by Greg Rucka
“Not at all. I shouldn’t worry about it, Paul. It’s probably nothing.”
“Let’s hope Minder One agrees with you.”
Weldon stopped halfway through the door. “You’re not going to inform Chace? Bad business, Paul. I wouldn’t.”
“I won’t need to,” Crocker said. “She’ll spot them herself.”
“They do know their jobs, Paul. I wouldn’t get overconfident.”
Crocker shook his head.
“She did the last time,” he said.
27
London—Camden, Regent’s Park Terrace
15 September 1921 GMT
Soaked from the rain, Chace limped through her front door, bumped it shut with her hip and locked it, shucked her coat to the floor, and dropped onto the couch. She took her left shoe off, tossing it away toward the television, and then gingerly unlaced the right, easing it free, before stopping and taking in her flat once again. Lights burning the way she had left them; dishes piled in the sink; mail scattered on the end table; cans of paint haphazardly stacked in the corner; canvases rolled and propped against the wall, waiting for abuse; latest letter from her mother crumpled and still resting where it had landed on her bookshelf, dangerously close to the never-been-used aromatherapy candles a rich schoolmate had sent for her most recent birthday.
She got to her feet, wincing at the pressure on her still-injured foot. The staples or stitches or whatever had been used to close the wound itched almost constantly, and Chace had to remind herself to not drag her heel, to not scratch at it.
She made her way into the bedroom, taking in the unmade bed, the dirty clothes heaped in the corner. Kittering’s SAS beret was still hanging from the bedpost, her masochistic reminder that she would never be the woman he had wished her to be. Shoes half under the bed, closet door half open, bathroom door half closed. . . .
No, she thought. Couldn’t be that, could it? Nothing so elementary, nothing so bloody fundamental. Didn’t they think to take Polaroids before searching the place?
It was so obvious, in fact, that Chace had to wonder if she hadn’t left the door half open herself.
She went to the nightstand and searched for the penlight she kept there, digging past matchbooks, condoms, an old and uncapped lipstick, a bottle of aspirin, a notepad, and several cheap pens before finding it. She flicked it on, saw the beam was still strong, flicked it off. On her belly, she shined the penlight beneath the fraction of a gap at the bureau’s base and saw in the dust there flakes of white.
With a deep breath, she blew beneath the bureau at an angle, then sat up in time to watch the thin wisps of flour, like vapor, curl from the far side.
Turning the penlight off a final time, Chace sat back, resting against the footboard of her bed, tongue poking slightly over her lower lip as she thought. The white powder on the floor was the clincher, and she didn’t need to open the bottom drawer for further proof. There were six drawers in her bureau, two side by side at the top, accessories and what little jewelry remained in her life. First down, lingerie, stockings, socks, the like. Second, shirts, seasonal. Third, sweaters, scarves. Bottom, nothing worthwhile. Bottom was a tease, holding only her old rugby shirt and the sweater her father had worn the Christmas before he’d died. She never went into that drawer except to move it enough to coat its rails with a dusting of flour.
Someone had been in her bureau.
Someone had been in the bloody flat.
It occurred to her that, had it been someone with murder in mind, she’d have been in a lot of trouble, the way she’d come home. It had been sloppy of her, London eyes, not field eyes, an entry she’d never had made during a job. But concerned with a sore foot and a desire to get out of the rain, she’d forged ahead, and been fortunate.
It has to be Box, she thought, and she almost said aloud something unkind about Mr. David Kinney and his also-rans, then thought better of it. If it had been Box, they’d tried to go carefully, and they may have planted listening devices during their visit. Maybe cameras as well, but if there were cameras, it was too late for sneaky; whoever was watching would know she was on to them.
She used the footboard to get to her feet, strode into the front, heedless of the pain, and began pulling on her shoes once more.
Only one way to find out.
•
It took her most of three hours to confirm—or more precisely, reconfirm—and to move suspicion to fact. But when she returned to her flat, dumping the CDs and books she’d bought during her foray, Chace was certain she was being watched, and that it was Box doing the peeking.
More, it wasn’t routine surveillance. It was a targeted operation, at least four teams, at least sixteen people, on foot and motorcycle and automobile, and they had done everything they could to avoid detection. This worried her. She knew she’d been checked recently, and that had been a completely different game. One team, on foot, total of four people, working in shifts. Nothing on this scale.
She couldn’t see a reason for it. There was no reason for it. She’d looked at it from every direction she could conceive and still saw no logic to it.
But there is a logic, Chace told herself as she watched herself brushing her teeth in her bathroom mirror. There’s always a logic, you just don’t know it yet.
She undressed, climbed into her bed. Maybe it was a training exercise? Not impossible, Kinney using a Minder to hone his people’s technique. Stranger things had happened. If that was the case, it would have to have been cleared by Crocker; at the least, D-Ops would have been informed.
Wrapping the covers around her shoulders, burrowing deeper into her pillows, Chace told herself that had to be it. Training exercise, Kinney trying to one-up Crocker: Hey, mate, my men followed your gal, rifled her flat, she never noticed. Not so special as all that, hmm, your Special Section?
