Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Blame Ambrose, not me,’ Benson snarled, and turned on Teller, who wilted under his gaze. ‘Jesus, could you have been any more open? That little schmuck is not stupid; he knew what you were suggesting – what we’re all thinking right now. If this gets out that we were planning on using inside knowledge about energy movements, we’ll be finished.’ He took a sip of water and wondered how much damage had been done. If Conkley panicked and let it be known that he was paid to come here and spill details of matters discussed in the seat of government, and that some of that information was being used to line the pockets of a handful of speculators, they would likely end up in jail.

  ‘Come on, Howard,’ Chapin muttered soothingly, ‘calm down. Conkley won’t talk; I’ve known him for years. He’s got too much to lose. Now, if you’ve got something on your tricky little mind, let’s hear it before we all grow a day older.’

  Benson nodded and breathed deeply to restore a sense of calm. Perhaps he had overreacted and Chapin was right; Conkley was a typical civil servant, with a love of meetings, paperwork and procedure, and a prudish distaste for anything too adventurous. ‘You’re right,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry.’ He held up two fingers. ‘Two points I wanted to raise: one is at the forefront of all our minds: the reversal of budget cuts to the intelligence agencies and the continuation of their position in fighting terrorism and securing information from our enemies. We’ve all been in this game too long to enjoy seeing the numbers going down, the budgets slashed and our hands tied by the idiots currently in charge.’

  ‘I agree,’ Chapin murmured, but he was frowning as if he failed to see the direction Benson was going.

  ‘But it’s not entirely their fault; there was a time when intelligence gathering produced real results. But that was in the past, before the CIA was taken over by hoodlums who seem to think they’re above the law. Their record of inappropriate and, frankly, illegal activities over the past twenty years, such as hiring private armies of mercenaries, kidnappings, black flights, God knows what else, has ruined the good work of other agencies; agencies who are better equipped to put the fight on a level above the gunfighter mentality.’ He hesitated while his message sank in, noting the nods as the others gave their agreement. ‘I’m talking about electronic intelligence gathering, and it’s time we got back to that situation. This could be our chance.’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me there,’ Teller murmured. Like the others, many of his investments were in the electronics industry where much of the equipment and expertise Benson was talking about was produced. Any change in government spending in these areas would affect them all directly.

  Chapin nodded. ‘Good. And point two?’

  Benson smiled and in response looked down the table at the fourth man present, who had so far said nothing. ‘I’m sure Burman can see where I’m going.’

  ‘I can indeed.’ With heavily veined hands and a shock of white hair, Burman Cassler crouched in his chair as if being pressed downwards by an invisible burden, using the power of his eyes to draw the attention of the other men. Thought by many in Washington to be long dead or retired to his country estate in New Hampshire, he was still a big hitter in industrial and banking circles. He had served briefly in the US State Department before finding an outlet for his razor-sharp brain in Wall Street, with a leaning towards military and defence production, and it was his talent for spotting and using investment opportunities that had drawn him to this group, allying their insider knowledge to his ability to play the markets. ‘Where there’s a war,’ he continued, ‘there’s a percentage. The drawdown of US personnel and commitment in Afghanistan is already showing a shortfall in military spending; a situation where we all stand to lose out. Frankly, if we don’t find an alternative somewhere else, we could get our fingers burned.’

  ‘So how does Europe allow us to make that up?’ Teller queried. ‘There’s already an over-supply of weapons in Eastern Europe, with old Russian arsenals being discovered and ripped open all the time and the contents sold off to the highest bidder. That market is saturated.’

  Cassler nodded. ‘True enough. However, I’m not talking about AK-47s or missiles. As Howard said earlier, there’s a growing energy-supply problem over there. G7 is already threatening sanctions against Russian interference in Ukraine. If Moscow calls their bluff and shuts down the pipelines, somebody will have to step in.’ He looked around at the other faces as realization began to build. ‘It might as well be us.’

