Private Wars

by Greg Rucka

  It meant that COS Tashkent, whoever that was—Crocker couldn’t remember the name—truly had been watching the FSO in question for one reason or another. His knowledge of American embassy workings was limited, but he was reasonably certain that it wasn’t the CIA who was responsible for maintaining the security of the mission staff. So the FSO, whoever the hell he was, had earned the attention somehow.

  That couldn’t be good news for Chace, not unless Crocker could somehow shut down Seale’s inquiry. Which meant giving the Americans something plausible, and that, in turn, meant burning either Seccombe or Barclay. One of the truths would have to come out now. Which one was the only question.

  “Paul?” Seale asked. “If you’re fucking us in Uzstan, things are about to get ugly.”

  Crocker hoped to hell that he was reading the tea leaves right.

  “It’s about the Starstreaks, Julian.” Crocker took another drag on his cigarette, meeting Seale’s eyes. “The ones you told me about. Barclay lost them four years ago. He’s understandably anxious to get them back.”

  “I told you about the Starstreaks on the seventeenth, Paul. Chace was apparently riding our FSO to the heights of passion on the night of the sixteenth. Which means she left England some twenty hours prior to that, which means you briefed her before that, which puts me back to around Valentine’s Day. So either you’re lying to me—”

  “Or I already knew about the Starstreaks when we met on the seventeenth,” Crocker said.

  “Which is it?”

  “You can take your pick, but think about it. Barclay’s the one who is ultimately responsible for those MANPADs being lost. Which means if they surface in any fashion that includes civilian or Coalition casualties, he’s dead. He asked me to get them back for him.”

  “He’s firing you.”

  “This is how I keep my job,” Crocker said, bitterly. “He doesn’t want anyone to know it was he who lost the fucking missiles. That’s why I’m using Chace, not one of the Minders. That’s why she’s running free, without Station contact. No one is supposed to know she’s there. I save C’s career, he saves mine.”

  A wind rattled the leaves, followed by another spattering of rain, icier than before. Crocker resumed walking, waiting for Seale to fall abreast.

  “And that’s why she’s using a blown cover.”

  “I was expressly forbidden to use any SIS assets for the mission,” Crocker confirmed. “Barclay’s paranoiac, Julian. He’s afraid someone will find out, use the information against him.”

  “A nice, altruistic motive.”

  “Those are still around?”

  “I hear rumors.” Seale fell silent for several more long strides, apparently thinking about what Crocker had just told him. “So Barclay offered to let you keep your job. . . .”

  “He actually offered me Gordon-Palmer’s job, if you want to know the truth. He seems to think that he’ll be getting rid of her soon.”

  Seale digested that, then said, “Fine, you get made DC. What does Chace get? She’s got a kid now, doesn’t she? How’d you get her to agree to this lunacy?”

  “Chace wants to come back. I told her if she does the job, I’ll make her Minder One again.”

  “And will you?”

  “If she does the job? In a heartbeat.”

  “Then here’s hoping she does the job.”

  “Amen.”

  “Doesn’t explain why she met with the FSO, though.”

  “I think you have your explanation already,” Crocker said, and then, in answer to Seale’s look, amended, “Libido.”

  “You expect me—no, better—you expect the Tashkent COS to believe it was coincidence?”

  “No. She probably made your guy as a member of the U.S. Mission, tried to use him for information. Where she picked him up, I can’t begin to guess. She’s under orders not to make contact with me until she’s located the missiles. I would guess—and it’s only a guess—that she made your FSO, then got everything she could off him, and indulged herself a bit in the process. That’s if she did actually sleep with him; she could have had him drawing her maps of Tashkent, for all we know.”

  “Regular Mata Hari, this Chace.”

  “A spiritual daughter, yes.”

  Seale slowed, then stopped, and Crocker had to stop as well, turning back to face him. He couldn’t read anything in the American’s expression, no sign if he was buying the story or if he was merely allowing Crocker to dig himself in deeper.

