A Hostile State

by Adrian Magson

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Adrian Magson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Acknowledgements

  Also by Adrian Magson

  The Marc Portman thrillers

  THE WATCHMAN *

  CLOSE QUARTERS *

  HARD COVER *

  DARK ASSET *

  The Harry Tate thrillers

  RED STATION *

  TRACERS *

  DECEPTION *

  RETRIBUTION *

  EXECUTION *

  TERMINAL BLACK *

  The Riley Gavin and Frank Palmer series

  NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED

  NO HELP FOR THE DYING

  NO SLEEP FOR THE DEAD

  NO TEARS FOR THE LOST

  NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL

  * available from Severn House

  A HOSTILE STATE

  Adrian Magson

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.

  Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022

  by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,

  an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.

  severnhouse.com

  Copyright © Adrian Magson, 2021

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Adrian Magson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 9780727850270 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 9781780297705 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 9781448305087 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This eBook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Ann. The best hunter-gatherer ever!

  And BHT – gone but not forgotten.

  ONE

  It’s been claimed that you don’t hear the sound of the bullet that kills you. Whoever said it wasn’t speaking from experience. Idle thoughts like this tend to slide into your head when death comes too close for comfort.

  What I did hear was the snap of a shot passing my face, leaving a ripple in the atmosphere. It was followed by the crack-and-whine as the bullet exploded off a rock three feet away. I ducked instinctively and way too late, feeling the spiteful sting of Lebanese sandstone peppering my cheek. A sound in the background might have been the rolling echo of the shot, but I ignored it. If I’d heard anything at all I was still good to go. I was also busy trying to compute where the shooter might be and whether I was rolling into a position where he could have another go at blowing my head off.

  I kept moving, rolling to one side and hugging the earth. Sounds can be confusing in hilly areas, bouncing off rocks and coming back from somewhere different, leaving behind fragments you can’t quite place and leading the unwary to pop up and look the wrong way. Bang, end of game. I hadn’t caught any tell-tale muzzle smoke, but from the angle of the bullet striking the rock it had to have come from the high ground somewhere to my side and rear.

  That thought made me go cold. Whoever had pulled the trigger had been looking down at me and I hadn’t even been aware of their presence. But how? I’d been in the country barely twenty-four hours on a last-minute rush arrangement with instructions to sit and wait for a local intelligence source to show up. In that time I’d had minimal contacts and left no footprints. Those I had contacted wouldn’t have been in any position to give me up as illicit gun dealing is frowned upon, even in Lebanon.

  The source’s name – it had to be a him because the locals in this part of the world didn’t have much time for women in positions of responsibility and therefore access to what was probably classified information – was top secret, but his DIA (Defence Intelligence Agency) code-name was Tango. Anything else about him was on a strict need-to-know basis and it had clearly been decided I wasn’t on that list, which suited me fine. Using sources is like that; the fewer people who know their real name the less likely it is to blow back in everyone’s face if they get rolled up.

  But it didn’t answer the fundamental question of the right-here-and-now. How the hell had someone got onto me so quickly? Had I inadvertently shown up on radar on the way here and tripped an alarm? Always possible but I wasn’t so sure. I’d been extra careful coming here because that’s the way I work. The only people who knew I was here were back in Langley, Virginia, the home of the CIA.

  The here in question was on a hillside; a dry spit from the Yammoune nature reserve in the northern half of Lebanon. The briefing I’d had on the area told me it featured a lake and a Greco-Roman temple, but I didn’t think I’d be doing any sightseeing on this trip. Violence had been sweeping the country for decades, from terrorist groups, Sunni and Shi’ite extremists and the twin forces of Hamas and Hezbollah, both outlawed by the international community and determined to retain some kind of stranglehold
on the country.

  Getting here had meant taking a dog-leg journey from the US through Geneva and hitching a ride out of Damascus with an air-taxi firm flying UN and aid volunteers into Tripoli’s Kleyate airport. I figured I was likely to attract less interest with my cover as an aid volunteer than I would in the crowded and suspicion-riddled mess of Beirut’s Rafic Hariri International, a feverish hunting ground for the Lebanese Government’s General Directorate of State Security or the other force in the country, the Iranian-backed Hezbollah and their counter-intelligence unit.