She’d ask him in the morning, she decided, and relaxed, sleepy, feeling the bed too big to occupy alone. She’d ask in the morning, and Crocker would tell her, she had no doubt.
That was the rule. All the world could turn on them, but D-Ops would always defend the Minders. At the cost of prospects, career, friends, liberty, life, Crocker would protect them. He would sacrifice everything for them, because that was what he expected in return, that was the agreement. He would order them over the hills and far away, then demand the impossible of them upon their arrival. And Chace, and Poole, and perhaps one day Lankford, too, would give it to him without hesitation, without questioning the reasons or the merits or the causes; they would do as ordered, as they were expected. They would go, and they would even die, if he demanded it.
And in return, Crocker sheltered them, guarded them, fought for them, lied for them. All of Whitehall could turn on the Special Section, but Crocker would remain, lone against the tide, to give cover to his Minders.
Crocker would protect her.
She fell asleep.
28
London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops
16 September 0803 GMT
Kate was behind her desk and had thankfully made coffee when Crocker blew in that morning, and he acknowledged her cheerful hello with a grunt, then moved straight through the outer to the inner. She rose immediately to follow him, and he didn’t look back, dropping his document bag on the desk before shrugging out of his raincoat and hooking it to its place on the stand. He ran a hand through his wet hair, watching as Kate set the stack of folders she’d carried in a neat pile on his desk, scowling. His mood was already declining, due in small part to the nightmare of his commute, but mostly in annoyance at what the day ahead undoubtedly held.
“Morning distribution.” Kate pulled one of the keys from the tether at her waist, set about unlocking and then unloading Crocker’s document bag. “Three items of interest.”
“I’d like coffee,” Crocker said.
“Philip Heller, on his famil as the KL Number Two, is down with malaria,” Kate continued, as if she hadn’t heard. “The Number One, Elizabeth Conrad, is binning
him back to London, requesting a new Two with all speed. Notes that diminished Station capacity will hurt current operations in the Philippines. VCNS at MOD has submitted a request for operational surveillance of the Chinese naval exercises set to commence on the twenty-third in the South China Sea, and C and the Deputy Chief have both authorized action. D-Int wants ten minutes this forenoon to discuss.”
“Coffee,” Crocker said again.
“I heard you the first time.” Kate closed the document bag, replaced the key on her hip, and then carried the bag to the cabinet safe beside the door, laying it flat on its top. “David Kinney has a message in to speak with you this morning, in person. Earliest convenience.”
“I want some—”
“I’m getting it,” she said, and stepped through the door to the inner office.
Crocker swiped at the rainwater in his hair a last time, then dried his hand against his vest, moving to his chair and picking up his pen. The stack wasn’t nearly as intimidating as it was annoying, mostly memos and other FYIs requiring his initials. He’d already gone through half of them by the time Kate returned with his coffee.
“Shall I ring Mr. Kinney back?” she asked.
“Did he say what he wanted?”
She shook her head. “But presumably it pertains to the notification folderol of last night.”
Crocker reached for the cup, nodded. “Ring him back, arrange it. Before noon, if at all possible.”
“Right away.”
He drank his coffee, considering. His intent had been to go to C first thing this morning and demand an explanation for Box’s behavior toward Chace. But Kinney’s desire to meet changed the priorities; if he could get an answer that way, it was infinitely better than having another go-round with C. At the same time, Kinney’s request only made him more suspicious of the whole affair. Kinney was as territorial as anyone in the Home Office: he’d never make a request of SIS unless he had no alternative.
Or something to gain.
The intercom on his desk emitted its strangled cry for attention.
“What?”
“Minder One to see you, sir.”
“She’s out there now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wheel her in.”
He put down the cup and lit his first cigarette of the day, watching as Kate opened the door for Chace. Chace already had coffee, Crocker noted, as well as a smile.
“Morning, Boss,” she said.
“Anything you two need?” Kate asked.
“Privacy,” Crocker said.
Chace seemed mildly amused by this, watching over her shoulder until Kate had shut the door, before sitting, coffee in both hands. Her smile grew as she studied Crocker across his desk.
“Someone’s been in my flat,” she told him.
“Several someones, according to your personnel file.”
“All lies. I never take them back to my place.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, yes.”
She said it with the kind of certainty Crocker normally heard used for pronouncements of death.
“There’s more,” Chace said.
“Do tell.”
“I’m being targeted, full job. Four teams on me last night when I nipped out to do some shopping. They’ve been at my mail, my phones, all of it.” Chace’s smile got even bigger, and it gave the chill in her eyes that much more of an edge. “I’d be willing to bet they’ve put cameras in my home.”
“They?”
Chace drained her cup, set it on Crocker’s desk, fished for her cigarettes. “Well, I’m hoping it’s Mr. Kinney and his lads, though I wouldn’t object to the PRC trying to honey-trap me.”
“Not very likely, though, is it?”
Her lighter clicked closed, and she slipped it back into her pocket, blowing smoke at the ceiling and flopping back in the chair. The smile was still in place.
“No, it really isn’t, is it?” Chace said sweetly.
She’s livid, Crocker thought.
“What do you want me to tell you?”
