Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  I lay on my back for a few seconds, winded and bruised, then rolled over again and prayed the Toyota didn’t blow, while I studied the road above me and the grassland below. If my logic was all wrong and the tyre had been shot out, rushing out into the open to avoid the car blowing could be the last thing I ever did.

  But there was nothing. No vehicles, no voices, no sounds of anyone approaching. No shots. Just a vague sigh of wind ghosting across the grass, and high above me the innocent sound of a bird.

  I got to my feet and checked myself over for breaks or cuts. I’d been lucky – or maybe the factory had turned out an especially good car that day. I’d come out of a major crash with nothing more than a couple of bruises and a hair full of someone else’s car crap.

  I approached the car with caution to check it out. It was surrounded by a white veil of steam and smoke and the rank smell of burning rubber, but didn’t look in imminent danger of blowing up. I checked the tyres and saw the front left had a long tear in the sidewall where the fabric looked perished through age and neglect.

  Just as I’d thought. Random.

  I was moving away in case whatever was burning under the hood took hold and the tank blew, when I heard the growl of an engine being driven hard. It sounded high-performance, like the noise you get at a cross-country rally.

  Which was all wrong for all kinds of reasons.

  I dropped down off the road and ran at a crouch towards a large clump of rocks in dead ground two hundred yards away. Instinct told me the new arrival wasn’t going to be a local farmer willing to give me a ride out of here. In my limited experience, country farmers don’t drive hard and fast unless they have a prize pig to sell.

  I watched as the car pulled to a stop a few yards before the top of a rise. It was precisely where I’d stopped to check the road and told me all I needed to know.

  It was the Isuzu. Off-white and beat-up, it carried the clatter of a holed muffler and was streaked with mud down the sides. So much for sedans with aerials. This was too much of a coincidence.

  I ignored what were merely outward signs; mufflers get broken all the time on bad roads and beat-up is a look nobody notices. And for some of us that’s the whole idea; it’s called blending in. But more than anything the speed he’d been travelling told me the car was no junkyard hand-me-down driven by a tanked-up kid on a joy ride. Pros don’t use tools that aren’t up to the job. And this one had been following me for a while now.

  I watched the driver climb out of the car and ease his back. He walked once round the vehicle, stamping his feet to get the circulation going the way people do after a long session behind the wheel with nothing to do but drive and watch the road. He looked small and wiry, and was wearing a brown leather coat and a cap with ear flaps that hid his face, and moved like he was tired or old – maybe both. He might have been an ordinary traveller on this deserted back road who’d just happened on something he didn’t want to see.

  When he got back level with the hood he held something up to his eye which caught the light. I knew then that he was trouble. Ordinary travellers don’t carry spyglasses – or what I guessed was more likely an optical gun-sight. He was checking out my dead Toyota and the surrounding landscape to see if I was out and in one piece.

  When he got back to the driver’s door he leaned in and hauled something heavy out of the back seat, fiddled with it for a second, then positioned himself over the hood in a stance that I recognized only too well.

  Sniper.

  I eased down behind a large piece of moss-covered granite and waited. I didn’t need to stick my head up for a second look to see what he was doing; I’d seen all I needed to.

  The man was holding what looked like an OSV-96 long-range sniper’s rifle. It was hard to be sure at that distance, but by its length and the way he hefted it, if I was correct it was capable of taking out man, beast or vehicle at anything up to a kilometre. And when fitted with the optical gun-sight he’d be able to shoot the pimples off a target’s face.

  The target being me.

  I looked across at the Toyota. From his elevated position the shooter would have a grand-stand view of the vehicle. He’d be asking himself if I was still inside, was I banged up and trapped. Or dead. Even as I thought it, he decided to check it out the only way he knew how.

  The crack of a shot rolled across the open ground like small thunder.

  I ducked involuntarily. But the shot wasn’t aimed at me; instead the rear window of the Toyota blew out in a spray of glass on the driver’s side, and a ragged piece of the radiator grill zinged off into the distance from the other end. Heavy gauge shells do that; they go right on through, mashing up whatever gets in their way. Fabric. Metal. Skin.

  Another shot and the same thing happened, this time on the passenger side. He was playing now, but making sure at the same time, drilling the car on both sides. A third shot rang out and the car was toast.

  Incendiary round. Intended for light-armoured vehicles and buildings, and certain death for a light-skinned 4WD, especially when aimed at the fuel tank.

  I gave it a count of ten while I watched the burning car push a column of thickening black smoke into the air, accompanied by the popping of the three remaining tyres and the clank of overheated metal. Then I risked a quick look. The Isuzu was still in place on the rise.

  But the shooter had disappeared.

  I rolled away, keeping the rock between us, and slid into the gulley. There was no point going back to the car, so I grabbed my bag and began running up the gulley towards the rise. I had no massive plan in mind; this was all or nothing. But one way of facing off danger is to do what is least expected and run towards it. The man with the rifle had the upper hand at whatever distance he chose, and there was no way I could outrun him. So going out into open country was pointless. All I had was my overnight kit, a small pair of binoculars and a powerful desire to keep living.