  On arrival I’d visited a recommended source of equipment in Tripoli (or Tarablus, to differentiate it from the city in Libya), to buy the kind of supplies that you won’t find in your neighbourhood tourist bazaar. In this case it was a used Kahr semi-automatic pistol and a spare magazine. I’d also got myself some wheels. There were very few rentals here that didn’t ask questions about where you were going and where you were from; details likely to end up under the suspicious gaze of the local General Security Office.

  I’d chosen a beaten-up Land Cruiser that had seen better days but had a decent engine and good tyres. The man who’d sold it to me was a cousin of the man who’d supplied me with the semi-automatic, who also hadn’t bothered asking questions. He had a weathered face and a nose like a hawk’s beak, and had shaken his head when I’d asked about a rental price.

  ‘Buy only. Not rent.’ He’d chopped the air with his hand to signal his terms and conditions. Maybe he figured I was bound to come to grief and he’d never see me or the car again. He might have been right at that, so I wasn’t in a position to argue. Besides, if I bought the car and had to drive any great distance after this job, I wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of returning it. Leave it on any street or back alley and sooner or later it would be gone.

  The deal-maker in him still had a shot at reading my mind. ‘You bring back here, I give you a good price. Then I change the plates, give it a respray. Make it disappear.’ He laughed at his own astuteness, snapped his fingers and spat on the ground. I decided not to negotiate further. He was a better businessman than me and I needed the ride.

  I paid him what he asked, then got in the Land Cruiser and drove away.

  But that was already history. I shrugged off the questions in my mind about what had led to this point and hugged dirt, grateful that the shooter’s aim had been off even if his field-craft hadn’t. You have to take what comfort you can from these things and move on. I slid into the cover of some big rocks and made a decision: I had to get out of here.

  I counted to five to see if another shot would follow. When nothing happened I skidded further across the slope until I reached a dip in the ground and rolled onto my back, feeling the cushion of my day sack beneath me. It was slimmer than normal backpacks, holding some basic rations, a map, a compass and a bottle of water; essentials for a one-day trip into bandit country.

  The plan had been to meet Tango on what passed as a road some 300 feet down the hill. It was more of a wide track but he’d apparently specified the location as safe. I could see a clear five-mile stretch from up here heading north, and the plan was simple: once I’d checked Tango was the right person and not a unit of Hezbollah, I was to get a memory stick from him and bug out for the airport. With a quick in-and-out trip like this, it made sense to travel extra-fast and extra-light.

  It was one of the essentials in the backpack that I needed most right now, but getting it required a bit more space for movement than I had here without getting bits of me shot off. I needed to find better cover and a safe exit route out.

  As I thought about tactics I found myself staring up at a vast expanse of blue, cloudless sky, with the thin contrail of an aircraft going who knew where. Blue meant calm but I didn’t feel it. Being up there suddenly seemed a good place to be; better than down here with someone shooting at me. But that was wishing for the impossible.

  I lay still for a moment, figuring out which way to go. Choosing the wrong exit route would make me an open target. Unfortunately I still wasn’t sure of the shooter’s location. Up the slope was no good as I’d be moving slowly and probably right onto his gun. Down was better, where I could move faster but I’d be right in line for a back-shot. I also had no way of knowing if the shooter had moved. A good one would have done so if there was a chance his location had been compromised. If he was still anywhere above me he had the advantage of elevation, and going right or left he could simply track me across the slope and wait for his moment to squeeze the trigger, like a plastic duck hunter in a fairground gallery.

  The silence around me was complete; no bird noises, no wind, nothing, not even the sound of the plane. My breathing sounded way too loud. I made an effort to slow it down, along with the drumming of the pulse in my head. I reckoned I’d moved a mere twenty yards but felt and sounded as if I’d run a hundred.

  Being shot at does that to the system; it accelerates the heartbeat and focusses everything right down to the moment, especially the demand for oxygen brought on by the rush of adrenalin and the heady realization that you’ve survived.