“Oh, I know you can’t tell me anything, Boss,” Chace said. “Box going through my unmentionables for the second time in two, three months, you’re not allowed to say if I’m being checked. Again. Defeats the purpose of them trying to catch me being a rotten apple if you warn me that’s what they’re doing. Trust me, I understand that. You’re certainly not allowed to say if Box is suddenly twitchy with me in the wake of the slaughter in San’a’, or even if I should return all those Biros I stole from Kate’s desk. I know that.”
Crocker waited. Chace gave him the gleeful smile for five seconds longer, then took another drag off her cigarette, leaned forward again, and jabbed it out in his ashtray. She rose, taking the empty cup.
“I just wanted you to know that I know,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll be in the Pit.”
•
Kinney arrived at seventeen minutes past nine, Kate ushering him in, and Crocker liked that even less. Seventeen past nine, it meant that Kinney had come straightaway, that he’d been waiting to hear from Kate, waiting to come over for the meeting.
Crocker didn’t bother to get up but decided it would be pushing things too far not to offer the other man a seat. He waved at the chairs.
“Please,” Crocker said.
“Not necessary,” Kinney said. “Wanted to look in on you, apologize for any confusion.”
“I’m not confused.”
“Clerical bloody error, Crocker. Should have my PA’s hands cut off.”
“They happen.”
“Wanted to say it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“I’d like to determine that for myself.”
“And I’m here to say you don’t have to bother.”
They stared at each other.
Bastard, Crocker thought. Bastard, you’re scared now, you blew it, whatever it was, and you’re trying to get the milk back in the bottle now.
He kept it from his face. If Kinney didn’t know that Chace had made the surveillance, it wasn’t going to be Crocker who corrected Kinney’s error.
“No need to worry Chace about it,” Kinney said finally. “No need to worry anyone, really.”
“You seem to think I’m a bundle of nerves, David,” Crocker said. “I was concerned last night, but the Deputy Chief set me straight. Besides, you wouldn’t dare put surveillance on one of the Minders without notifying me first. You wouldn’t break that rule.”
“And risk starting another Home Office–Foreign Office battle for supremacy?” Kinney’s laugh was short and thick, much like the man from which it emanated. “No, never. My concern was only that you might take it the wrong way. You do tend to overreact.”
Crocker shook his head slightly. “You came crosstown to tell me this?”
“We’ve had difficulties in the past. I didn’t want this to turn into anything ugly.”
“Why should it?” Crocker evaded. “You vetted Chace in July, and she cleared. You’ll vet her again, and she’ll clear again. As long as I’m notified when you’re putting the lens on my people, you’re free to spy on whomever you desire. Within your boundaries, of course.”
Kinney’s expression flickered, as if caught for a second in a strobe, and Crocker could see him thinking. Each of them was lying to the other, and Crocker suspected now that each of them knew that was the case, and still Kinney was trying to make like they were friends. If the stakes weren’t so very high, it would have struck Crocker as ridiculous, even laughable, that they were so committed to their deceptions. But it wasn’t funny, if for no other reason than that David Kinney was as much of a zealot in the Security Services as Paul Crocker was at SIS.
“Well, then,” Kinney said finally. “I won’t take more of your time.”
“Kate will show you out,” Crocker said, and he keyed his intercom, waited, and then watched as Kate entered and led Kinney from the room.
Once the door was closed, Crocker sat back in his chair, turned it to look out
the tinted window, past the leaded curtains, at the rain drifting down on London.
He didn’t come here to try to cover it up, Crocker realized. He’s not that stupid. He wasn’t here to try to convince me of anything.
He came to see exactly how much I know.
It bothered Crocker that he didn’t seem to know anything.
He reached back to the desk, keyed the intercom again.
“Master?” Kate said from the speaker.
“Call Cheng,” Crocker said. “Find out if she’s free for lunch.”
When in doubt, Crocker thought, coming off the intercom, go to the CIA. Even if they don’t know the truth, their lies are always better than our own.
29
London—Mayfair, the Hole
16 September 1226 GMT
Crocker assumed that Cheng picked the restaurant because it was unrelentingly strange. Wedged on a side street six blocks south of Grosvenor Square, in a house that had been built in the 1660s—and with all the low ceilings, cramped quarters, and exposed beams that that implied—the Hole was, as best as he could tell from the menu, a Scottish/Polish/Mexican restaurant, specializing in pierogi, salmon, and fajitas. The walls bristled with antique weapons and black-and-white framed photographs of American movie stars from the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, and a boom box behind the bar on the ground level played Big Band tunes much too loud for the speakers’—or the patrons’—comfort.
Cheng was already seated and working on a plate of smoked salmon when he arrived, and she had to get up from the table to give him room to pass. He was tall enough that contortions were required before he could adequately seat himself, and even then he had to watch his elbows for fear of alternately ramming them into the wall or clipping glassware and sending it to the floor.
“I hate this place,” he told Cheng.
She nodded around a mouthful of fish, chewed, swallowed. “I love it.”
“You’re a bloody tourist, Angela.”
She shrugged, as if denying the accusation wasn’t worth the effort. “You’re paying.”