  Chapin nodded. ‘All we need to do is get Congress to loosen export restrictions and we can get more natural gas on to the market.’

  ‘Aren’t they already planning on issuing licences?’ asked Teller.

  ‘Correct.’ Benson nodded. ‘But they don’t take effect until later this year. We need it to happen now.’

  ‘So what do we do? We can’t put pressure on the Department of Energy; that would be stating our interest too openly.’

  ‘Maybe so. But if the situation in Eastern Europe is seen to worsen, that might work in our favour. We just have to be in a position to do something about it.’ Benson got to his feet. ‘It doesn’t mean we have to be overt; a few well-placed suggestions to the right people should do it. Let the momentum gather from there.’

  Cassler smiled. ‘Excellent idea. There will be many who will want to be seen as the instigators in helping out those unfortunates caught up in fuel shortages.’

  Benson didn’t need to say anything more. His tactic had worked. These men were better at chewing over the fine details than he was. Right now he needed to check on some things with Langley. He moved towards the door. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen, but I have some business to attend to.’

  ‘Of course,’ Chapin said. ‘We meet again in twelve hours.’

  Once outside, Benson made a call. He was still feeling sour at Teller’s crass stupidity; by his thoughtless comment he’d put them all in an invidious position. As far as Conkley should have been aware, the Dupont Circle Group was one of several independent think-tanks in the Washington arena and, as such, had no conflicts of interest with situations coming under their radar. Teller’s remark had now blown that notion right out of the water, exposing himself and the others as nothing more than a clique of heavy investors on the international markets with an eye to the main chance. And Conkley had instantly picked up on it.

  Benson didn’t want to take any unnecessary action, but neither was he prepared to sit back and allow matters to get out of hand. If Conkley decided to talk about what he’d heard, they would all be finished. In this town you didn’t have to show absolute proof of wrongdoing to become a focus for damaging and ruinous attention from the press or enemies in the corridors of power; the accusation was often enough to last a lifetime.

  The very idea filled Benson with horror. He had too much of a stake in this, both financially and with his position in government, and the thought of losing both was too terrifying to contemplate.

  ‘Two-One. Go ahead.’ The voice was, as usual, brisk and devoid of emotion.

  ‘I need you to monitor Walter Conkley. He’s on the White House staff list. Who he meets, who he talks to over the next three days. Conversations, phone calls, emails – the lot.’

  ‘No problem. How deep?’

  ‘Deep as you can. Stick a bug up his ass if you have to; I want to know everything. And if he so much as smiles in the direction of anyone in security, call me immediately.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  I don’t get surprised by much. Not after the stuff I’ve seen. But a woman sniper isn’t something you come across every day, although clearly they exist. This one was even more surprising because I put her age at somewhere in the late forties or early fifties – which is high for anyone in that profession.

  The name on the ID card was Olena Prokyeva. She had experience and pain in her eyes – although the latter might have been entirely due to the damage I’d done to her nose – along with a coldness that was entirely focussed on me. Even though I had the
upper hand it didn’t seem to bother her much.

  If I’d been looking for trouble, the look told me, I’d found it in spades and had better watch my back.

  ‘Well, I know your name,’ I said, and got to my feet, gesturing with the Grach for her to sit up. Nobody can talk easily lying on their back, not when they’re suffering a blunt-nose trauma and impaired breathing. ‘But why are you trying to kill me?’

  She didn’t reply. Just stared at me and waited, then slowly sat upright. She was rail-thin and whippy, with weathered skin and a sideways slant to her jawline as if she’d been hit hard and the bone hadn’t been set right. With the swelling around her nose and eyes, she wasn’t going to be winning beauty contests anytime soon. She looked as if she’d lived a hard life and I wondered what had brought her to this point. I was guessing she was a gun for hire.

  ‘Who sent you?’ I asked. I had to get something out of her, but it was better if she gave it voluntarily.