  It was tough going. I was still dizzy from the crash and found the rough ground difficult to navigate underfoot. And the need to bend forward at the waist to prevent breaking cover was enough to make me stop to catch my breath.

  Which was lucky for me, because that’s when I heard him coming down towards me.

  He’d reached a particularly steep part of the terrain and his momentum, coupled I guessed with the idea that I was being roasted in the upturned vehicle, had made him careless; he was also moving too fast and kicking up dirt underfoot which pinpointed his position and progress. He’d moved up on to higher ground at the side of the gulley to get a better view, so I hugged the ground beneath an overhang of earth and coarse grass and waited, counting the seconds to help me focus.

  As his shadow appeared above me, I launched myself upwards over the lip of the gulley and hit him with my shoulder at waist level. It was all or nothing.

  It took him by surprise. He gave a whoosh of expelled air and I felt him lift off his feet with the impact. But he had good instincts and I felt the butt of the heavy rifle slam into the small of my back. He was also fitter than he’d looked earlier, with the wiry strength of someone accustomed to extremes of exercise. I held on to him in desperation, my fingers curled into the soft leather of his coat. If he got free and stepped back with the rifle, I was dead meat. I did the only thing I could: I flipped backwards and dragged him down into the gulley, making him grunt as we crashed against a lump of granite. I tried rolling him beneath me to smother him with my weight, but he knew all the moves. He pushed the rifle clear and used the flat of his hands to keep himself level, before twisting violently sideways and getting one hand between us.

  It didn’t matter whether he was reaching for a knife or a handgun; the outcome if he succeeded would be the same.

  I let go with one hand and slammed my fist between the ear flaps. There was a crunch of cartilage giving way and he grunted, blowing out a gust of air and a splatter of blood. I hit him again, this time feeling him go limp against me. But I wasn’t taking chances. I rolled him on to his front and knelt on
his back, pressing his body into the grass beneath and pulling his head back until he gurgled and began to kick violently as his throat became too constricted to breath. Another few seconds and he’d stop breathing altogether.

  I eased off at the last moment and pushed his head down, and knelt on his back between his shoulder blades. Then I did a quick check of his pockets while he gulped for air. I found an ID card, some cash and a cheap cell phone. In his outside jacket pocket was a Grach 9mm semi-automatic pistol, and tucked in his waist was a knife in a sheath; commando-style, rubber handle grip, sharp as a razor.

  But there was something else that almost threw me.

  He was a woman.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Are we secure?’

  Howard Benson had just entered the private library of the prestigious Washington law firm of Chapin, Wilde and Langstone. Already seated were four other men, three of them members of a privately financed think-tank calling themselves the Dupont Circle Group.

  ‘Of course we’re secure, Howard,’ Vernon Chapin muttered. ‘I have the place swept every day and twice on Sundays. What have you got for us? I was hoping for an early round of golf. Then I have to visit my consultant.’ He waved a vague hand at their raised eyebrows. ‘He thinks I might be dying, but he’s an idiot.’ A senior member of the law firm bearing his name and a former member of Military Intelligence back when the Cold War was dribbling to an end and Soviet president Mikhail Gorbachev was ushering in a new age of liberalization, Chapin had forgotten more about security than most people could even begin to know, and shared much of Benson’s dislike of the CIA. He also despised health consultants as charlatans until they proved themselves otherwise.

  The hum of subdued and orderly activity in the offices outside the library was barely detectable, but in any case an electronic net embedded in the partition walls ensured that whatever was discussed within the room stayed there. It was why this place had been chosen for their meetings.

  ‘Travis, the man the State Department sent in to talk with the various factions in Ukraine and elsewhere,’ Benson began, ‘has run into a shit storm. He’s under virtual house arrest and has been told that if he leaves his hotel, he’ll be shot. The State Department’s frightened he’ll be accused of conducting a spying trip under orders from the White House, and have asked Langley to get him out of there with immediate effect. They’ve sent in a private contractor under cover to escort him out.’

  ‘My God, gun-boat diplomacy?’ Ambrose Teller, a retired banker and private investor, and a former officer with the now subsumed National Intelligence Agency, gave a wry chuckle. ‘I thought that stuff went out of fashion with the Brits and Margaret Thatcher.’

  ‘I cancelled a round of golf for that?’ Chapin looked mildly ticked off, but his tone was intrigued. He glanced at a slim, dour-looking man sitting to his right. ‘What’s your information on this, Walter? Anything we should know?’

  A senior White House staffer with a host of hot contacts in government, Conkley was an ambitious and invaluable source of inside information for political movers and shakers like these. Although not an inside member of the Dupont Group, his seat at National Security Council meetings chaired by the president, and his willingness to spill details for financial return, automatically guaranteed him a chair here.

  ‘It’s a serious threat and the action suggested is entirely reasonable,’ Conkley announced loftily. If he’d expected a moment of hushed awe at the comment, he was disappointed. After a moment of silence he continued. ‘The original idea was for Travis to initiate talks with the affected parties while they were still in a position to do so freely and without interference from Moscow. But someone appears to have taken him out of circulation.’

  ‘Do we know who?’ said Teller.

