Private Wars (25 page)

“We’re not talking about her,” Zahidov said. “We’re talking about Ruslan. You’re going to tell me where he went, who his contacts are.”

Chace tried to laugh, a sound that came out like a croak. “Little Sevya, she’ll find two dozen more just like you but younger, ones that don’t need yohimbe to keep them going at night.”

He brought his fist up again, and she braced for the blow, but he didn’t strike. “Where did he go? What was the route? Was there a second helicopter?”

“Maybe he went to see his sister.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

Chace grinned at him, feeling blood rolling off her lower lip. “To get shit on his dick.”

It took him a second to parse the language, and then Zahidov roared, throwing down the pipe so it clattered on the floor, ringing throughout the room. He punched her in the side, grabbing hold of her hair, shouting in Uzbek. Chace tried to shift forward, to get to her feet again, and this time he shoved her, and she went down face-first, feeling the cement ripping her skin. He was still shouting, and she saw the bruiser’s—Tozim’s—feet coming around, the Adidas sneakers he was wearing navy blue and new. There was a clattering of keys, and Chace tried to rise, then felt the air being crushed out of her as someone, Tozim or the older one or Zahidov himself, bore down on the chair.

They freed one of her hands, then twisted it, cuffing it to her other wrist before unlocking the second set. The chair was knocked away, she heard it bounce, then slide, and the bruiser jerked her to her feet, then dragged her to the table.

Zahidov was still swearing at her in Uzbek, yanking off his jacket. The older man had moved around to the other side of the table, and he grabbed her wrists by the chain of the handcuffs, yanking her forward. Chace twisted, trying to roll, and felt Tozim’s hands on her shoulders, pinning her down.

She felt another pair of hands on her skin, Zahidov’s, and they ran along her sides, down to her hips, and she howled in outrage, kicking back at him. Through her blurred vision she saw the metal door past the older man slam open, two figures, out of focus. One stayed outside, turning away, but the other entered, big, blond, out of focus, in a suit like the others but somehow not like the others.

The man said something in Uzbek, and everything in the room froze. The blond man spoke a second time, more bite in the words, and the hands holding her down left her body. First the bruiser, Tozim, then the older man, and then, finally, Zahidov.

Chace tried to right herself at the table. She heard herself wheezing for breath.

The blond man cast his eye around the room, and through the distortion of her vision, Chace thought she saw naked disgust on his face. He pointed in the direction of the video camera, speaking once more. Zahidov came past Chace, caught in her periphery, smoothing his shirt and tie. He spoke to Tozim, and Tozim moved to the camera.

Chace pushed herself upright, trying to stand, and the pain of using her feet was too much to bear, and she dropped again, trying to catch the table to arrest the fall, and missing. She hit the floor on her side, rocking back and forth.

More words in Uzbek, the new man speaking to Zahidov, furious. Zahidov responded, his voice rising, and then the man shouted, and whatever the debate was ended then, because there was nothing more said. Chace lifted her head, trying to see what was happening, watched as Zahidov stormed out of the room, the other two men following in his wake.

Leaving the new man, the blond man, to kneel down beside her as he removed his coat. He wrapped it around her shoulders, and Chace’s mind flickered on the thought that this, too, might be a trick, some mind game played by Zahidov. She tried to pull away, but the man took hold of her upper arms, then closed the coat around her front.

“You’re a fucking mess,” the man said. “Do you think you can walk?”

Chace blinked at him, perplexed, then realized he’d actually spoken in English, his accent American.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

The man frowned, drawing creases along his face.

“You’re going to need to try,” he said.

Chace nodded, and the man slipped an arm around her waist, helping her to her feet. The pain was as intense as before, and Chace gasped and faltered, but he caught her, pulling her upright again. It felt like she was walking on a thousand splinters of glass, but somehow she managed to stay on her feet this time, using the man as a crutch. Slowly he began walking her to the door.

“I’ve got a car outside. Just make it to the car, hon, you can do that, can’t you?”

Chace nodded again.

They entered a hallway, now empty, then reached a flight of stairs. The stairs were hard, and it seemed to Chace it took them an eternity to climb them together, coming through a door and into another hallway. Like the one below, this one was empty.

It took another eternity to make it down the hall, turn, and then reach the exit of the building.

The sun was out, shockingly bright to Chace’s eyes, and it was cold, colder than it had been in the basement, and she felt it sinking through her bare legs, striking for bone. The car was a Mercedes-Benz, old and dented along the front panel, and the man guided her to it, then opened the rear door and helped her inside. He shut the door, and Chace lay down on the backseat, shivering. She heard the driver’s door open, then slam shut, and the engine started, and she felt the vibration through her whole body. The car started to move.

Chace forced herself upright, catching a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and not recognizing the woman she saw there at all. The right side of her face was scraped and caked with dried blood, and her eye had swollen closed. Her lower lip had split, and a bruise of angry purple and red was glowing on her left cheek. Her hair was stringy, matted with blood and dirt.

She looked out the window, at the Interior Ministry, wondering how she’d gotten out of there alive.

Standing in the entrance, watching her go, she saw Ahtam Zahidov, and it looked to her like he was wondering the same thing.

CHAPTER 30

London—Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops

21 February, 0649 Hours GMT

Crocker was sitting at his desk, watching a
cigarette burning down in the ashtray, when the red phone rang. He looked across to where Seale was sitting, waiting with him, then answered the call. He listened to the Duty Ops Officer, asked him to repeat, then thanked him and hung up.

“She’s alive,” Crocker told Seale. “Your man found her at the Interior Ministry, brought her to the British Embassy. A doctor is tending her now, they’ll fly her home as soon as they think she can make the trip.”

