I asked her why me.
‘I do not know. We were told to find you and stop you for good. I get paid to do this work, not to ask questions.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s my job.’
‘So who gave you your orders?’ It was a vain hope but you never know.
‘Ivkanoy. It was Ivkanoy.’
Surprise, surprise. The fat man with the attitude problem. Max had been right; Ivkanoy really was pissed. So much so he’d sent a couple of contract shooters to kill me.
Ivkanoy was a big man in the region, she said. He had ‘friends’ all over, including across the border. I didn’t need to ask which border; Max had already told me that. She’d done work like this for Ivkanoy before, she admitted. Her mouth turned down at that. I couldn’t figure out if it was a grimace at the memory or if she was nervous at how this chat was going to turn out for her.
‘How did you find me?’
They had been checking all routes west out of Donetsk, she said, and had struck lucky as I pulled out of Vokzal’na Square. They had recognized the car immediately; it was one of Ivkanoy’s pool cars and used for clean jobs around the city. The plates didn’t match the originals, she’d noticed, but how many red Toyota Land Cruisers do you come across in this part of the world? They had tucked in behind me until I’d pulled in at the truck stop and they’d been forced to go on by. They had stopped further on, but when I failed to show, they knew I must have taken a different route. By the time they got back to the truck stop, I was gone. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where I must have pulled off the main road and they’d set off after me.
‘So what does Ivkanoy want with me?’
She looked puzzled and shook her head. ‘He said you stole the car. We had to find you, no matter how long it took. He was real mad. He put out calls all over to watch for you. He said you would have already left the city, but we were the ones who got lucky.’ She glanced towards the gulley at her late colleague, who I guessed wouldn’t have agreed with her. ‘Where I come from red is a bad colour.’
‘Well, I hope he doesn’t want it back.’
‘He doesn’t give shit about the car.’
So it was all pride. Nothing to do with Travis or my reason for being here. He wanted to show that he wouldn’t take what I’d done to him lying down. At least that was something good; it meant the mission wasn’t yet a complete bust.
I made a mental note never to drive a red car again, though.
‘What else did you do to piss on his feet?’ She had a sly look on her face in spite of the gun. ‘Make him lose face? Sleep with his mistress?’
‘He didn’t tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘He does not have to explain.’
‘There was no “else” about it. He tried to cheat me, spat in my face, so I kicked his ass and broke his finger. It happens when you don’t play straight.’
She agreed that it probably did and glanced towards the burning Toyota and the coil of dark smoke rolling across the grassland. ‘Actually, I think he’s going to be madder than ever when he sees that. He liked the car.’ She didn’t seem too distraught at the idea, and I figured Ivkanoy wasn’t her favourite employer.
I relaxed a little. At least the mission hadn’t been compromised. The number of people who knew what I was doing was no more than four or five, maximum. To have been able to find me so easily in a country this size meant they would have had to know my coordinates, description – everything. And they didn’t.
‘So what were your orders? Precisely.’
She looked at me pityingly, before nodding out at the grassland around us. ‘There are pools here. Bogs. Very deep. You go in, you never come up again.’
That was pretty terminal. I nodded and thanked her, but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t happy about having talked so easily and I guessed in another life she’d be on my tail again to finish the job so nobody ever found out. Longevity in her kind of game meant being trusted never to talk even under pressure. Talkers were a liability and usually ended up dead.
I stood up and lifted the rifle. She turned her head away and waited.
I used the rifle butt to break her ankle. It was a kinder fate than the one she’d planned for me, or that one in her profession might have expected. But it would slow her down until somebody came along the road. More importantly it would get her off my tail. I didn’t need to kill her to accomplish that.
She hissed sharply but never uttered a word. She was a tough cookie all right.
I smashed her cellphone and collected my bag, then walked up the ridge to the Isuzu. The most urgent task was to call in and tell support. Callahan would have to know about any potential police activity arising out of the past few hours. Even if the incident at 24 Obluskva was put down to the political situation, a dead body and a burning vehicle out here would cause comment. And that might spread ripples out to a wider area. Before speaking to Callahan, though, I needed to put some mileage between me and this place.
TWENTY-FIVE
After an hour’s hard driving I pulled in to the side of the road and gave the Isuzu a careful going-over. I didn’t know the female shooter’s status or if she had other colleagues in the area. But I found no bugs, no tracking devices or unusual little electronic boxes beneath the hood or in the trunk, nothing to tell me that I might soon have a backup team all over me like a rash.
The back seat in the extended cab had a sleeping bag where I figured the second shooter had been asleep while the woman drove. There were two bags containing a change of clothes – one small female, one larger male – and some basic field-type rations typical for the kind of track-and-stop operation they had been on, and which wasn’t expected to take more than a day or two. The woman’s bag held extra magazines for the OSV and the Grach, which I pocketed. The man’s held a spare magazine for his rifle. I left that there but took a hat with ear flaps and dumped the rest behind some bushes. Then I took out my cell phone and keyed the speed-dial for Callahan and waited.