  “You have no contact with Chace at all?”

  “None.”

  “Then you don’t know where she is?”

  “Tashkent, I presume.” Crocker frowned. “Why? Do you?”

  Seale shook his head. “She checked out of the InterContinental the morning of the seventeenth, hasn’t been seen since. COS Tashkent hadn’t bothered to put her under hard surveillance—he was more concerned with the FSO.”

  “It’s possible the trail has taken her out of the city, or even out of the country.”

  “Chechnya, you mean?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “How’d you guys get on to the Starstreaks, anyway? Angela was sure she was giving you a gift, not confirming something you already know.”

  “I don’t know,” Crocker said. “Barclay approached me, remember? I’m assuming he picked up word of the sale from D-Int, or another source entirely.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “You’d be doing me one hell of a favor if you get a line on where these things are, Julian. I don’t know how I can get word to Chace, but if CIA locates these Starstreaks and she can recover them . . .”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Seale massaged his earlobe with a thumb and forefinger. “You know Malikov’s circling the drain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like the daughter is going to take over,” Seale said. “She’s already had communication with State and the White House.”

  “And State and the White House approve?”

  “We want someone who’ll continue the relationship begun with her father, someone who’s on the same page about the war. We have to step carefully in Uzbekistan. Malikov’s a tried-and-true fucker, no doubt about it, and his daughter isn’t much better.”

  “Then why support her?”

  “You know why. We lose Uzstan, we’re down to Pakistan and southern Afghanistan as our primary staging areas in the region, and neither is what I’d call secure. We need good relations with Uzstan, at least for the foreseeable future. And if we put too much pressure on the country, either by pushing too hard on the human rights angle or by cutting off aid or whatnot, there’s a risk of alienating the leadership there. China’s awfully close to Uzbekistan, and the last thing Washington wants to see is the PRC replacing us in Uzbek affections.”

  “There’s a son,” Crocker said. “Better bet than the daughter, if I recollect.”

  “No, he’s a no-go,” Seale said. “Not enough support in-country. If the son tries to take over, it’ll get bloody. And since we’ve now got NATO troops on the ground in Uzstan, nobody wants to see that, either.”

  Crocker considered, then nodded slightly, apparently agreeing. His cigarette had burned down to its filter, and he dropped it on the path, stepping on it with the toe of his shoe. What Seale was saying was true enough, but it raised a whole new set of questions. If the White House was backing Sevara enough that Seale knew about it, then the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister knew it, too. Which meant that either the Prime Minister was willing to oppose the White House covertly—hence his tasking Seccombe with the job of placing Ruslan in power—or Seccombe was playing him.

  Correction: of course Seccombe was playing him. It meant that Seccombe was playing him in a very different way than Crocker had imagined.

  He checked his watch, saw that it was already eight minutes past five. “I should get back.”

  “I should, too. I’ll contact Tashkent, let them know why Chace was there, what she was doing. Maybe the COS can poin
t her in the right direction.”

  “If he can find her.”

  “Oh, he can find her, Paul. Trust me. He can find her.”

  Seale turned, heading away from him, back down the path, and it wasn’t until then that Crocker realized they hadn’t shaken hands upon meeting each other.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  CHAPTER 19

  Uzbekistan—Tashkent—438–2 Raktaboshi,

  Residence of Charles Riess

  20 February, 2329 Hours (GMT+5:00)

  Riess lived alone, in a semidetached house with a private courtyard. The house had been provided by the Chancery, but not without difficulty. When Riess had arrived in Tashkent, he’d found that the Mission was in the clutches of a housing shortage. As a single FSO, his rank notwithstanding, he found himself on the bottom of the placement list. He’d spent seven weeks in residence at the Sheraton while his belongings had languished in storage somewhere in Belgium, living out of the hotel before everything got sorted out.

