Private Wars (5 page)

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.”