A Gentleman's Game Read Online Free PDF Page A

ostentatious to house M16. Disparagingly referred to as Babylon-on-Thames, or the Ceauşescu Towers, or—Paul Crocker’s personal favorite—Legoland, it had an interior that was a maze of white corridors and nondescript doors with only the barest departmental labeling, part of the ever-present attempt to maintain secrecy in a Service that still winced whenever it hired anyone named Guy, Donald, or, worst of all, Kim.
    It worked, and more than one fresh-faced officer, new to the Firm, had found himself lost in the halls and in dire need of direction.
    The nicest office, situated just below the top floor, belonged to the Chief of Service, currently Sir Francis Barclay or, in keeping with the tradition established by Mansfield Cumming in 1922, C. From the hall, it looked as nondescript as any other in the building. Inside the outer office, it had desks for not one but three personal assistants. But once one went through and into the inner office, everything changed, as if all pretension to modernity had been rejected in favor of those good old days when spying was deemed a Gentlemen’s Game. Thick Oriental carpet and a mahogany desk that could keep eight afloat should the Thames burst its banks, three modestly comfortable leather-backed chairs arrayed to face it, and its larger brother positioned behind, to make certain everyone seated knew their place in the room. A separate sitting area off to the side with two couches, two armchairs, and a coffee table. A sidebar heavy with crystal glasses and decanters, and the mandatory door leading to the private washroom, which, rumor held, contained not only the toilet but also a shower and a whirlpool bath.
    Paul Crocker hated the office.
    Sitting on the far right as he faced the desk, with Deputy Chief of Service Donald Weldon to his immediate left, and Weldon himself flanked by Crocker’s opposite number, Simon Rayburn, the Director of Intelligence, Crocker thought the only thing he hated more than the office was the man seated opposite him.
    “The bloody Harakat ul-Mujihadin?” Barclay asked, incredulous. “Are you certain?”
    “The Abdul Aziz faction, we think,” Rayburn replied calmly. He was a small man, slight and drawn, and his voice was the same, and Crocker often had to strain to hear him when Rayburn spoke. “But it’s only a working theory. The tape offers nothing to disprove it.”
    “But it doesn’t prove it, either?”
    “Not conclusively, no, sir.”
    “Where did it come from?”
    Weldon slid forward in his seat, saying, “The BBC, sir. Delivered to them via messenger shortly before the first train was hit.”
    “The BBC had advance warning, and they neglected to pass it on?”
    “The timing is in question,” Rayburn said. “They didn’t know what they had, and before anyone could review the tape, the events of the day overtook them. As soon as they realized what they were looking at, they handed it over to the Home Office.”
    “It’s a wonder it made it to us at all,” Barclay mused, and despite himself, Crocker found himself in agreement. The Home Office/Foreign Office rivalry was well known and ongoing and extended to an intense rivalry between the Security Services and SIS.
    A rivalry that justly took a backseat in light of the day’s events.
    “Well, let’s see it,” Barclay said impatiently.
    All four men turned in their seats to face the screen hanging on the far wall, above the sidebar. Rayburn targeted the screen with the remote in his hand, and a still frame of a young Pakistani male—Crocker didn’t put him a day over twenty—flickered to life, standing in front of a bare white plaster wall. The man wore khakis and a blue short-sleeved button-up shirt, and dirty white sneakers. Behind him, resting against the wall, was a well-used backpack, navy blue with black straps, and beside it what appeared to be a shallow stack of cardboard sheets, propped upright.
    “I’m not hearing anything,” Barclay said. “Why am I not hearing