  When it finally had been taken care of, though, Riess had been pleasantly surprised with his home. It was far more spacious than he’d imagined, a two-bedroom, one with a supplied queen, one with two twins, with a modest dining room, kitchen, and ample living room. Like all Mission housing, it was government-furnished with the standard Drexel pieces, all of them functional and all of them lacking personality. Carpeting was gratis, a vacuum cleaner helpfully supplied to keep things tidy.

  It had taken another month for his belongings to arrive, at which point Riess had been desperate to personalize the space. He’d set up his desktop, placed his books on his shelves, erected what he self-mockingly referred to as the Shrine, the three pictures of Rebecca he’d had ever since she’d passed away. He’d put a few photographs and posters up on the walls, and in the end felt he had accomplished the job of making the house more than just a dormitory. Not that he would spend much time there, but it was a matter of principle; he was looking at a three-year tour in Uzbekistan, he damn well wanted to like where he was resting his head at night.

  Monday night he returned home a little before eleven from a dinner with three Representatives of the Oliy Majlis. The dinner had run long, and Riess had been forced to stay through the entire proceeding, not because the Reps in question were particularly important to the United States’ interests in Uzbekistan, but rather because leaving early would have told them very clearly that they weren’t. McColl, of course, had been dining with the DCM, entertaining a more senior group of the same.

  The meal had been held at the home of one of the Reps, near the Earthquake Memorial off Abdulla Kodiry. Riess liked the memorial far more than he liked the dinner. A series of granite reliefs depicted the rebuilding of Tashkent, surrounding a central statue straddling a ragged tear in the earth. The statue was substantial, a heroic Uzbek male standing in front of an equally heroic Uzbek female, her hair flying, together shielding a not-so-heroic Uzbek child. A smaller block of granite, this one black, had the face of a clock carved on one side, the hands pointing to 5:22, the hour the earthquake had struck on April 26, 1966. It had been one hell of a quake, 7.5 on the Richter scale, and had devastated the city, leaving some three hundred thousand homeless. The Soviets had rallied, rebuilding the city, giving birth to modern Tashkent.

  Riess had taken a walk through the memorial after dinner, stretching his legs and trying to clear his head. Ostensibly, the purpose of the meal had been part social, part an opportunity to discuss changes in the irrigation system around the Aral. But like Riess, the Reps knew a lost cause when they saw one, and so most of the talk had centered on other things: concerns about Islamic extremists infiltrating the country, deteriorating relations with Turkmenistan, and finally, the rumors surrounding President Malikov’s illness. Consensus at the table had been that Sevara would succeed her father.

  “Not Ruslan?” Riess had asked.

  “Not unless you know something we don’t,” one of the Reps had responded, laughing.

  So he’d walked the memorial, thinking about his last conversation with the Ambassador, thinking about Tracy Carlisle. Wondering why it was that she hadn’t lifted Ruslan and his son as yet. He didn’t know what to make of her, and he still didn’t know what to make of his night with her, and the visit from Tower that had come in its wake had only served to cloud the matter further.

  The fact was, Riess felt out of his depth.

  McColl had come into the office grumpier than usual that morning, about twenty minutes after Tower’s departure, and peeved at something the Ambassador had apparently said to S. Whatever it was, it had made its way back to McColl, and McColl, having no recourse, took it out on Riess in the form of busywork. That kept Riess chained to his desk, and it was almost noon before he could manufacture a reason to speak to the Ambassador.

  “I can give you three minutes,” Garret told him when Riess entered the office.

  “Then I’ll make it fast. Tower knows something is going on. He knows I was at the InterContinental, that I met with Carlisle.”

  Riess expected surprise, or at least concern, but Garret exhibited neither. “I figured he might. What’d you tell him?”

  “That she was an old friend.” Riess hesitated, then added, “I was with her for about four hours.”

  “In her room?”

  Riess nodded.

  “Chuck,” Garret said. “You dog.”