A woman’s voice answered. ‘Go ahead, Watchman.’
‘I need to speak to Callahan.’
‘Sorry, he’s not available right now. You can report to me and I’ll see he gets it soonest.’
‘You’ll take it to him yourself?’ There’s an etiquette regarding operatives in the field; they get top priority no matter what. It’s the nature of the game. If their prime nominated contact – and for me that was Callahan – isn’t available, they get handed to the next in line, usually another duty officer of similar or appropriate rank. It’s how decisions that might involve life or death situations get made promptly and nobody gets left hanging.
Being left hanging is a form of slow torture.
‘If I have to. But I’m your primary communications link from here on in. I’m recording, so please speak when ready.’ Her words were crisp and confidant with no superfluous chatter. She’d been well trained.
‘What’s your name?’ It probably wasn’t approved procedure, but neither time nor circumstance were in abundance. I needed this faceless woman on my side, and having a name – even a temporary one – would help us both establish a professional rapport.
‘Lindsay. With an “A”.’
‘First or last?’
‘First.’ Something about the way she had said it told me it was real. But I like to check. Most of us use our own names with a faint hesitation, unless you’re a call-centre operator and hitting numbers eight hours a day trying to sell finance or auto wax. Then it’s just another word. I did the job once working undercover. Never again.
‘Nice name.’
‘My mom thought so. Dad not so much.’ The hint of humour made me wonder if she knew anything about where I was right now and what I was doing. I knew she would have been thoroughly briefed, but the level of information given out about operatives and assets depended a lot on the ops officer and his trust in the people he was using. And Callahan had told me they would be using someone off the trainee program.
I gave her a s
ummary of the run-in with Ivkanoy and the two shooters he’d sent after me. I left out the fine details; it wasn’t necessary and bragging about a kill ratio isn’t cool. If Callahan wanted to know more I’d tell him later. For now it was over and done with.
‘Are you free and mobile?’ She meant was I in one piece.
‘I am.’ The one thing a comms officer has to know is the condition and viability of an operative in the field. I confirmed my approximate position and direction of travel, and she listened without interruption. I could hear the soft rattle of a keyboard in the background as she made notes.
When I finished she said, ‘What’s your position relevant to Travis?’
‘I’m an hour behind him. He’s being taken to the first hand-over. That’s if it hasn’t already been raided.’
‘I understand. We’re having them checked out independently. Do you expect any interference from the two from Donetsk?’
She was asking if the shooters were likely to pose an imminent threat to me keeping an eye on Travis. She had a sharp ear for detail, and I was relieved; having someone on the other end of the line who was focused meant I didn’t have to repeat myself.
‘That situation is resolved.’ It was as oblique as I could manage and as vague as she was going to get. I wasn’t concerned about anyone listening in so much as not wanting to give out details I might later come to regret.
‘Can you confirm any ID?’ She was covering all the bases, just in case Callahan wanted to run a check through local contacts to make sure the field wasn’t being flooded with opposition forces or cops on the look-out.
‘One was named Olena Prokyeva – a freelance pro. It was a local thing; gang-related. Nothing to do with our situation.’
That wasn’t entirely correct, and Callahan would know it. The fact of my passing through the region was now on the board, even if known only by a local ticked-off gangster. As far as the troops in Obluskva Street knew, I was an unknown quantity who’d got in the way and snatched Travis from under their noses. I’d left no footprint, so I didn’t think that was serious. But sooner or later somebody would happen on the Toyota and the two shooters, drawn by the sight of smoke in an otherwise open landscape. What happened after that was anybody’s guess.
‘I’ll get her checked out,’ Lindsay said. ‘And the other person?’
‘He wasn’t saying.’
She didn’t miss a beat. It showed remarkable cool and I admired her for it. Even the mention of a woman shooter in opposition hadn’t surprised her.
‘I understand. Anything else?’
‘Just one thing. I know you’ve got approved speech procedure. But we should keep it casual.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘The terminology. If there’s a monitoring station in the area, they could pick up and recognize key words.’
Key words: the bane of anyone wanting to stay off the grid, yet forced to use technology for what it was. Government agencies use key words for information searches and listening in to phone calls – even encrypted ones. All it needs is one – among the biggest are ‘terrorist’ and ‘bomb’ – and electronic tracking does the rest. The US has the National Security Agency (NSA) and the British have the Government Communications Headquarters (GCHQ). But they’d be foolish to think they were the only ones using such powerful, high-tech systems. Russia has a reputedly much-diminished Third Directorate, which does similar work, but nobody assumes they’re anywhere near powerless.
At least, I don’t.
‘I gotcha. Will that do you for now?’
I laughed. Lindsay with an ‘A’ caught on fast.
