Greg Rucka - A gentleman_s game

Barclay adjusted his tie and coat, and the other men rose, waiting for him to lead the way out of the office. Crocker took up the rear, and before he exited, Barclay rested a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"I won't have you fighting me on this," Barclay said softly. "Not on this."

"We don't know what 'this' is yet," Crocker said. "Sir."

Barclay straightened, the smile thin on his bland face, his lips stretched, almost colorless. "This is your only warning. If you're wise, you'll heed it."

Then Barclay passed through the door, leaving Crocker to follow.

London-Vauxhall Cross, Office of D-Ops 07 August 1807 GMT Normally, access to D-Ops was restricted. Those who wanted face time with Paul Crocker had to get past his personal assistant, Kate Cooke, and her desk in Crocker's outer office first, a labor most of the Intelligence staff considered not worth the result. Those who came to gaze upon Kate herself, widely considered the finest bird in SIS, left disappointed. Kate guarded her master's door with the same tenacious ferocity that the Royal Marines employed at embassy gates throughout the world.

Crocker had been assigned his first personal assistant immediately upon his promotion to Director of Operations, a fifty-six-year-old matron by the name of Gloria Bowen who had spent the preceding eleven years as lead pool secretary to the Joint Intelligence Committee. Gloria didn't last the week, unable to keep pace with the spastic tempo of the office and, more critically, the legendary Crocker misanthropy.

None of the six assistants to follow fared any better, all chewed up and spat out over the next two months, until Personnel, housed on the fourth floor, found itself on the verge of conceding defeat.

Kate Cooke fell into the job almost by accident, jumping several more senior assistants in the process. She'd come to SIS as a clerk, working as a junior secretary on the South American Desk, where she was primarily responsible for trafficking the reports, memos, and pacts that made their way through the Intelligence infrastructure. Shortly after joining the SA Desk, she had been asked to rewrite a report delivered by the Argentine Number Two on possible troop movement in the Falklands region; she had objected. The objection turned into a shouting match, whereupon Kate had left the office, with report in hand, and walked it directly to Simon Rayburn herself.

Rayburn, about to brief the MOD on the very subject, had been grateful. Kate's Head of Section had not, and the next day she found herself transferred to SE-1168, Joint Operation Archives, housed off-site in a dismal basement in Whitehall.

It was Rayburn who had urged Kate to apply for the position of Crocker's PA, and it was Rayburn again who had prevailed upon Crocker to give the young woman a chance. Crocker had grudgingly agreed, as had Kate, and throughout their first week together the hallway leading to Crocker's office had echoed with his shouts, growls, and endless demands.

Kate had survived, primarily because she saw right through him, or thought she did. Crocker was demanding, he was overbearing, he was arrogant, he was outright rude, all these things were true. And while these traits sparked fear, loathing, and resentment in nine out of ten SIS staff, Kate didn't mind them in the least. She understood Crocker as a zealot, and her way to deal with him was to be just as zealous in her job in turn. He did not frighten her, and both understood that.

When Francis Barclay had become C, he had invited her to come work for him instead. Kate had politely declined, claiming that she preferred to work directly under a single master rather than on a team.

It was a half-truth. Kate had long ago decided that only two things would move her from her job: Crocker's own departure or a fortuitous marriage to an ungodly wealthy movie star. Since the latter did not seem to be forthcoming, she was content to stay.

"Besides," she'd told Crocker on more than one occasion, "without me, you'd fall apart."

To which Crocker had responded, characteristically, "Shut up." • It didn't surprise Crocker, therefore, to find Kate behind her desk when he entered the outer office after his meeting with C. Saturday early evening, God only knew how long it had taken her to make it to the office, but there she was, working away at her terminal, and the coffeemaker on the supply cabinet behind her was on, the carafe still filling.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I was bored," Kate said. "Minder One is waiting in your office."

Crocker glanced to the open door, saw Chace seated in front of his desk in the inner office, a file open on her lap. "How long has she been there?"

"She was here when I arrived." Kate stopped typing long enough to look from the monitor to him. "I made coffee."

"So you're good for something. Pull everything we've got on the HUM, Harakat ul-Mujihadin, including HUM-AA, and get it on my desk. Then get onto Cheng at Grosvenor Square, tell her we need to meet."

"She already called for you. She's with her ambassador until late, but she says she'll call when she's finished."

Crocker grunted, stepped into his office, and closed the door. Grunting again, this time in acknowledgment to Chace, he moved around behind his desk, taking off his suit coat and hanging it on the wobbly wooden stand in the corner. The inner office wasn't much larger than the outer, and spare. The desk was old, pitted beneath the blotter, its surface neat with everything in its place-two phones, one black for general calls, one red, used for urgent internal communications. With the press of a button, Crocker could reach the Ops Room, the Deputy Chief, Rayburn, C, or, should the situation warrant it, the Special Projects Team, SIS's commando unit. A terminal for use on the in-house network balanced the desk, and a small stack of folders waited in the in-tray.

Aside from the coat stand, there wasn't much more to see. A safe stood by the door, and beside it a rickety bookshelf with the latest editions of the various Jane's titles. A framed black-and-white print of a stylized Chinese dragon hung on the wall behind the desk, and two chairs sat opposite it, with a third backed into the far corner, beneath the window. Through the glass, a view of the Thames, and when Crocker looked, he could see thin black smoke still rising from Central London.

He took his seat, fishing his cigarettes and lighter from his vest pocket. He watched Chace as he lit one, and she closed the folder she had been reading and settled it back atop the stack in his tray. The folder was pink, stamped SECRET at the top with a bar code beside it, and beneath that was its title: "Impact Analysis-U.K. Commerce Zimbabwe, Q3-Current."

Crocker exhaled smoke, looking her over, frowning. "Your hands are green," he said.

"I was painting." Chace brushed hair behind an ear. "Who did it?"

"The BBC received a tape, apparently claiming responsibility. Looks like the HUM."

"HUM doesn't play in Western Europe. Certainly never has moved against us."

"I am well aware."

Chace pulled on her lower lip with her teeth for a moment. "You don't buy it?"

"I'd like to hear what the CIA has to say before we start making plans."

Chace nodded. "Lankford and Poole are in the Pit, pawing the ground like irate bulls. They want you to point them at someone."

"Not you?"

Chace shrugged, smiled by way of answer. When she smiled, she looked ten years younger than she truly was, and the weight of the job evaporated for a moment. Crocker saw the expression for what it was. Of course she was pawing the ground, of course she wanted the job. If the day's events had occurred when he had been Minder One, he'd have wanted it, too.

"May not be us, Tara." Crocker tapped the end of his cigarette into the square glass ashtray next to the phones. "Might be a military response."