Free Private Wars by Greg Rucka Page A

Cabinet meeting at half past.”
    “I could hardly refuse the invitation,” Crocker said. “Certainly not after the Deputy Chief let me know it was coming.”
    “I trust she said no more?”
    “Only to expect your call.”
    “I’m grateful that you’re willing to indulge me.”
    Crocker shook his head slightly, bemused by the inversion. He didn’t know what Seccombe wanted from him, but he was certain there was very little he could offer the PUS in return. Seccombe smiled again, a second time, grandfatherly in his care, then motioned for Crocker to step farther into the office.
    It was a large room, and of a kind that Crocker had seen many times before, most recently that morning, in Barclay’s office. The décor, even the feel, of the space was designed to conjure the Britain of a century before, when
empire
was spelled with a capital
E
beneath a sun that never set. But where Barclay’s office was more effect than truth, Seccombe had the real thing, from the seventeenth-century globe resting in its mahogany stand to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all loaded with leatherbound volumes with spines lettered in gold leaf. The carpet beneath his feet was certainly silk, certainly over two hundred years old, and Crocker became painfully aware that his shoes were still wet from the rain outside.
    Seccombe continued without looking back, motioning with his right hand toward the couch and chairs that marked the more social area of the office, indicating where he wanted Crocker to sit. As Crocker removed his overcoat, Seccombe moved to his desk, gathering a selection of papers there before returning to join him. Crocker took a position on the couch, and Seccombe one of the high-backed chairs opposite.
    “Would you like a drink, Paul?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You’re certain you wouldn’t indulge in a whiskey? Not after the morning I’m sure you’ve had?”
    Crocker shook his head. It didn’t surprise him that Seccombe knew what had transpired at Vauxhall Cross that morning. There was a very good chance that Seccombe had seen it coming well before Barclay himself had. As PUS, Seccombe tracked all aspects of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’s operations, overseeing the work of no less than five Director Generals, who, in turn, guided everything from general defense and intelligence to political interaction and consular services. If the Foreign Secretary, as appointed by the Prime Minister, was the brains of the FCO, then Seccombe, in his position as the Permanent Undersecretary—emphasis here on
permanent
—was its nervous system. Quite literally, nothing happened in the FCO without Seccombe knowing about it, more often than not before it came to pass.
    Crocker knew him as brilliant, both as a politician and as a diplomat, as ruthless and calculating. He could hardly be otherwise and have survived in his position.
    Very few people frightened Paul Crocker. Certainly, Frances Barclay didn’t, not even with what had transpired this very day. But if someone came close, Crocker had to admit it would be Sir Walter Seccombe. It didn’t matter how friendly he appeared, how many drinks he offered, how many times he might invite Crocker to dine with him at his club, Crocker would always remain wary of the man. As an ally, Seccombe was priceless.
    As an enemy, he would be terrifying.
    Seccombe settled in his chair, rustling the papers he’d taken from his desk, and gave Crocker the smile for a third time before finally putting it away.
    “So Barclay’s finally going to get his wish,” Seccombe said. “No more Paul Crocker at his back.”
    “So it would appear.”
    “Do you think you could adjust to life in Washington?”
    “If that’s where I land.”
    “There’s a certain prestige to be found in a posting with the Americans. That holds no appeal? I could try to arrange things so that you were put to good use.”
    “I’m put to better use here.”
    “So you are.” Seccombe paused, tilting his chin