A hearse might be better, Crocker thought.
Seccombe began with the pleasantries and the customary offer of whiskey, which Crocker again declined.
“So, where are we, Paul?” Seccombe fixed himself a drink, splashing water into his lowball glass to mix with his scotch.
“I should have someone on the ground in Tashkent by tomorrow forenoon,” Crocker answered. “Once there, she’ll locate Ruslan and begin planning the lift.”
“She?” Seccombe turned, the glass halfway to his lips. “Chace?”
“You remember her.”
“You used her for the Zimbabwe check, if I recall.”
“Yes.”
Seccombe took a seat in his easy chair. “She quit.”
“A little over eighteen months ago. You’re very well informed.”
“One tries to keep abreast of things. Andrew Fincher replaced her. You’ve been struggling ever since.”
“I wouldn’t say struggling.”
“Your Deputy Chief would disagree.”
Second time she’s come up in this room, Crocker thought.
“How long until Chace tries for the lift?”
“She’ll need at least two days on the ground just for surveillance, and that’s after she locates Ruslan. If she moves quickly and everything goes her way, she could try for a lift as soon as the nineteenth, Sunday. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Sooner would be better than later.”
“She is aware of that.”
“You briefed her yourself?”
“You made it very clear that this was to be between you and me,” Crocker said.
“I did.”
“And the Deputy Chief.”
Seccombe smiled, draining his whiskey and then setting the glass on the bookstand at his elbow. The stand was an antique, mahogany, its surface covered in green felt, and the lamp on Seccombe’s desk shot rainbows through the crystal glass.
“How much does she know?” Crocker asked.
“You may consider the DC an ally, Paul.”
“Not much of an answer.”
“But enough of one, I think, for the moment.”
Crocker thought for a second, then said, “Barclay called me into his office this afternoon, ostensibly to find out where I was yesterday.”
“Ostensibly?”
“He hedged, wanted to talk about a MANPAD alert that D-Int had passed along. But he knew I’d met with you, and he doesn’t like it. He feels communication between you and SIS should go through him.”
“In almost every instance, it does.”
“Which is why he’s growing suspicious.”
“Hmm,” Seccombe said. “Then I suppose this should be our last meeting until Chace is back from Uzbekistan.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Very good, then.”
Crocker rose, saying, “So if I need to pass anything along to you, I should go through the Deputy Chief?”
Seccombe laughed.
“Don’t push your luck, Paul,” he said. “You have less of it than you think.”
CHAPTER 10
Uzbekistan—Tashkent—U.S. Chancery,
Office of the Political Counselor
16 February, 0929 Hours (GMT+5:00)
“Where are you going?” Political Counselor T. Lindsay McColl demanded when he caught Riess halfway out the door.
“The Ambassador wants to see me,” Riess said.
“Why?”
“Didn’t say.”
McColl’s face compressed, as if squeezing in upon itself with displeasure, and it made his cheeks color, and Riess had the thought that it made the man look like a giant lollipop in a suit, lanky, lean, with a big red head.
“You’re spending far too much time with him,” McColl said. “You’ve got work to do here.”
Riess nodded, but said nothing, waiting for McColl to realize that was because there was nothing else to say, and no way that McColl could justify keeping the Ambassador waiting. It took McColl four seconds to reach the same conclusion, whereupon his face seemed to tighten even further before relaxing.
“Go,” McColl said. “But you’ve got work to do here, don’t you forget. You need to deliver that démarche on the U.S. candidate to the Agency for Cotton Project Implementation by the end of the day.”
“I thought it might be useful if I sent over a copy of the resume along with the talking points,” Riess replied. “Then suggest that I could make myself available if they had any questions.”
“We want to be responsive to Washington, Charles.” The condescension in his voice was cloying. “And make sure you have the reporting cable about the meeting on the Ambassador’s desk by COB.”
“Yes, sir,” Riess said, and slipped out the door, shutting it behind him and hearing the lock snap in place. He went the fifteen feet down the hallway to the security checkpoint and the Marine standing guard there, swiped his pass in the reader, listened as the locks snapped back in the access door. He pushed through, out of the Political/Economic Section, turning through the Public Affairs Section and nearly bumping into Lydia Straight as she emerged from Cultural Affairs Office with Emily Cachet, the CAO. He hit a second checkpoint, swiped through again, deeper into the building, passing the Warden’s office and yet more guards and another access door, which led to Tower’s domain of spooks and spies. He’d never been through that door, and never expected to be, either.
The last time he’d been home, he’d gone to the movies, seen some thriller where a secret agent had led the Marines on a merry chase through the halls of one U.S. embassy or another. He’d laughed so hard tears had run down his face at the ridiculousness of it all. Forget the fact that the Marines in question had been armed to the teeth with M-16s and M-89s, body-armored and laden with grenades—to Riess’ knowledge, there were perhaps a half-dozen weapons available to the Marines on post, and if even one of them needed to be drawn for active use, the Gunney in question would have demanded written permission from everyone up to and including the Ambassador himself—not even the Vice President of the United States could move through an embassy with such freedom. There were places in the building that Riess had never seen and never would see, and that was called security, and that was the way it was.
A last checkpoint, this time with two more Marines, and he was in the office of the Chief of Mission, waiting in the secretarial pool. He didn’t wait long.
The door of Garret’s office opened within a minute of his arrival, and the Ambassador emerged with Aaron Tower, both men looking grim. Tower, like Garret, was a big man, perhaps ten years younger, in his mid-forties, blond, and perpetually slouched. Tower acknowledged Riess with a nod, then turned back to the Ambassador.
“I should know more in the next few hours,” Tower said.
“Keep me posted.”
“Oh, I will, believe me.” Tower turned toward Riess. “Chuck.”
“Sir.”
Riess followed the Ambassador into his office. It was, as far as Riess knew, the biggest office in the building, with a view of the garden from the three windows that overlooked the chancery grounds. The desk was large enough to handle a computer, credenza, telephones, and an endless supply of papers, with a leather-backed executive chair for the Ambassador to park himself in while working. A round table, currently bare, was positioned off in the corner. The couch and four chairs in the center of the room were for more informal meetings. From a flagpole in the far corner hung an American flag, anchoring the requisite glory wall of photographs, the History of Kenneth Garret, spanning a career of thirty-plus years and five presidents. Shots of the Ambassador with Zinni at CENTCOM and Yeltsin at the Kremlin and with the President on Air Force One, and others, the faces of people less famous but no less important in Garret’s life. On the desk were an additional two framed photographs, one of Garret’s daughter at her wedding, the second of his son’s family, including Garret’s two grandchildren.