  ‘We don’t, not yet. It could be one of the nationalist organizations opposed to closer ties with Moscow, stirring up trouble between us; it could even be one of the separatist groups on orders from Moscow, irritated by what they see as interference. We’re not exactly short of suspects in the region.’

  Teller shook his head. ‘I may be naïve in these matters, and you’ll have to forgive me for that, but why can’t this Travis simply go to the embassy in – Kiev, is it? He’d be safe there, surely.’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes,’ Conkley agreed. ‘But the situation over there is fragile. Using the embassy might compromise their position beyond retrieval.’

  Benson grunted. ‘Especially now Travis has a CIA hired gun in tow.’

  Conkley nodded. ‘That’s unfortunate, I agree. Also the government in Ukraine is losing control by the day with pro-Russian elements taking control of official buildings and the police, especially in the east around the Donetsk and Luhansk areas. But it doesn’t stop there; there’s a real concern that the situation could get worse with signs of political unrest building in other countries, like Moldova.’

  ‘Is that likely?’ Teller asked.

  ‘It’s possible, yes. We’ve had reliable reports of Russian troops in unmarked uniforms operating in various locations throughout the region, but especially close to main roads, airports and border crossings. President Putin has made no secret of his long-term intentions to win back what were satellite states, and he’s not without support within some of those countries where there is a substantial pro-Russian population who would welcome closer ties with Moscow.’ He hesitated, then added for emphasis, ‘And I mean much closer ties. The main fear is that he could do what he did once before with Ukraine; he could restrict or cut off completely supplies of oil and gas.’

  Teller looked bored. ‘Why would that bother us?’

  ‘Because,’ Benson said, ‘it would destabilize the entire region, including large parts of mainland Europe. And that should certainly concern us all.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Chapin.

  ‘Ukraine isn’t the only big user of Russian energy. Germany is a big net buyer of natural gas, with other European states to a lesser degree. They rely on a number of pipelines which pass through Ukrainian territory. If this situation blows up further and Putin tightens his grip on those supplies long enough, those countries could end up going dark for long periods until they source other supplies. That would take time. It would cost them dear to source other supplies … but they’d have no choice.’

  ‘Why would Putin risk doing that? He must know he’d earn international opprobrium.’

  ‘He probably does, but I doubt he really cares. As far as he’s concerned, it’s nothing to do with him; civil unrest in other states is beyond his control and pipelines are vulnerable to attack by extremists.’

  Teller nodded impatiently. ‘But that’s a political problem. How does it affect us?’

  ‘Simple. Look what happened in the Middle East when the pipelines and installations were interrupted. Oil prices went through the ceiling.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Teller murmured softly, with a dreamy look on his face. ‘And may the good times roll again.’ He only realized what he had said when he became aware of an uncomfortable silence and saw the warning looks thrown at him by Benson and Chapin.

  But it was too late. Walter Conkley was staring at him.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ the staffer asked. ‘The good times? For who?’

  ‘Just a joke, Walter,’ Benson suggested mildly, but glaring at Teller to shut him up before he said anything else. ‘A bad one at that.’

  ‘Was it?’ Conkley looked around the table at the assembled faces, but appeared to find nothing there to reassure him. He turned back to Teller. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that you had developed extensive energy portfolios during and after the Gulf War?’

  ‘I really don’t recall. I may have had. Is it important?’ Teller sound calm, but he looked uncomfortable under the poisonous looks his friends were giving him.

  Benson jumped in before anyone else could speak. ‘Forget it, Walter. Like I said, it was a bad joke. On a more serious note, we’re merely laying out the scenarios if this situation deteriorate
s further. People ask our advice, you know that. We have to know what the big picture might be. That’s where you come in.’

  It was naked flattery, but Conkley looked unconvinced. ‘Well, I don’t know, Senator. I’ve been coming here and giving you information – most of it open, I know that – but still, it’s information not available to everyone and frankly, some of it is stuff I shouldn’t be discussing.’ His voice had taken on a wheedling tone, and he was looking like a rabbit in the headlights. ‘I hope none of it is going to be misused in any way.’

  ‘Of course not. And we appreciate your valuable input, Walter, we really do. I think you know how much, too.’ He smiled as he delivered this unsubtle reminder, in case anyone had forgotten, that Conkley was well paid for any ‘input’ he placed their way.

  He swallowed and nodded. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest …’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Benson’s face was genial but to anyone who knew him, it was just a mask. Inside he was seething at Teller’s stupidity. But he smiled warmly and said, ‘I think we can allow you to get back to your office now, Walter. You’ll keep us informed of further developments at your end, of course?’

  It was a dismissal and they all knew it, Conkley most of all. He was sufficiently versed in the subtleties of atmosphere to know when it was time to leave. It had happened before with these men, but he’d chosen to look on it as part of their secret games, nothing more. A gathering of old men with long memories and more snap than teeth, they at least had a talent for analysing world events that proved occasionally useful for the administration. He stood up and buttoned his jacket, then left without a word.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Chapin looked at Benson in surprise. ‘What the hell was that about? The man’s a self-serving weasel, we all know that, but did you have to be so rude?’