s orders immediately, and to see the mission through to its completion. Are we clear?”

  “Quite clear, sir.”

  “There will have to be retaliation,” Barclay said, rising. “When the PM asks me who is responsible for this, I want to be able to answer him in no uncertain terms, and saying the Harakat ul-Mujihadin won’t be enough. Whether it’s Faud or someone else, I want names. If you have to go to the Brothers to get names, do it. This is priority.”

  Barclay adjusted his tie and coat, and the other men rose, waiting for him to lead the way out of the office. Crocker took up the rear, and before he exited, Barclay rested a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

  “I won’t have you fighting me on this,” Barclay said softly. “Not on this.”

  “We don’t know what ‘this’ is yet,” Crocker said. “Sir.”

  Barclay straightened, the smile thin on his bland face, his lips stretched, almost colorless. “This is your only warning. If you’re wise, you’ll heed it.”

  Then Barclay passed through the door, leaving Crocker to follow.

  4

  London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

  07 August 1807 GMT

  Normally, access to D-Ops was restricted. Those who wanted face time with Paul Crocker had to get past his personal assistant, Kate Cooke, and her desk in Crocker’s outer office first, a labor most of the Intelligence staff considered not worth the result. Those who came to gaze upon Kate herself, widely considered the finest bird in SIS, left disappointed. Kate guarded her master’s door with the same tenacious ferocity that the Royal Marines employed at embassy gates throughout the world.

  Crocker had been assigned his first personal assistant immediately upon his promotion to Director of Operations, a fifty-six-year-old matron by the name of Gloria Bowen who had spent the preceding eleven years as lead pool secretary to the Joint Intelligence Committee. Gloria didn’t last the week, unable to keep pace with the spastic tempo of the office and, more critically, the legendary Crocker misanthropy.

  None of the six assistants to follow fared any better, all chewed up and spat out over the next two months, until Personnel, housed on the fourth floor, found itself on the verge of conceding defeat.

  Kate Cooke fell into the job almost by accident, jumping several more senior assistants in the process. She’d come to SIS as a clerk, working as a junior secretary on the South American Desk, where she was primarily responsible for trafficking the reports, memos, and pacts that made their way through the Intelligence infrastructure. Shortly after joining the SA Desk, she had been asked to rewrite a report delivered by the Argentine Number Two on possible troop movement in the Falklands region; she had objected. The objection turned into a shouting match, whereupon Kate had left the office, with report in hand, and walked it directly to Simon Rayburn herself.

  Rayburn, about to brief the MOD on the very subject, had been grateful. Kate’s Head of Section had not, and the next day she found herself transferred to SE-1168, Joint Operation Archives, housed off-site in a dismal basement in Whitehall.

  It was Rayburn who had urged Kate to apply for the position of Crocker’s PA, and it was Rayburn again who had prevailed upon Crocker to give the young woman a chance. Crocker had grudgingly agreed, as had Kate, and throughout their first week together the hallway leading to Crocker’s office had echoed with his shouts, growls, and endless demands.

&n
bsp; Kate had survived, primarily because she saw right through him, or thought she did. Crocker was demanding, he was overbearing, he was arrogant, he was outright rude, all these things were true. And while these traits sparked fear, loathing, and resentment in nine out of ten SIS staff, Kate didn’t mind them in the least. She understood Crocker as a zealot, and her way to deal with him was to be just as zealous in her job in turn. He did not frighten her, and both understood that.

  When Francis Barclay had become C, he had invited her to come work for him instead. Kate had politely declined, claiming that she preferred to work directly under a single master rather than on a team.

  It was a half-truth. Kate had long ago decided that only two things would move her from her job: Crocker’s own departure or a fortuitous marriage to an ungodly wealthy movie star. Since the latter did not seem to be forthcoming, she was content to stay.

  “Besides,” she’d told Crocker on more than one occasion, “without me, you’d fall apart.”

  To which Crocker had responded, characteristically, “Shut up.”