  Riess actually thought he might blush, tried to think of something to say, and realized that everything he was coming up with would sound like a double entendre. Finally, he managed, “It wasn’t planned.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have been.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “About Tower? Not much you can do. There was always a risk of this, Charles. He’ll check your story, and when he finds the holes in it—and he will find the holes in it—he’ll want to talk to you again.”

  “What do I tell him?”

  Garret looked out the window of his office into the garden, not speaking for a very long time, so long that Riess began to wonder if the Ambassador had heard him or not.

  “That’s your choice, Charles,” Garret said at length, softly. “This thing with Ruslan—if it doesn’t work, my career is shot. I knew that going into it. I’ve got thirty years in, and there are worse ways to leave than being forced into a quiet retirement.”

  “I’m not going to betray you, sir. I won’t do that.”

  Garret turned from the window, then pulled out the paternal smile. “If Tower already knows, it’s not a betrayal, Charles. And if he already knows, you’ll have to decide what’s best for yourself. I’m not going to hold that decision against you.”

  Riess shook his head, confused. “Has something happened?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then you’ll forgive me for saying that I think this discussion is premature, sir. Carlisle hasn’t even had a chance to lift them yet.”

  “Lifting them is only half the battle. Getting Ruslan back into play, with support, that’s the other half.”

  “You said there was British support.”

  Garret nodded. “But that doesn’t mean there is British support.”

  “Why else would Carlisle be here?”

  “Hell if I know.” The Ambassador stared at him a moment longer, then moved to his chair, settling himself behind his desk. “Go back to McColl before he finds more ways to make your life miserable.”

  The confusion he was feeling became more acute, and for a second Riess didn’t move. Then, almost resigned, he left the office, making his way back through the Embassy to his desk, wondering what was best for himself, and just how long it would take Aaron Tower to find all of the holes in his story about his night with Tracy Carlisle.

  As it turned out, it didn’t take Tower long at all.

  Riess had been home for twenty minutes, long enough to change out of his suit and into jeans and a Virginia Tech sweatshirt, and to brew up a cup of coffee from the beans a friend at home
had sent in his last care package. He made the coffee a cup at a time, rationing the beans, and he’d just poured when there was a knock at the door.

  He wasn’t surprised to find Aaron Tower waiting outside when he opened it.

  “Mind if I come in?” Tower asked.

  Riess shrugged, turned away, heading back into the kitchen. “You want a cup of coffee? It’s good stuff. A friend in California sends the beans to me every so often. Better than the local brew or that nightmare we get at the Embassy.”

  He heard the door close. “Can’t,” Tower said. “Blood pressure, remember?”

  “Right, sorry.” Riess stuck his head back out of the kitchen, saw that Tower was standing in the open living room, taking in the space. “Tea, then? I think I’ve got a peppermint.”

  “Sure.”

  Riess turned to the stove, set up the kettle. He was pulling a mug down when Tower entered and propped himself just inside the doorway, leaning against the side of the refrigerator, watching as Riess went about preparing the cup.

  “I’ve got some cookies,” Riess said.

  Tower shook his head.

  Riess shrugged a second time, set the mug beside the stovetop. “So what can I do for you, sir?”

  Tower didn’t speak and didn’t move, fixing him with a vaguely expectant stare. Riess understood the reason for it, and that, more than anything, made the purpose of Tower’s visit crystal clear. He turned away, putting his attention back on the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

  The water took a very long time to come to a boil.

  Tower didn’t say a word.

  Riess took the kettle off the heat, filled the mug, watching as the steam rippled off the water, rising toward him, and thinking about the Ambassador, what he had said. He understood now more than he had then, and the feeling of betrayal, of guilt that now settled in his breast was achingly heavy. He hadn’t said anything, and he knew that by staying silent, he’d already said far too much. Standing in the kitchen, six and a half thousand miles from home, he felt very much alone.