“Interesting set of numbers, Paul,” Rayburn commented.
“Thought you might say something like that.” Crocker gestured to one of the chairs away from the desk, then went to his door, opening it again, and asking Kate to bring coffee. When he’d turned back, Rayburn was seated. He was a smaller man than Crocker, and even more slender of build, and in all manner quieter as well. He smiled as Crocker pulled up a chair opposite him, staying out from behind his desk, so they could speak as equals.
Kate entered with two cups of coffee, black for Crocker, light and sweetened for Rayburn, then stepped out again without a word, shutting the door behind her.
“Those four missiles have a history,” Rayburn said.
“They’ve certainly traveled.”
“More than you know. I did some digging, then checked at the MOD with a source there. With help, I was able to retrace their journey, or at least a portion of it.”
“Enlighten me.”
Rayburn sipped his coffee, made a face. He set his cup back in its saucer, and set the saucer down on the edge of the small coffee table in front of them.
“The four missiles entered service in July of 1998, and were stored at Her Majesty’s Naval Base Devonport. On 11 January 2002, the four missiles in question were transferred, with other material, to RAF Brize Norton. Brize Norton was flying supplies and equipment to the operation in Afghanistan.”
“I’m aware how it works, Simon.”
“I know you are, Paul, but there’s a point to this. The Americans worked long and hard to arrange overflight and the use of two bases in Pakistan. The transport from Brize Norton ends up there, offloading. At which point Islamabad Station takes possession of the missiles.”
Crocker almost choked on his coffee. “What?”
Rayburn nodded in sympathy. “You didn’t know.”
“You’re telling me I could have just rung Islamabad Station, they would have told me they had these missiles?”
“If you had done so in February of 2002, perhaps. As it is, the Station only held them for a few weeks, at the most. It seems the four Starstreaks made their way rather quickly over the border into Afghanistan, to be delivered to the Northern Alliance.”
Crocker suppressed a growl. “They weren’t?”
“I couldn’t find any report nor any record of their successful delivery. Nor could I find any report nor any record of their use. If the CIA intelligence is correct, they were held and somehow acquired by one of the warlords in the north, and then sold. They very well could have been sold two or three or four times in the interim before ending up across the border again and in Uzbekistan.”
Rayburn went silent, giving Crocker a second look of pained sympathy. He risked a second sip of the coffee, and made the same face he had the first time.
“Oh, that is just awful,” he murmured.
Crocker ignored him, thinking. In 2002, the Station Number One in Islamabad had been a man named Derek Moss. Moss had been intimately involved in operations in Afghanistan at the time, by necessity—SIS had no working stations in the country, nor any reliable intelligence on the ground at the time of the Coalition action. In the wake of 9/11, Moss and his Number Two, Richard Barton, had spent more and more time crossing the border, a dangerous pursuit even during a time of peace. In a time of war, it had proved fatal.
Both men had been killed in the same ambush in March of 2002. Crocker had been D-Ops at the time, Weldon had been the Deputy Chief, and C had been Sir Wilson Stanton-Davies, Barclay’s immediate predecessor.
“You didn’t authorize it?” Rayburn asked.
Crocker refocused his attention, putting it back in the present and on Rayburn. “Simon.”
“You’ve been known to play fast and loose with the rules in the past, Paul.”
“Not that fast and loose. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t have authorized the transfer of four Starstreak missiles.”
“Someone did. The DC? C?”
“I can’t see Sir Wilson doing it, not without informing either one of us. And Weldon would barely change his tie without clearing it with both C and the FCO first.”
“Someone outside the Firm, then.”
“Would have to be, and someone fairly senior, at that. Derek Moss knew his job. He would never have undertaken an operation without informing me, not an operation like that.”
“Pity you can’t ask him about it.”
Crocker nodded, lapsing into silence and thought once again.
“One more thing for you, tangential, really, but it just came in from the Station in Tashkent.”
Oh, Christ, they’ve made Chace, Crocker thought. “Oh?”
“Craig Gillard is reporting that President Malikov suffered a cerebral vascular accident yesterday. He’s in hospital, and it looks severe. Word is, he’s lost all function along one side, and that he’s nonverbal.”
The relief Crocker felt was short-lived. Chace hadn’t been blown, but if Malikov was about to check out, it meant she had even less time than any of them had imagined to get Ruslan out of the country. He only hoped that Chace knew about Malikov’s condition.
“Media reported it?” Crocker asked.
“Nothing as yet. I suspect they’re trying to keep it hushed up until they get the succession details worked out.”
“Most likely.”
“It’ll be Sevara,” Rayburn said. “She’ll need two or three weeks to get the DPMs aboard, as well as backing from the White House.”
“There’s the brother.”
“Be serious, Paul. The brother has about as much influence as his father does at this point.”
Crocker didn’t say anything. Rayburn set down his coffee again and got to his feet.
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help about the Starstreaks. If I dig up anything more, I’ll pass it along.”
“Simon?”
“Hmm?”
“Who else knows you’re looking at this?”
Rayburn shrugged. “Nancy. My contact at MOD. Why?”
“I’m not worried about your PA, but your contact at the Ministry of Defense, will he keep his mouth closed?”
“My contact at the MOD is a she, Paul,” Rayburn corrected mildly. “And she understands the necessity of discretion.”
“Good.”
“You don’t want anyone to know you’re looking into this?”
“Not yet.”
Rayburn shrugged a second time, as if the whole cloak-and-dagger aspect of their business was beyond boredom to him. It was Crocker’s suspicion that to Rayburn, that was indeed the case. He was more interested in solving the acrostic than in solving the murder, so to speak.
“Won’t breathe a word of it,” Rayburn said.
Crocker escorted him to the door, letting him out, then closing it once more and returning to his desk. He lit a cigarette, and turned to look out at the river and the rain.
Before he’d become C, Frances Barclay had chaired the Joint Intelligence Committee. It was a position of power, and one that allowed him to liaise with personnel in both the Foreign and Home Offices, as well as the Ministry of Defense. It was an associated SIS position, with constant and regular access to the business of the Firm.
It was exactly the kind of position, in fact, that would allow for the authorization and transfer of four Starstreak MANPADs to Islamabad Station, and with enough clout to require the Station’s silence in the process.
Crocker wondered if he wasn’t manufacturing the theory wholly, rather than tailoring it to fit the known facts. After all, the only thing he truly knew was that Barclay had asked him about a MANPAD alert coming out of Chechnya, an alert of which Crocker himself had been unaware. It was circumstantial in the extreme.
But Barclay did have both means and opportunity to initiate the transfer, and to do so at a time when taking such a risk wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. Motive remained the question.