Seale nodded, clearly sharing Crocker’s exhaustion, if not his immediate sense of relief. “They were working her over?”

“I believe the term they use is ‘interrogation.’ ”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that she won’t be traveling until tomorrow at the earliest, according to the Station Number One.”

“Could’ve been worse. My guy could have gotten there too late.”

They were each silent for several seconds, then Seale sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Paul.”

“Hmm?”

“We have to figure this thing out, what you and I are doing, how we’re going to trust each other.”

“We don’t have to trust each other, Julian.”

“Look, I know you were tight with Cheng. And I know you don’t trust me. But if you’d come to me at the start of this, told me you had an agent running in Tashkent, it would have saved a shitload of grief.”

Crocker shook his head, then stubbed the half-dead cigarette out and started a new one, this one to actually smoke. The relief he felt regarding Chace was beyond words, and maybe, because of that, he was less inclined to be combative, or even antagonistic.

“It was never about Tashkent,” Crocker said.

“You were jockeying for Ruslan—”

“You think Ruslan was
our
idea? You’re the ones with an air base in the south of the country, you’re the ones who negotiated the overflight and land-use deals, not us. The last member of our team to speak out about Uzbekistan got canned, remember? McInnes was out of his job within a week of his outburst.”

Seale frowned.

“This didn’t start with us,” Crocker said. “It started with you, in your house.”

“You should have come to me with it anyway.”

“As Barclay has been anxious to point out to me in the past, I don’t work for you.”

“No, but you don’t work against us, either.”

“Not if I can help it. The plan was never to screw you or yours, Julian.” Crocker picked up his internal line, punched a key, waited for a response. “Escort out for Mr. Seale.”

“I’m leaving, am I?”

“For the time being.” Crocker indicated the ceiling with his cigarette. “It was never about Tashkent, Julian. Tashkent was the excuse.”

Seale looked up, toward the sixth floor, then looked back to Crocker, then shook his head. He put his hands on the arms of his chair, pushed himself to his feet.

“I’m glad your girl is okay.”

“Her name’s Chace.” Crocker tapped ash into the tray. “I owe you for this.”

Seale smiled. “I know you do. And I know you’ll be good for it.”

“I will.”

“You mind if I ask? What’re you going to do with Fincher?”

“We’ll find a Station for him. He was fine as a Station man. He just wasn’t made to be a Minder.”

“The Thousandth Man.”

Crocker raised an eyebrow. “Kipling?”

“Yeah, you know the poem? ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide the shame or mocking or laughter, but the Thousandth Man will stand by your side to the gallows-foot and after.’ I had to memorize it in the Boy Scouts.”

“You were a Boy Scout?”

“I was an
Eagle
Scout, mister, so don’t fuck with me.”

“Never again. Neither you nor I would count Fincher in that number.”

“No,” Seale agreed.

There was a rap on the office door, and then it opened, revealing one of the wardens from downstairs. Crocker nodded to him, then got to his feet and offered Seale his hand. Whatever the reason, it was clear then that he and COS London had reached a mutual understanding.

“When I get Chace’s after-action, I’ll let you know,” Crocker told him.

“It’d be appreciated.” Seale turned for the door and the waiting warden. “Should’ve been called ‘The Thousandth Woman,’ huh?”

He left, the warden closing the door after them.

Crocker turned his chair, opening the blinds to look out at the dawn over London. The sky had already begun to lighten, and the clouds were low, and behind the tinted windows, they looked a gangrenous green. He snorted, swiveled back around to his desk, wondering when Kate would arrive and how long after that he could coerce her into preparing a pot of coffee, and there was a knock on his door.

“Come,” Crocker said, then got to his feet as Sir Walter Seccombe entered the room, umbrella and hat in his hand and a smile on his face. “Sir. Can I offer you a seat?”

“No time, I’m afraid. I have to brief the Foreign Secretary so he can inform the Prime Minister and the Cabinet. But I wanted to stop by and let you know how things are shaking out. You still have your job, Paul.”

“I’m relieved.”

“Sir Frances will be tendering his resignation this morning, with no explanation given. Best that way, for all concerned, I should think. Certainly he has no desire to explain how it was that four Starstreak MANPADs ended up in Uzbekistan. Nor does HMG wish to see a public inquiry into the same.”

“And our involvement in Uzbekistan?”

“Will be kept quiet as well.”

“I see.”

Seccombe lifted his chin slightly, regarding him with a smaller smile this time. “Any news on Chace?”

“She was taken by the Interior Ministry, but we’ve got her back now. She should be home in the next few days.”

“And you’ll reinstate her?”

“If she still wants it.” Crocker ran a hand through his hair. “The irony is, she’s going to come back thinking she blew the mission. She doesn’t know that she did exactly what you wanted.”

“This wasn’t solely about Barclay. It began exactly as I presented it.”

“When did it change?”

“When the Prime Minister thought better of antagonizing the White House. And as Chace was running without contact, we couldn’t rightly abort the op, could we?”

“We could’ve,” Crocker said. “If I’d notified the Station.”

“Hmm,” Seccombe said. “I’m afraid I didn’t think of that.”

Liar,
Crocker thought.

“It all worked out in the end, regardless, Paul. I think you’ll get along well with your new C. You share a great many traits.”

“It’s confirmed, then?”

“Not officially. Alison will step up as acting C following the resignation. Should confirm the posting by the end of the week.”

“She’ll need a Deputy Chief.”

“Yes,” Seccombe said, nodding. “You should probably talk to Alison about that.”