bloody given moment than we do.”
Then he went to his office, to find Kate waiting for him, and before he’d even come through the door she was up and coming around from behind her desk to intercept him.
“Bloody Box,” Crocker said.
Kate cringed and motioned toward the inner office, where the door was ajar, and Crocker groaned inwardly.
“How long has he been waiting?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“I assume you cleared my desk.”
Kate looked indignant and didn’t bother to respond.
“Coffee,” Crocker told her, and then pushed his door open the rest of the way, to see David Kinney seated in one of the chairs facing his desk. He paused again, taking a breath, reminding himself that Kinney was good at his job. Kinney’s people were good at theirs.
But that didn’t change the fact that Crocker hated the man’s living guts, and the feeling was mutual, and their encounters were always exercises in barely restrained civility. Tuesday had only made matters worse.
Interservice rivalry had existed from the word go, when the Special Operations Executive had become SIS following the Second World War. Where SIS was responsible to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the Security Services, more commonly known by their short-form official mailing address, or their “Box,” reported to the Home Office. In issues of security and domain, SIS and Box were almost constantly tripping over each other’s toes. An SIS operation in Gibraltar, for instance, would lead to Box screaming that Crocker had overstepped his bounds—Gib still being viewed in the Home Office as “home territory.”
The legacy of Empire.
Kinney didn’t rise and didn’t acknowledge Crocker’s entrance. Crocker removed his jacket, hung it on its peg at the stand, then took his seat behind the desk. The desk was bare, and he appreciated Kate’s efforts. He hadn’t left anything compromising out—he never left the office with anything on his desk that should be in a safe—but all the same, it gave him comfort knowing that Kinney wasn’t sneaking a peek at anything he shouldn’t.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Crocker said. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have stayed out longer.”
Kinney’s smile was sincere, in that Crocker saw in it the man’s desire to gut him. “It’s all right, I could use the pause. Been running nonstop since Chace’s little bloodbath.”
“Better late than never. What can I do for you, Mr. Kinney?”
“We located a flat in Southwark,” Kinney said. “Where one of them staged from, looks like. We’re working back from the lease, have a list of names. We’re running those down but don’t expect to find much on them, obviously. But there’s the issue of money, how it was supplied to them, and I thought you might like to lend a hand there.”
“Meaning you’ve hit a dead end.”
“Meaning the inquiries we wish to have made need to be made in Germany and Greece.” Kinney pulled a folded sheet from inside his jacket, set it on the desk at the edge so Crocker had to lean forward to take it. “We’d appreciate it if you looked into it.”
Crocker took the paper, opened it, reading names and numbers.
“Normally I’d have done this through channels,” Kinney told him. “But time is of the essence, I’m sure you agree.”
Crocker grunted, set the paper back down, and got up from his chair. “I’ll put people on it today.”
Kinney rose, taking his time about it. “And you’ll let us know, of course.”
“I thought it went without saying.”
“No, Mr. Crocker, with you, I like to hear the words straight from your mouth.”
“Any findings will be delivered to your people.”
“Nice to cooperate, isn’t it?” Kinney said. “Nice being friendly.”
“Yes,” Crocker said, holding the door for him. “It’s always nice to play make-believe. Kate will see you out.”
As soon as Kinney was through, he slammed it closed behind him.
7
Israel—West Bank, Ma’le
Then he went to his office, to find Kate waiting for him, and before he’d even come through the door she was up and coming around from behind her desk to intercept him.
“Bloody Box,” Crocker said.
Kate cringed and motioned toward the inner office, where the door was ajar, and Crocker groaned inwardly.
“How long has he been waiting?” he asked.
“Twenty minutes.”
“I assume you cleared my desk.”
Kate looked indignant and didn’t bother to respond.
“Coffee,” Crocker told her, and then pushed his door open the rest of the way, to see David Kinney seated in one of the chairs facing his desk. He paused again, taking a breath, reminding himself that Kinney was good at his job. Kinney’s people were good at theirs.
But that didn’t change the fact that Crocker hated the man’s living guts, and the feeling was mutual, and their encounters were always exercises in barely restrained civility. Tuesday had only made matters worse.
Interservice rivalry had existed from the word go, when the Special Operations Executive had become SIS following the Second World War. Where SIS was responsible to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the Security Services, more commonly known by their short-form official mailing address, or their “Box,” reported to the Home Office. In issues of security and domain, SIS and Box were almost constantly tripping over each other’s toes. An SIS operation in Gibraltar, for instance, would lead to Box screaming that Crocker had overstepped his bounds—Gib still being viewed in the Home Office as “home territory.”
The legacy of Empire.
Kinney didn’t rise and didn’t acknowledge Crocker’s entrance. Crocker removed his jacket, hung it on its peg at the stand, then took his seat behind the desk. The desk was bare, and he appreciated Kate’s efforts. He hadn’t left anything compromising out—he never left the office with anything on his desk that should be in a safe—but all the same, it gave him comfort knowing that Kinney wasn’t sneaking a peek at anything he shouldn’t.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Crocker said. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have stayed out longer.”
Kinney’s smile was sincere, in that Crocker saw in it the man’s desire to gut him. “It’s all right, I could use the pause. Been running nonstop since Chace’s little bloodbath.”
“Better late than never. What can I do for you, Mr. Kinney?”
“We located a flat in Southwark,” Kinney said. “Where one of them staged from, looks like. We’re working back from the lease, have a list of names. We’re running those down but don’t expect to find much on them, obviously. But there’s the issue of money, how it was supplied to them, and I thought you might like to lend a hand there.”
“Meaning you’ve hit a dead end.”
“Meaning the inquiries we wish to have made need to be made in Germany and Greece.” Kinney pulled a folded sheet from inside his jacket, set it on the desk at the edge so Crocker had to lean forward to take it. “We’d appreciate it if you looked into it.”
Crocker took the paper, opened it, reading names and numbers.
“Normally I’d have done this through channels,” Kinney told him. “But time is of the essence, I’m sure you agree.”
Crocker grunted, set the paper back down, and got up from his chair. “I’ll put people on it today.”
Kinney rose, taking his time about it. “And you’ll let us know, of course.”
“I thought it went without saying.”
“No, Mr. Crocker, with you, I like to hear the words straight from your mouth.”
“Any findings will be delivered to your people.”
“Nice to cooperate, isn’t it?” Kinney said. “Nice being friendly.”
“Yes,” Crocker said, holding the door for him. “It’s always nice to play make-believe. Kate will see you out.”
As soon as Kinney was through, he slammed it closed behind him.
7
Israel—West Bank, Ma’le
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