  •

  It didn’t surprise Crocker, therefore, to find Kate behind her desk when he entered the outer office after his meeting with C. Saturday early evening, God only knew how long it had taken her to make it to the office, but there she was, working away at her terminal, and the coffeemaker on the supply cabinet behind her was on, the carafe still filling.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I was bored,” Kate said. “Minder One is waiting in your office.”

  Crocker glanced to the open door, saw Chace seated in front of his desk in the inner office, a file open on her lap. “How long has she been there?”

  “She was here when I arrived.” Kate stopped typing long enough to look from the monitor to him. “I made coffee.”

  “So you’re good for something. Pull everything we’ve got on the HUM, Harakat ul-Mujihadin, including HUM-AA, and get it on my desk. Then get onto Cheng at Grosvenor Square, tell her we need to meet.”

  “She already called for you. She’s with her ambassador until late, but she says she’ll call when she’s finished.”

  Crocker grunted, stepped into his office, and closed the door. Grunting again, this time in acknowledgment to Chace, he moved around behind his desk, taking off his suit coat and hanging it on the wobbly wooden stand in the corner. The inner office wasn’t much larger than the outer, and spare. The desk was old, pitted beneath the blotter, its surface neat with everything in its place—two phones, one black for general calls, one red, used for urgent internal communications. With the press of a button, Crocker could reach the Ops Room, the Deputy Chief, Rayburn, C, or, should the situation warrant it, the Special Projects Team, SIS’s commando unit. A terminal for use on the in-house network balanced the desk, and a small stack of folders waited in the in-tray.

  Aside from the coat stand, there wasn’t much more to see. A safe stood by the door, and beside it a rickety bookshelf with the latest editions of the various Jane’s titles. A framed black-and-white print of a stylized Chinese dragon hung on the wall behind the desk, and two chairs sat opposite it, with a third backed into the far corner, beneath the window. Through the glass, a view of the Thames, and when Crocker looked, he could see thin black smoke still rising from Central London.

  He took his seat, fishing his cigarettes and lighter from his vest pocket. He watched Chace as he lit one, and she closed the folder she had been reading and settled it back atop the stack in his tray. The folder was pink, stamped SECRET at the top with a bar code beside it, and beneath that was its title: “Impact Analysis—U.K. Commerce Zimbabwe, Q3-Current.”

  Crocker exhaled smoke, looking her over, frowning. “Your hands are green,” he said.

  “I was painting.” Chace brushed hair behind an ear. “Who did it?”

  “The BBC received a tape, apparently claiming responsibility. Looks like the HUM.”

  “HUM doesn’t play in Western Europe. Certainly never has moved against us.”

  “I am well aware.”

  Chace pulled on her lower lip with her teeth for a moment. “You don’t buy it?”

  “I’d like to hear what the CIA has to say before we start making plans.”

  Chace nodded. “Lankford and Poole are in the Pit, pawing the ground like irate bulls. They want you to point them at someone.”

  “Not you?”

  Chace shrugged, smiled by way of answer. When she smiled, she looked ten years younger than she truly was, and the weight of the job evaporated for a moment. Crocker saw the expression for what it was. Of course she was pawing the ground, of course she wanted the job. If the day’s events had occurred when he had been Minder One, he’d have wanted it, too.

  “May not be us, Tara.” Crocker tapped the end of his cigarette into the square glass ashtray next to the phones. “Might be a military response.”

  Chace’s smile grew a fraction, and she shook her head. “No, it won’t, you and I both know that, Boss. Military action would require that another sovereign nation be held responsible, and if it’s the HUM, we’re not about to invade Pakistan.”

  “If that’s where they’re based.”

  “Farooq Kashmiri isn’t anti-West as much as he’s anti-India, isn’t he?”

  “If Kashmiri is still running the show. And that precludes confirming that it was the Abdul Aziz faction that we’re dealing with, in which case we’re now talking about invading Saudi Arabia, and that will never happen, as we both well know.”

  “More likely it’s AA, then. Killing Londoners on the Underground, that doesn’t really help to liberate Kashmir, does it?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So it’s someone else. HUM-AA.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Chace shifted in the chair, brushed more hair back behind an ear. “If we’re talking a job on foreign soil, I’m going to want Poole to back me up. I don’t want a repeat of St. Petersburg.”

