“I’d been blown, sir,” Fincher said. “When I approached as advance for the strike team, I noted activity at the site and several lights burning, as well as sentries posted, including one on the rooftop. I . . . I determined that the strike was not feasible at that time, and withdrew to Holding One to inform London of my recommendation that we abort—”
“I’ve yet to hear anything indicating that you’d actually been blown, Andrew,” Crocker interrupted.
“Sir, as I state in my report, the sentries—”
“In which case you should have given the go signal immediately. Instead, you withdrew and further exposed yourself.”
“If I had done so, sir, I would have remained in the open until the Strike Team arrived.”
Crocker stood up, bathing Fincher in his glare. “Minder Two’s after-action differs from yours.”
“Respectfully, sir, Minder Two wasn’t responsible for the recce.”
“They had no reason to know we were coming. There should have been little to no resistance during the strike. As it was, the Strike Team encountered stiff resistance, and was forced to overcome it, with the result that local police responded to the firefight, and witnessed your withdrawal.”
“I am aware of that, sir.” Fincher wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing past Crocker’s shoulder, at the Chinese dragon print on the wall.
“You tipped them,” Crocker said. “They made you on the withdrawal.”
“Respectfully, sir—”
“You lost your nerve.”
Fincher went silent, and from his expression, Crocker knew he was right, and that Fincher knew it as well.
“You’re suspended from active duty at this time,” Crocker told him. “Administrative duties only. You’re expected to remain in the Pit in case I need you.”
“I’m Head of the Special Section, sir.”
“And for the time being, you can still call yourself that.” Crocker came around his desk, passing Fincher and heading for the door.
“Am I fired, sir?”
“If I had anyone to replace you with, Andrew, you would be.” Crocker pulled open the door to the outer office, and from the corner of his eye saw Kate, at her desk, look immediately up. “Now get out of my sight.”
Fincher remained motionless for a fraction longer, then nodded slightly. Crocker watched him go, waited until the door to the hall had shut again, then turned to head back into his office.
“Sir?” Kate said.
“What?” He put the glare he’d been using on Fincher on her.
“C wants you.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Family emergency, sir. Ariel took a fall, broke her leg.”
Barclay blinked at him, and Crocker could see him trying to penetrate the lie. It wouldn’t be that difficult to verify, Crocker knew, but he doubted that Barclay would take the time to have his assistant call his home, to speak to Crocker’s wife. Even if he did, it was covered. Crocker had told Jennie that, should anyone ask, Ariel had broken her leg in a bicycle accident the previous morning.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barclay said, after a moment. “Your daughter will be all right?”
“We had a scare, sir, but she’s enjoying the crutches for the moment.”
“A ready means of sympathy.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Barclay nodded slightly, as if satisfying himself. Crocker waited, and after another second Barclay motioned to the chairs in front of the desk. It surprised Crocker. He’d expected to be dismissed, rather than invited to stay longer. He took the chair.
“There’s been another MANPAD alert,” Barclay said, after a second. “Coming out of Chechnya this time.”
Crocker frowned. Man-portable air defense systems—MANPADs—stood in a place of pride at the top of the counterterror nightmare list, mostly because they were an embarrassment to the West in addition to their obvious destructive potential. While the media focused on the more dramatic scenarios of bioterror and dirty bombs, every Western intelligence agency ranked the MANPAD threat much higher, both because it was easier to execute and because, should it come to pass, it would be beyond embarrassing to the governments in question.
Stinger missiles were a MANPAD. And Stinger missiles had been rather liberally handed out to onetime U.S. allies in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, long before the Global War on Terror had begun. The GWOT had happened, and CT analysts in Langley and London had sat up straight in their uncomfortable chairs and begun firing off insistent memos and shrilly worded reports, describing in detail what a single member of Jemaah Islamiyah or the EIJ or any other al-Qaeda-associated terror cell could do with but one of the missiles to, say, a Boeing 777 taking off from Heathrow.
Or, for that matter, to a C-130 Hercules delivering troops into Baghdad.
The Americans had given the world the Stinger, but it was not the only MANPAD system out there. The Russians had the Grouse and the Gremlin; the French, the Mistral; the Israelis, the Barak. There were countless others, of varying efficacy and availability.
And England had first the Javelin, then the Starburst, and now, more recently—and much more effective—the Starstreak.
“I didn’t see anything in the daily brief,” Crocker said.
“No, Simon just brought it to my attention,” Barclay replied. “Nothing hard yet, just a whisper that something might be coming.”
“Someone should inform the Russians.”
“If they don’t know already.” Barclay shook his head slightly, as if dismissing the conversation. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“No, sir?”
“You’ve been meeting with Sir Walter Seccombe.”
“I’ve had a meeting with him, yes, sir.”
“Why is a junior director from SIS meeting with the Permanent Undersecretary at the FCO, Paul?”
“He wanted an explanation for the disaster in Kuala Lumpur.”
“I briefed the Cabinet myself, including the Foreign Secretary and the PM.”
Crocker resisted the urge to shrug. “Sir Walter asked to see me, sir. I’m hardly in a position to refuse him.”
“Indeed. You’re hardly in much of a position at all, at the moment.”
Crocker didn’t say anything.
“We discussed, earlier, your future prospects. I’m willing to appoint you as Washington liaison, to move you to the States. It’s not a terminal posting, Paul, and it will preserve your future prospects. You could find yourself back here within two or three years.”
“I understand.”
“But the posting is conditional on your behavior and performance until your replacement arrives. As I said, if you make this transition difficult, I’ll have you manning a station in Outer Mongolia. Somehow I doubt your wife or your daughters would appreciate that.”
“No, sir, I don’t think they would.”
Barclay leveled a glare at him. “Then consider this. If you’re playing a game with me, if you’re withholding information from me, if you’re cooking something—anything—of which I would not approve, not only will you end up in Outer Mongolia, but you’ll end your career there as well.”
“I understand,” said Crocker.
Barclay shook his head, as if to say that he doubted Crocker was capable of even that much, then waved his hand, flicking his fingers as if trying to brush him away like so much lint. Crocker got to his feet once more, murmuring a thank-you, and made for the door.
As he reached it, Barclay said, “If Seccombe contacts you again, I want to know about it.”
“Of course, sir,” Crocker answered, and left C’s office to return to his own.
He’d been at his desk for less than two minutes when Kate buzzed him to say that Sir Walter Seccombe’s PA had just called, and that the PUS was hopeful that D-Ops would indulge him for a few minutes at his office at his earliest convenience. Hopeful enough that he was willing to send his car and driver around to fetch him.