Free Private Wars by Greg Rucka Page B

upward, his eyes narrowing as he looked at Crocker. “I haven’t forgotten that business about Zimbabwe, Paul. You did me a good turn, and I appreciate it.”
    Crocker nodded. Roughly around the time Barclay had ascended to C, Seccombe had reached out to Crocker to vet a man named Daniel Mwama, who—according to Seccombe—had approached the U.K. seeking assistance in ousting Robert Mugabe, with an eye to taking his place. Seccombe had wanted Mwama checked quickly, and quietly, and had called upon Crocker to do it. Crocker, in turn, had tasked the Minders, at that time Tom Wallace as Minder One and Tara Chace as Minder Two, for the job. It had been a politically dangerous job for Crocker, not only because it had come during a changing of the guard at SIS, but also because it had required him to have agents active in England, something Crocker was strictly forbidden from doing. In the end, he had given Seccombe the information the PUS had required, and Daniel Mwama had been sent packing.
    Seccombe had gained the result he’d desired, and in return, had sheltered Crocker from Barclay’s initial onslaught. That protection had lasted until this morning.
    “I’m sure Alison asked you this, but for my own purposes, I’m asking again,” Seccombe said. “You wish to stay D-Ops?”
    “I had hoped to become Deputy Chief at some point.”
    “I don’t think Alison is quite ready to move on.”
    “No chance that Barclay is going to resign?”
    “Hmm.” Seccombe ran a finger across his mustache, smoothing it. “Not willingly, no.”
    “Then, yes, I’d say I’d like to remain as Director of Operations, Sir Walter.”
    This time Seccombe didn’t smile. He nodded once, slowly, and Crocker sensed a change in his manner, something felt rather than seen. Whatever trap had been laid here, Crocker had just avoided it.
    “Then I have a proposition for you, Paul,” Sir Walter Seccombe said. “One that I recommend you think quite seriously about accepting.”

CHAPTER 7
    Lancashire—Barnoldswick,
Residence of Wallace, Valerie
    14 February, 1414 Hours GMT
    She was changing Tamsin when the call came, her daughter screaming in protest at either the discomfort or the indignity of it all, and Chace felt again the incredible frustration of trying to use reason on someone who has no use, nor need, of such things.
    It didn’t matter that Tamsin’s struggling made the whole procedure take five times as long as it should have; it didn’t matter that what Chace was trying to do, for God’s sake, was to help the little noisemaker. No, Tamsin didn’t want to be on her back on the changing table and she didn’t want to be put in a nappy and she was damn certain it was her right, her obligation, even, to make sure that everyone from Weets Moor to the town square knew it.
    The telephone, then, with its jangling bell, was just insult added to injury, and Chace heard it, acknowledged it, and then discarded the information just as quickly, because she was certain the call wouldn’t be—couldn’t be—for her. No one called Valerie Wallace to speak to Tara Chace. Not on Valentine’s Day, or on any other day for that matter.
    It wasn’t that Chace hadn’t tried to fit in with town life. She had, she truly had. She’d attended the church services and the teas and the social get-togethers, she’d worn the stoic face and said all the right things, as much as for Valerie’s peace of mind as her own. And it wasn’t that people were unkind, certainly not once Valerie had explained that Chace’s baby was her grandchild, that her son had died before he’d even learned that Tara was pregnant. That particular tragedy had earned her a unique respect, even, with Valerie’s friends and neighbors clucking in placid concern.
    “Eeee, the poor dear, having to raise the wee thing alone.”
    “Ooo, all alone, but it’s good she’s come back here, raise the child right.”
    “Oh yes, raise a good Lancashire girl, among her own people.”
    And