  “I just had this conversation with C. There is no job yet.”

  “But there will be.”

  “And again, I say perhaps.” Crocker turned the cigarette in his fingers, knocked more ash into the tray, appraising her. “You’re worried I won’t give it to you.”

  The smile came back, almost sheepish.

  “You don’t have to worry,” Crocker told her. “If there’s someone we need to kill, you’ll be the one to do it.”

  •

  Chace’s office, which she shared with the two other Minders, was near the end of a long and dull corridor in the first sublevel of the building. Also on the hall was a lavatory, a storage closet, three archives, and a very large, very secured room that housed perhaps one-quarter of the data-storage and computer servers used by the in-building network. As in the rest of the building, the rooms were marked in exactly the same fashion, with black plastic rectangles mounted to the left of each doorframe, declaring—as cryptically as possible—what lay within.

  The plate beside the door to her office read “SB-01-213——S-Ops.” Nowhere was the word “Minder,” and nowhere was the word “Pit.” Once, nearly four years ago, Kittering had decided to change that. Spurred by a fit of boredom, he’d come to work with a box of wax crayons and spent the better part of a very slow morning coaxing what few artistic skills he had onto paper. When he was finished, he had a multicolored cartoon of the three Minders at the time—himself, Chace, and Wallace—in a deep dark hole, over which, in ragged and bloodred letters, he’d inscribed the words “The Pit.”

  The cartoon had survived on the door of the office for almost a week before the Deputy Chief, on one of his walk-throughs of the building, had caught sight of the sign and torn it down himself. He’d then delivered an angry, if brief, lecture to them all on the need for departmental security and discretion, before heading back upstairs to complain to Crocker. They’d received a memo from the latter that afternoon reiterating the point.

  Chace stopped at the door, hand out, ready to open
it, remembering, and felt the echo of sadness swell briefly in her chest. She hadn’t thought about Ed in a while, in almost six months. No, that wasn’t quite true. If she was going to be honest with herself, she thought about Ed Kittering quite a bit; what was more accurate was that it had been almost half a year since the thinking of him had caused her pain.

  Standing in the empty, anonymous hall outside the office, the pain was back, and it surprised Chace with its intensity. They’d carried on the affair out of the office, with as much discretion as they could muster, knowing that Wallace knew and disapproved, afraid that Crocker would know and bring the hammer down.

  On the floors above, tandem couples—personnel involved with each other—were permitted, even encouraged. It made awkward questions easier when both parties knew what the other did for a living, when both parties knew the boundaries of their secrets, of their work. If analysts were sharing a bed, well, at least Internal Security, not to mention the folks at Box, knew who everyone was sleeping with, and as a result—to beat the metaphor to death—everyone could rest easier.

  Not in Special Operations. Not when the two people creaking the bedsprings at night might be called upon the next day to parachute into northern Iraq, for instance. Not when one might be required to leave the other behind or, worse, leave nothing behind at all. In Paul Crocker’s book that translated to an operational liability, and the Minders had enough of those already; he wasn’t about to countenance personal feelings jeopardizing the job as well.

  When she’d ended it, she’d known that Ed was in love with her, and was deathly afraid that she’d fallen in love with him. She’d tried to be precise and quick, to limit the pain for each of them, and of course had failed utterly. For the three months following the end of the affair, their interactions had been confined to tepid pleasantries in the office and almost no contact outside of the job.

  Almost.

  Exactly six weeks after she’d ended it, Chace had spent a Saturday in Camden, visiting the market, killing the day slowly by herself. Off Kentish Town Road she’d stopped in a pub for a pint and an early dinner, and there had been Ed, at a table in the corner, his back covered, a black-haired and far-too-young pretty thing half in his lap, her tongue alternately in his mouth and his ear, or so it seemed. Ed had seen her immediately, and for an infinite second they had stared at each other, caught in one of fate’s crueler little bear traps.