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.