Private Wars Read Online Free PDF

wasn’t that Andrew Fincher was a bad agent. He’d served three tours prior to coming aboard as a Minder, the first in KL, the second in London, on the Central Asian Desk, his third in Panama. He’d distinguished himself in both KL and Panama, resourceful and capable, but, in Crocker’s view, overly concerned with avoiding risk. What had helped Fincher more than anything was his penchant for making the right friends inside the Firm. Starting with his second tour, he’d begun to make it known that he’d very much like to come to work in the Special Section, and that had made Crocker suspicious. Once he was aboard, the suspicions were confirmed.
    Fincher wasn’t a bad agent, but he was station-oriented and excessively cautious, two things that translated to a lack of initiative, something that a Minder, in Crocker’s view, had to have in abundance. He couldn’t send a Minder into the field on a job only to have the agent hesitate and dither before deciding on a course of action, or, worse, repeatedly clear his intentions with both Station and London. In a Special Operation, there just wasn’t the luxury of time. Worse, though, was the fact that Fincher didn’t see anything wrong with his caution, and in fact, Crocker suspected the man believed he was a better agent than he actually was. As far as Paul Crocker was concerned, all other factors aside, that alone made Andrew Fincher absolutely wrong for the work. He wanted his Minders to think they weren’t good enough.
    In fact, it was what he needed them to believe for them to do their job.
    Chace had been the shining example of the principle, marrying ambition, passion, and self-loathing in a seamless blend.
             
    “Video, sir,” Ronald Hodgson said.
    “Put it up, for God’s sake.”
    The empty rectangle on the plasma screen flickered, then filled with a grainy image, dark enough that it took Crocker a moment before he could begin to discern details. He was looking at three men, all of them in plain clothes, all with their torsos clad in body armor, sitting in what he presumed was the back of the van they’d acquired for the operation. Two of the men held MP-5 submachine guns, fitted with flash suppressors. The third was Nicky Poole, wearing a radio headset, crouched by the side door, one hand to his ear, straining to listen.
    “Where’s the audio?” Crocker demanded.
    “Switching to the MOD stream now, sir.”
    There was another crackle from the speakers.
    “Songbird, Nightowl. Status?”
    No response.
    “Songbird, Nightowl, respond please.”
    On the plasma wall, in its rectangle, Crocker watched as Poole adjusted his position, shifting on his haunches, checking the radio in his hand. He could make out the frown of concentration on Poole’s face.
    “What the fuck is going on?” Seale muttered. “Where is he?”
    “Songbird, Nightowl, respond.”
    Nothing.
    Oh, sweet Jesus, no,
thought Crocker.
    Over the speakers came the sound of a rattle, something striking the side of the van. Crocker heard one of the SAS swearing softly, watched as Poole pulled away from the door as three MP-5s came up, and then the side door slid back, and the camera flared as its aperture tried to adjust to the abrupt change in light sources.
    “Friendly!”
Crocker heard Poole hissing.
“Jesus, friendly, don’t fucking shoot him!”
    The image resolved again, and Crocker watched as Poole yanked Fincher into the van, one hand on his shoulder, more concerned with efficiency in the move than comfort. The camera readjusted as the SAS trooper wearing the rig moved back. The view canted at an angle, and over the speakers came the bang of the door sliding closed again.
    Poole leaned in on Fincher.
“What the fuck happened, what are you doing here?”
    Fincher shook his head, trying to catch his breath. Poole, still with his hand on Fincher’s shoulder, shook the other man.
    “What the fucking hell happened? Dammit, Andrew!”
    Fincher coughed, pulling himself away