It had stuck in Chace’s memory because, among his targets, McInnes had pointed a finger directly at SIS, accusing the Firm of profiting from the questionable intelligence gained from these torture sessions. McInnes had been recalled to London following his final outburst and forced out of the Foreign Service within a week of his return home. The last she’d read, the former Ambassador had retained an attorney and was planning on suing the Government.
“President Malikov is not long for this world, Tara,” Crocker said. “The old man’s got two kids, and it’s anyone’s guess which one of them will take over when he goes. There’s a daughter—”
“Sevara Mihailovna Malikov-Ganiev.” She shook her head, angry that she’d taken the bait, unsure whether or not he was testing her, or if he was expecting a faulty memory. Whichever, it was galling. “The son’s name is Ruslam Mihailovich Malikov.”
“Ruslan Mihailovich,” Crocker corrected. “Roughly four days ago, Ruslan’s wife was arrested, tortured, and murdered, most likely by the NSS, possibly by Sevara’s agents. We think Ruslan may be next on Sevara’s hit list, that she’s preparing to clear the way for a run at her father’s position.”
“Ruslan should probably leave, then.”
“Yes, well, what you don’t know is that Ruslan Mihailovich also has a two-year-old son, Stepan Ruslanovich.”
Chace folded her arms across her chest. “So he should take the boy with him.”
“Your job is to get them out of the country,” Crocker said. “Both of them. Get them out, and bring them safely back to England.”
She stared at him.
“We’ve been told that Ruslan is pro-West, that he’s a reformer in the making. If you can confirm that as well, so much the better. We get him here, we can discuss the viability of a coup, either against his father or against his sister, whomever, depending on the situation. Since you’ll already have a working relationship with Ruslan, you’ll be expected to help facilitate and implement that also.”
Chace continued to stare at him.
Crocker drew a last time from his cigarette, then dropped the butt, watching as the cinder died in the wet grass. From inside his overcoat he withdrew a large gray envelope, creased lengthwise from where he’d carried it, folded, in an inside pocket. He held the envelope out to Chace, who made no move to take it.
“There’s one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in an account at HSBC,” Crocker said. “It should cover expenses for the operation, anything that might arise. I’ve included contact protocols as well; you’re to report directly to me on this, and not through official channels. The documents enclosed, and the account, are in the name of Carlisle, Tracy Elizabeth, the same identity you used during Dandelion, you remember.”
“You’re recycling a cover?” She looked at him, now even more suspicious.
“There’s no reason to believe it was compromised. It’s still current, all the paper, right up to the passport.”
“It was used. That’s what compromises it.”
“Would you take the damn envelope, please?”
“I don’t want the envelope, Paul. I don’t want what’s inside it. I don’t want the job.”
Crocker lowered his hand, the wind catching the envelope in his grip, bending it skyward, as if trying to make it into a kite. Chace saw his eyes flick along the fence that bordered the lane, as paranoid as she was that they might be observed. Somewhere, from farther below on the hillside, they heard a child’s laughter.
“There’s nobody else,” he said. “It has to be you.”
“There should be three others else,” Chace responded. “Unless you’ve managed to kill all of them, too, and as I saw Nicky only Sunday last, you’d have been working damn quick at it.”
“I can’t use the Minders.”
“Go to Cheng.”
“Cheng’s in Washington, and that’s beside the point. I’ve been asked to keep the involved parties to a minimum.”
“How minimum?”
“Barclay and the CIA are not included on the distribution list, shall we say.”
A gust caught her hair, sent strands across her eyes, and Chace pushed them clear with her finger, tucking the strays back behind her ear. “So it’s unsanctioned. You’re trying to sell me an unsanctioned lift from a hostile theater, and you want me to do it without alerting either our people or the Americans.”
“Ideally. Though I’m told there’s the possibility of limited American support once you’re on the ground in Tashkent. What form that support will take, I can’t say.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s not unsanctioned, it’s unofficial. I have permission for the operation, just not through the traditional channels.”
“How high?”
“I can’t say.”
“Intelligence and Security Committee? FCO? Cabinet level? Ministerial?”
“I can’t say, Tara.”
“But you’re telling me that you’ve secured approval at either C’s level or higher, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“You understand why I ask, don’t you? Because I’d hate to take a job only to discover that I’m going to be sold out again upon completion. Once was enough for me, you understand.”
She saw Crocker’s mouth twist slightly, his approximation of a smile.
“I didn’t say I’d do it, Paul,” she warned. “Don’t get excited.”
“You want to do it.”
“So I can become Whitehall’s bitch again? No, thank you.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You did it so well last time.”
“I’ll protect you,” Crocker repeated, more insistent. “You do the job, I’ll bring you home, Tara. You’ll be Minder One again, you’ll be Head of Section again, back where you belong. Where you should be right now.”
“I should be back in Barlick right now, with Tamsin.”
“I hope you’re convincing yourself with that line, because you’re sure as hell not convincing me.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“This isn’t about love,” Crocker interrupted. “Of course you love her, you’re her mother. But you’re dying by inches out here. You hate it, and you hate yourself for wishing you were back in London, and back on the job. But you need to be back on the job, and we both know it, so perhaps it’s time you stopped pretending.”
Chace shook her head again.
“I know, Tara.” He lowered his voice, speaking more slowly, picking the words more carefully. “I understand, I really do. I was Minder One with a wife and two children; trust me, I know. You’re not abandoning her, you’re not betraying her.”
Chace swallowed, turned away. To the northeast, clouds were sweeping in over the summit of the hill, dragging a curtain of rain along with them.
“She’s not even a year old.”
“She’ll be all right.”
Chace heard the rustle of Crocker’s coat, knew that he was offering her the envelope again, could imagine the contents. The papers and the passport, the file photos of Ruslam—correction, Ruslan—Mihailovich Malikov and his two-year-old son. Maybe a map, certainly a two- or three-page briefing paper, culled from the Intelligence Directorate, of what to expect from Uzbekistan, from Tashkent. Options and suggestions and Tracy Elizabeth Carlisle, a nice single girl from Oxfordshire who was quite possibly already known to the world as a tissue of lies.
“She’ll be fine, Tara,” Crocker said. “And so will you.”
“I was right,” Chace said. “You are a bastard.”
She took the envelope.