  A mocking cry way up high pinpointed a lone hawk off to my right, circling on the thermals, a majestic master of the skies. He was either laughing at me for being such a sucker or dissing the shooter for not providing him with some easy pickings in the shape of my corpse. I shook my head at him and took another deep breath before rolling over and continuing across and down the slope in a fast crawl, using my elbows and feet to power me along on my belly like a lizard. It wasn’t pretty nor was it entirely pain-free, but if it got me out from under the gun I’d be happy.

  Then the air around me exploded and an array of dust and chippings fell around me like dry rain.

  TWO

  Moscow

  Building No 3, as it would have been known had it worn a nameplate, was an innocuous, concrete-and-glass office structure on the corner of Grizodubovoy Street in the Khoroshyovsky Administrative District in north-west Moscow. It was near to but not part of the central headquarters building of the Main Intelligence Directorate, known more commonly as the GRU – Russia’s foreign military intelligence agency.

  The location was a coincidence, since none of the people in the building were connected with the GRU, although they would have readily admitted to the same nation-state loyalties. The structure was guarded by a mobile security team and counter-surveillance systems, and anyone trying to gain access from the street, the roof or up through the basement would encounter fierce preventative measures to stop them.

  In an austere room on the fourth level, which was the only one in use, a woman and four men had gathered. An armed guard stood outside the door with orders to admit nobody for any reason save, perhaps, President Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin himself, should he be in the unlikely position of making a personal visit.

  No personal phones or electronic devices were permitted inside the room, which the occupants were well aware of, and no obvious records were kept of the discussions here. It was known, not unsurprisingly and with an element of dark humour by those who used it, as the ‘dead room’.

  The security in and around the building might have been regarded by many as considerable, even excessive, for it had limited use. The few discussions that took place here formed no part of Russia’s general political activities or duties; those involved were not serving government officials, military or security officers; and none of them would have been recognized as ever appearing in media exercises, political campaigns or puff pieces for consumption by the general public.

  In short, the four men and one woman were, to all intents and purposes, faceless and nameless. The security was in place to ensure they remained that way.

  ‘Further to our previous discussions, I am pleased to announce that our affirmative action against the American CIA is about to go live. We are even now waiting for news of a successful outcome.’

  The speaker was a slim man in a plain but expensive suit and crisp, white shirt. Konstantin Basalayev
had small hands, thinning hair and an air of restless energy that regularly caused those around him a degree of unease, mostly, he was aware, because he bore more than a passing resemblance to the President, Vladimir Putin. Not that he cared one way or another; unease among others, he’d found, especially those on his own level who were invariably looking for dominance and upward mobility, bred uncertainty and allowed exploitation of their weaknesses.

  Right now his words, spoken in a soft voice, caused two of the other men, who had been talking quietly while waiting for the meeting to begin, to fall instantly silent. ‘Affirmative action’ in the context Basalayev was using meant something final. Terminal. No publicity, no record; another small and dirty detail for which they had been gathered together more than once before in the name of Mother Russia.

  ‘And we have a specific target?’ The only woman, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, was the first to break the silence. Irina Kolodka was in her forties, with dark eyes and glossy hair, and a figure which had caused the men in the room to study her arrival with carefully concealed interest. But that was all they did. She was, they knew, out of bounds to all. Off limits to anyone who cared for their life, their career … and their balls.

  Basalayev tilted his head to one side. It could have been yes or no, but that was his way of speaking, of retaining attention, of keeping his audience guessing. This time it was unequivocal. ‘We do. His identity was revealed and communicated to us recently by Agent Seraphim in Washington.’

  ‘Seraphim?’ Anatoly Dolmatov, a former FSB officer, sounded surprised. ‘Is that where the information came from? I thought she’d retired to America and become a filthy capitalist.’

  The comment caused a brief ripple of ironic laughter. As they were all well aware, one could find almost as many capitalists within spitting distance of this room as could be found in any hectare of the US capital.

  ‘She did. She was reminded of her duty and agreed to help.’