This time, the urge to laugh was too strong, and Chace didn’t bother to fight it.
CHAPTER 23
London—Vauxhall Cross, Operations Room
20 February, 2324 Hours GMT
Crocker came onto the Ops Room floor, shrugging out of his overcoat, demanding, “What’s the latest?”
“Tashkent Station now confirms that there was an explosion at the home of Ruslan Malikov,” Alexis Ferguson told him from the MCO Desk. “Estimates the blast at twenty past three zone. Several dead, several missing and presumed dead. There’s been no indication if Malikov or his kid is among the fatalities. State-run radio has issued a statement, confirming that there was an explosion, and blaming Hizb-ut-Tahir for the blast.”
From his inside pocket, Crocker found his cigarettes, then abandoned the coat and crossed the room, heading for Alexis. “Anything more?”
“Station Number Two has a man inside the police department who reports that there’s been activity at the NSS, and that both the NSS and the police are engaged in a full-scale search for the perpetrators. Apparently there are two different vehicle descriptions being circulated at the moment, one for a blue Volga, late model, the other for an Audi. It seems they’re searching for both cars, though how they’re connected to the blast, the Station Number Two can’t say.”
“The blast, it wasn’t a car bomb?”
“Unclear one way or the other.”
Crocker nodded, then stepped back, looking up at the plasma wall for a moment before lighting his cigarette. From the Duty Ops Desk, he heard Ron stifling a yawn. He empathized, though only slightly; Ron had relief coming on-shift in two more hours. Crocker, who’d been at home and about to head for bed when the call had come informing him of what had happened in Tashkent, doubted he’d be getting sleep anytime soon.
“You think it’s a coup, sir?” Ron asked him.
“No. Not unless someone’s gone after the President and his daughter as well.”
“No word of that,” Alexis confirmed.
“So no, it’s not a coup.” Crocker frowned, then moved back to the Duty Ops station. “You’ve informed the DC, C, and the FCO?”
“As per usual, yes, sir. C hasn’t arrived yet, but the DC is in her office.”
Crocker lifted up the handset on one of the internal phones, held it out for Ron to take. “Inform her I’m coming up.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to face Alexis. “Signal Tashkent, get the Number One on an open line, and tell him to stay there. Inform him that I want updates every twenty minutes, and have him tell the Number Two that I’m especially interested in the pursuit, and any new information about the vehicles, however minor it may seem. Anything they get on those last, they’re to inform us immediately. I’ll be upstairs.”
“Understood, sir.”
Crocker grabbed his coat, and headed for Alison Gordon-Palmer’s office.
“Would Chace have blown up the house?” the Deputy Chief asked.
“It’s not a bad way to cover one’s tracks,” Crocker told her. “Creates one hell of a mess, and makes it difficult if not impossible to quickly determine if Ruslan and his boy are missing, rather than dead.”
She rested her elbows on her desk, folding her hands one over the other, resting her chin upon them, musing. “So it’s possible she did it.”
“Yes, it’s possible. She’s not one to go big if she can get away with small, but if the opportunity and means presented itself, yes, I can see her doing it.”
“Presuming that Chace is responsible in the first place?”
“I think she is. I think she’s made the lift, and she’s on the run to her RV.”
“But no way to confirm?”
“Not without informing Tashkent Station that Chace is there to begin with, no,” Crocker said. “Though you were right about Seale. I could check with the CIA.”
Alison Gordon-Palmer frowned slightly. “No, let’s keep the Americans out of it for the moment.”
Something in the way she said it struck Crocker as off, but before he could ask the question, the Deputy Chief had continued.
“The blast. Assuming it was Chace, and assuming she did it after getting Ruslan and his son clear, how would she have managed it?”
“Again, I can’t say. We don’t have enough details about the blast, if the house was leveled or if the reports are exaggerated. She was traveling light, and without support, so anything she’s using she must have acquired on the ground.”
She raised an eyebrow at him, and Crocker knew what she wanted to hear.
“It is possible it was a Starstreak missile, yes,” he conceded.
“Which she acquired in Tashkent somehow.”
“She didn’t bring it with her from London.” Crocker shifted position in his chair, leaning forward. “Isn’t it time you told me what you and Sir Walter are up to?”
The Deputy Chief considered, raising her head off her hands, then lowering her arms to lie flat on her desk. Her office, like Crocker’s, was spare, sparsely furnished and sparsely decorated. Unlike Crocker’s desk, though, hers was almost bare as well, devoid of almost all paper, and occupied with only the barest of office essentials.
“Barclay talked to you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “He offered you my job, didn’t he?”
Crocker saw no reason to deny it. “Yes, he did.”
“And you’re willing to burn him?”
“I think that’s evident. And he thinks you and Sir Walter are moving to burn him, doesn’t he? That’s part of what this is about.”
“Paul,” Alison Gordon-Palmer said, “it’s all that this is about.”
He needed a second, which was long enough for the realization to both hit and sicken him.
“It’s a dummy run?” Crocker asked. “I’ve sent Chace on a dummy run?”
“Nothing so crude. If she can get Ruslan and his son out, so much the better.”
“But you’re saying there’s no plan for a coup?”
“Not anymore.”
“What changed?”
“The CIA got wind of it, and bless their souls, they promptly told the White House. And the White House came back to Downing Street and said in no uncertain terms that Sevara Malikov-Ganiev was to be the next President of the Democratic Republic of Uzbekistan.” She straightened in her chair, gauging Crocker’s reaction, seeing the distress. “It hardly matters, Paul.”
“It matters to Chace.”
“What would you have done if I’d told you this four hours ago? You have no contact with her, correct? You wouldn’t have been able to get her to abort even if you wanted to.”
It was true, but it didn’t make Crocker feel any better.
“We’ll get her back, don’t worry,” the Deputy Chief told him. “CIA knows she’s there, they’ll watch out for her.”
“Unless the White House decides otherwise.”
“Instruments of government, Paul. If they bend, break, or discard us, it’s their prerogative.”
“I’m sure that’ll be of some comfort to her daughter, though at the moment, I can’t imagine how.”
The Deputy Chief narrowed her eyes, began to respond, and then her phone rang, so she answered it instead.
It was C, informing them that he was in his office and ready to see them now.
“We’ll be right up, sir,” Alison Gordon-Palmer told him, then replaced the handset carefully in its cradle. “He wants us upstairs.”