Greg Rucka - The last run

"Very well," C said, when the Deputy Chief had finished. "If that's everything, I think we can all get back to work."

Szurko sprang up immediately, sending crumbs from the croissant he'd managed between gulps of tea showering onto the couch and, in part, Crocker. "Paul, oh, damn, sorry," he apologized. "Sorry."

"It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"I really am, really am sorry."

Crocker shook his head, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. Szurko was, by far, the oddest figure in the room, and at thirty-eight years old and standing five feet five inches, also the youngest and the shortest. Unlike Crocker and Rayburn, he never wore a suit or a tie, instead dressing, as he called it, "casual Friday," in jeans or slacks, often with a button-down shirt, but sometimes, when it actually was Friday, with a T-shirt. His sense of style, or lack thereof, had begun to infect the rest of his directorate, and more and more often, Crocker felt himself out of place in his three-piece.

It would have been easy for Crocker to resent Szurko, but he didn't. Intelligence had to change with the times, it had to not only keep up, but to get ahead. Szurko, with his BlackBerry and his ever-present laptop, was the face of the new SIS, the next generation coming up through the ranks. While Rayburn and Crocker still brought paper to the daily meetings, Szurko avoided doing so if at all possible. If the technology and the clothing had been an affectation, a performance, it would have been different, but neither were, and the man was decidedly brilliant at his job, something that even Rayburn, who had been D-Int for several years prior to his promotion to Deputy Chief, readily admitted. The only real problem with Szurko, and Crocker had seen it before with other exceptionally gifted analysts, was that the man didn't actually seem to be entirely with them in the room at times.

"I did have one more thing," Crocker told C. "This morning Chace submitted her resignation from the Special Section to me. She's asking to be moved to the Ops Room staff, into Mission Planning."

"That'll hurt," Szurko said immediately, more to himself than to the others. "That'll hurt a lot, actually."

C glanced to D-Int, then to Crocker. "Has something happened?"

"She feels it's time. Past time, actually, and she may be right."

"You'll want Poole as Head of Section?"

"And move Lankford to Minder Two, yes."

"When does she plan to leave?"

"She doesn't seem to be in a hurry, said she'll stay on until we find a new Minder Three."

"Is there anyone in the pipeline?" Rayburn asked.

"I haven't had a chance to check with the School as yet," Crocker answered. "She informed me of the decision just before I came up for the meeting."

"There won't be," Szurko said. "I was looking at scores this morning, there's no one in the current class. Or in the previous class. Or the class before that one, actually."

"Thank you, Daniel." C got to her feet, and Crocker and Rayburn followed suit. "I think that's all, gentlemen. Paul, if you'll stay for a moment, please."

Szurko and Rayburn headed out of the office, but not before Crocker heard D-Int say, again, "That'll hurt."

When the door had closed, C said, "How much will it hurt us, Paul?"

"It'll depend on how long it takes me to find a replacement for the Section."

"That's not precisely what I'm asking. Can we afford to lose Chace?"

Crocker, who had been asking himself the same question ever since Chace had handed over her letter of resignation, said, "I don't think it's a question of that, ma'am. She's made her decision."

"Again, you're not answering me."

"She's one of the best Special Operations Officers working anywhere in the world today, despite what she may think of herself at the moment. Can we afford to lose her? No. Have we lost her already? In everything but body, yes, I think she's already out the door."

C frowned as she settled behind her desk. "Did you try to argue her out of it?"

"I considered it, but you didn't see her. She's made up her mind. And, to be honest, she made some very good points, not only that her departure was due, but that it was overdue, perhaps. She's been in the Section since she was twenty-four. That's a long time for anyone to be a Minder. In fact, I think it may be a record."

"Overdue, you say."

"She thinks so."

"Sometimes we stay too long," C said. "She does understand that Mission Planning is technically a step down on the career track? You didn't suggest a position in Whitehall? I should think it would be rather easy to have her assigned a position on the JIC as soon as one opens. That would preserve her prospects for future promotion, at the least."

"I can make the suggestion, but I doubt she'll entertain it. She wants to stay in the Ops Room."

C gazed at him for several seconds, her expression unreadable. Alison Gordon-Palmer-if the rumors about the New Year's Honors List were true, it would soon be Dame Alison-perhaps three years Crocker's senior, with limp brown hair that, like Crocker's own, was beginning to streak with gray. Her attire was always professional and conservative, today the blouse ivory, the long skirt a rich, royal blue, matching the blazer that hung on the stand behind her desk. As usual, she'd eschewed makeup, something she resorted to applying only while being ferried in her Bentley to Downing Street.

Rayburn was smart, and Szurko unquestionably, eccentrically brilliant, but Gordon-Palmer, as Crocker had learned from personal experience, operated from a cunning all her own. It wasn't simply her understanding of the Firm, of how SIS worked, that had made her C; she understood the political game as well, in a way that Crocker had never been able to master. It was a game she had played so deftly, it had cost the previous C his crown.

"Very well," C said finally. "If that's everything, Paul?"

"Yes, ma'am," Crocker said, and he left her office to return to his own, knowing full well it wasn't Tara Chace his C believed had stayed on too long.

The woman who answered the door was stocky, pleasant, wearing a bright floral print apron and a just as pleasant and bright smile.

"My name's Tara," Chace said. "I called ahead about seeing your father-in-law?"

"Oh, that's right, come in, please do." She stepped back, allowing Chace through the doorway and into the narrow hall of the narrow house, shutting the door after her, and then literally having to squeeze past her again to lead the way into the front room. The whole house was filled with the smell of bacon, a late fry-up breakfast, and Chace could see boxes of Christmas decorations set out, waiting to be disinterred and mounted.

The woman offered her hand. "Dorothy Newsom, a pleasure. Da's upstairs. I should check on him first, if you don't mind?"

"No, I'm happy to wait," Chace replied.

Dorothy Newsom smiled, unfastening her apron as she stepped back into the hallway. Chace heard her climbing the stairs, treading heavily, and from above the sound of a television, audible but incomprehensible, through the floor. She moved further into the room, taking in the decorations, the various photographs on the mantel and walls. Dorothy and her husband had three children, it seemed, the eldest somewhere in mid-teens, if the pictures were recent. Chace didn't see any pictures she thought might be Jeremy Newsom.

The footsteps descended, as noisily as they had climbed, and Dorothy returned. The smile, this time, seemed more forced.

"You said you would want to speak with him alone, Miss Chace?"

"Yes, if that's possible."

"He's… he's having a harder time this morning, I'm not sure how with us he'll be today. Some of his days are better than others, you understand. Some days… his mind wanders."