  She still didn’t reply and I realized she wasn’t even looking at me, but at a point over my shoulder. Then I saw a flicker in her eyes. It was a ‘tell’ – the giveaway that something was going on behind me. Something I wouldn’t like.

  I hit the ground a split second before the crack of a high-velocity round split the air right where my head had been.

  Shooter number two. She hadn’t come alone.

  I twisted round and found I was half lying on her rifle. I’d called it right: it was an OSV, a beast of a weapon for long-range work. It was coated in dirt and bits of grass from where it had hit the ground, but was still good to go. I stuffed the pistol in my pocket and lifted the rifle, which made my shoulder muscles crack, and checked the load. She had loaded a fresh five-round magazine after taking her shots. I inched my way up to the lip of the gulley and took a look around.

  Her partner had to be on high ground if he wanted to reach me, so I checked the ridge where it ran away to my right, jagged and untamed like a line of broken teeth against the skyline. The big bits were rocks the size of cars, easy to hide behind and a good platform for a long-range shot.

  Except he’d missed with the first one and now wouldn’t be feeling so cocky. He – or maybe another she – would have to play duck-and-dive because they would know I was still in play and now in a position to go on the offensive.

  A second shot slammed into a rock thirty yards away, and a rabbit skipped out of cover and streaked away across the grass. With it went another dent to the shooter’s confidence. I heard the woman swear softly behind me and smiled. What she said wasn’t complimentary about the other hired help.

  That told me the second shooter wasn’t the primary gun. The woman had come down first, confidant of having an easy target, leaving the other gun in the back of the Isuzu just in case. Only he hadn’t been up to the job.

  The move had been clumsy on both parts and she knew it. I smiled at her and nodded up the slope towards the ridge. ‘Friend of yours? Someone you value?’

  She shook her head and told me to go screw myself.

  I eased my head back up to the lip and saw a movement two hundred yards away. It was very brief before disappearing, but if it was another rabbit it was wearing an old style camouflage smock and a beanie hat. It was also carrying a rifle fitted with a big scope. Smaller than the OSV but just as deadly in the right hands.

  I waited, reading the situation ahead and knowing what was unfolding. The shooter was thinking tactical. He knew where we were and was making his way down and round to my flank, where lower ground would give him a view up the gulley. He was also thinking I’d expect him to stay on higher ground where he had the advantage.

  I stayed where I was, eyes on the ridge and the ground below it, nestling the rifle on a piece of out-jutting rock for a firing platform. He’d find some dead ground, a smaller gulley or a fold in the land, which he’d use like a fairground slide to take him downhill fast and safe. He’d have already picked out a spot from his higher position where he would stop and find a safe firing point.

  If I allowed him that much leeway, he’d have me in a corner and I’d be dead.

  I shuffled over to the woman, keeping low, slapping her hand away as she tried to punch me, and pulled her across to lie on the ground. I pulled out one of her bootlaces and tied her little pinkies together, then shuffled back to the rifle and took up a firing position.

  I was now looking over her head at the ground beyond.

  She took one look and the stiffness in her shoulders said it all. She saw immediately that if her partner did what we both knew he was going to do, which was to come up shooting, she would be right in his line of fire with no way out. She threw me an angry glance but other than tugging futilely at the bootlace, she didn’t move. She certainly had some guts.

  ‘Go back,’ I said, pointing to her original position. I wanted her to know that I had complete control over the next few minutes in her life, just as she’d thought about mine as she descended off the ridge and tracked me down the gulley.

  She hesitated, fearful of a trick, then ducked her head and rolled over and over until she was behind cover.

  I counted slowly to thirty, eyes on a small rise in the ground where the gulley followed the line of the slope. He was being cautious, but I figured he was also in a hurry to prove himself. Number twos always have their eyes on the top spot; it’s human nature, especially in a competitive industry. Nobody likes being second best.