TWENTY-SIX
Walter Conkley was in a blue funk. Ever since the meeting with Chapin, Cassler, Teller and the brutally threatening Howard J. Benson, he’d been looking over his shoulder. He had no illusions about his position relative to their activities, and was aware that he was allowed into their circle solely because of the level and nature of the information he could bring them from his place at the seat of government. He was also aware that the four men clearly had interests that went far beyond their think-tank status and their stated interests in the intelligence and security apparatus or, as it now seemed, the welfare of their country.
After what he’d heard Teller say earlier, he knew that there had been a subtle shift in his situation, and that there was no going back. Making profits out of war was nothing new; men had done so over the years, both in and out of government. But it was mostly unsaid and understood to be the prerogative of a few ruthless – and mostly nameless – entrepreneurs. What Teller had inadvertently opened the door to was the idea that this small group had plans which were not solely centred on the continued welfare of the Intelligence Community, as they pretended, but on their own financial interests. That their patriotic support of that community and the future of American foreign policy had been little more than a front for their own plans.
He wasn’t a friend of such men, but he knew enough about them to have instantly divined where their discussion regarding European fuel and energy problems was taking them. And the idea of being caught up in that kind of deal worried him.
But not as much as the knowledge that he was now a marked man.
That had become evident in the seconds following Teller’s comment, when Conkley had seen a glint of something in Benson’s eyes; something that had sent a shiver right through him. Working alongside the most powerful men and women in the United States, individuals with the ability to make things happen that could shake the entire world, had become something of a norm. He’d been impressed, even intimidated by their personalities and the aura surrounding the real movers and shakers, but that had diminished over time at the knowledge that it was merely politics, and that the power was usually aimed at others far away.
However, the look Benson had thrown at him was something he’d never seen before. It was a malevolence that had come out of nowhere and aimed right at himself.
The look of a predator.
And Conkley was the prey.
He checked the ATM slip in his hand. It showed the balance of the secret account he had set up when first suborned into providing information for the Dupont Group; the account where regular payments were deposited that would go some way, he hoped, to cushioning a retirement against the privations of an inadequate pension and a depressing future. He had no idea which of the four men physically paid him the money, only that it came with the unspoken proviso that it guaranteed his absolute discretion and lack of curiosity about their work.
Well, he’d certainly come as close as he’d ever imagined to blowing that proviso out of the water. But there was nothing he could do about that now. He scrunched up the ATM slip and threw it in a nearby trash can. Then in a moment of panic snatched it out again and tore it into tiny pieces. In a town where guarding secrecy was a way of life, paper trails were every bit as useable as electronic ones. And the amount on the slip was substantial enough to cause an instant investigation by Justice Department officials and the FBI if it was ever revealed.
He checked his watch. Several hours had gone by since the meeting. There had been no follow-up from Benson or the others, which was a bad sign. Common sense and a civil servant’s in-bred instinct for survival told him he should talk to somebody; somebody with a Teflon disregard for the kind of power people like Benson could wield. But that encompassed a very small and select group of individuals and would mean signing off the end to his career. Guilt by association was a hard charge to shake off – but possible given the right support. However, taking financial fees – payoffs – for the unauthorized disclosure of confidential government information was covered by all manner of secrecy regulations, and would settle around his head like a black cloud.
It would mean jail time.
He imagined the alternatives, toying with options and trying to convince himself that he was overreacting. If he kept quiet, maybe the problem would simply go away. What if he’d imagined the look in Benson’s eyes as be
ing nothing more than annoyance with his friend and talkative co-schemer, Teller? Maybe Benson had been embarrassed, and the look had been nothing more than that of a man trying to cover up a friend’s indiscretion.
But the idea refused to go away and he felt sick with indecision.
Traffic was light, so he decided to walk. Clearing his head through exercise and fresh air would allow him time to think about what he should do next. He waited for a gap in the traffic and turned across the street towards a small park bordered by trees. Trees brought calm and serenity.
He took out his cell phone and scrolled through his address book. His mind was made up. It was too late for regrets; all he could do was make sure that he maximized the potential of the situation.
Over the years he had amassed an impressive roll of contacts throughout government and the private sector, including the media. Maybe it was time to consider the fourth estate to help resolve his fears, just in case a backup plan was required and he needed some protection.
After all, there were plenty of journalists out there who would give their mother’s right arm to be able to bring down a self-important and overbearing bully like Senator Howard Benson. All they needed was a nice juicy scandal. Sex used to be good, but Clinton had rubbed the magic stone on that one and reduced its effect. Financial, then. Like most politicians Benson had enemies; you didn’t get to the top of a local, state or national tree without stamping on toes, and some people never forgot an injustice. And if self-interest and financial gain while in high office were part of the mix, that would be enough for the knives to come out.
All Conkley had to do was find the right media person – one who would relish the opportunity to get his or her own back on one of the big beasts of Washington. Someone who would pay for the privilege and add to his secret account. Then he had to work out how to keep his own name out of the spotlight and his hands clean.
Close Quarters Page 13