  A flicker of movement came six feet away from where I expected it, and the ground twenty feet in front of me was churned up by a volley of shots, throwing up grass, mud and chunks of granite. One round passed too close for comfort but it wasn’t aimed; none of them were. But a stray bullet would have been curtains just the same.

  ‘He didn’t even check his target area,’ I told her, nodding at the torn-up ground. It was exactly where she’d been lying moments before. ‘That would have been you.’

  She said nothing, but looked away, her jaw clenching as the truth sank home. So I focussed on waiting for the other shooter to stand up. One. Two Three.

  And he did just that, rifle at his shoulder, but several degrees off the mark. When he finally saw me, his mouth dropped open in surprise.

  I centred on his body mass. Squeezed the trigger.

  Using a strange rifle without firing a test shot is always risky. But I figured the woman was professional enough to have looked after her weapon and kept the sights zeroed in.

  The punch of the recoil was a surprise, but nothing like the shock the other man would have felt if his nervous system had been fast enough to pass on the message that he’d been shot. He flipped over like he’d been hit by a truck and went down, his rifle flying clear.

  I didn’t need to inspect the result, but I jogged over and looked down at the body anyway. It pays to be sure.

  It was a man. Somewhere in his thirties, unshaven, gaunt and dressed in rough weather clothing, he had a ring on one finger which looked like heavy gold. I pulled back one sleeve and checked what remained of his chest. Tattoos. Difficult to see what they were now, but one on his arm was a large spider. I didn’t know the significance of that but it pointed at a possible gang involvement or a contract shooter. Ivkanoy. It had to be.

  I checked his pockets. He had nothing. No wallet, no papers. Clean.

  A pro, like the woman, but less experienced. Now dead.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I walked back and found the woman lying where I’d left her. She wasn’t trying to get loose, but staring up at the sky, face blank, numbed. Waiting.

  I’d seen this kind of reaction before in defeated fighters; it’s a mixture of shock, of fear, of wounded pride, of not knowing what to expect next. And of judging by their own standard of life that their options were strictly limited. Even so I wasn’t writing her off as a spent force; there was a glimmer of something still present in her that told me if I let her, she’d be all over me.

  ‘What was your assignment, Olena?’ If she was in any way official, such as par
t of any government agency, I was royally screwed and had no time to mess around. It meant my presence had been blown and I was going to have to hustle out of here. But to do that I had to know which way to run.

  She shook her head, lips tight, then spat out a gobbet of blood. This wasn’t going anywhere.

  I knelt down beside her, getting right in her line of sight so she’d have to look at me. I wasn’t trying to intimidate her – I figured that wasn’t going to work. But she couldn’t ignore me completely and it might make her say something unguarded. I noticed she was wearing ear-buds to drown out the noise of the rifle shot, so I flipped them out. She’d heard me plainly enough but I wanted to show her I had control.

  ‘You had orders to kill me. Who from? You don’t have to say, but I’m kind of interested.’

  She told me to go screw a goat. Mildly creative but not helpful.

  I said softly, ‘Thank you. Your colleague is dead. You want to join him?’

  There were no more insults this time and she blinked in spite of herself. If I’d raged and threatened her, it might have been different. Nobody likes to be asked that kind of question, especially in a soft voice. It carries an air of finality, as if a line has been crossed and there’s no going back.

  The silence was enough. Tough as she was, she wanted to live.

  ‘Your choice,’ I said, and swung the rifle barrel round to point at her. I held it steady just an inch from her left eye.

  She blinked with shock. It must have been like staring down a rail tunnel. She hesitated for three seconds, then began to talk, speaking softly, as if worried somebody might hear. She was a former army sniper, she told me, now employed on a contract basis. When I pressed her she said it meant anyone who could afford to pay for her services, mostly private clients with enemies they wished to eliminate. It happens a lot in Eastern Europe, where competition for power and influence is brutal and the means to blast your way to the top of the heap are there if you have the money and the ambition.