Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  I waited until eight, then decided to take the initiative. The hand-over was taking too long. The more time Travis spent here the more exposed he would become and the greater was the risk he ran of being noticed.

  At eight-ten I walked across the road and approached the reception desk. The clerk was male, impressively tall and snappily dressed, with four pens in his breast pocket and the manner of someone who knew what was what in the hospitality industry.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ He looked ready to vault the desk and do a polka. In the background I could hear the clatter of dishes and cutlery.

  ‘I need to speak with one of your guests,’ I explained again. ‘The driver of a black Polo.’

  He thought about it and nodded. ‘Of course, sir. Is there a problem?’

  I told the story again about scraping the Polo with my car.

  ‘I see. One moment, please.’ He checked his computer screen, tapped several keys, then picked up a phone and dialled a number. He waited and pulled a regretful face.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. There’s no answer. He must have stepped out early.’

  ‘Might he be in the restaurant?’

  ‘No, sir. I would have his meal tab. His is not one of them. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No. Could you try his extension again? He might be in the bathroom.’

  ‘Of course.’ He went through the dialling routine again, and I watched the numbers to see which room he was calling. Twenty-eight.

  Still no answer.

  Alarm bells were now ringing big time. Travis had no reason to go off the plan like this. Maybe he’d taken a walk like the clerk suggested. Stress needs a form of release and he would have been feeling under plenty of that in the past few days. But sightseeing was the last thing Travis would have wanted to do – he was too keen on getting home to his family.

  I thanked the clerk for his help and walked outside and round to the rear of the hotel. I hadn’t seen any CCTV cameras in evidence, so I figured it was safe to take a little snoop. I found a newspaper tucked inside the pannier of a moped and grabbed it, and walked in through a back door as if I owned the place.

  The stairs to the second floor were deserted, and I got to room twenty-eight without seeing anyone. The place sounded quiet save for the distant hum of a vacuum cleaner.

  I tapped on the door. It opened a fraction.

  I rolled the newspaper as tight as I could, with the spine edges out where the paper was thickest. As a make-do weapon at close quarters, it wasn’t great but would do. I wasn’t expecting Travis to go all physical at me, but the atmosphere here was wrong enough to make me think something bad had happened.

  I pushed the door back until it bumped against the wall. The room was standard design, with a bed, armchair, night table, a line of hangers and a waste bin. The bed was undisturbed. As I was about to go in, I heard a clank and a maid appeared wheeling a small service trolley. She peered past me and saw the undisturbed bed, then walked away with a shrug of her shoulders, waving a hand and muttering about guests who never turned up.

  I stepped inside the room and walked across to the window. The air smelled sour and stuffy, as if the heating had been turned up too high, and there was another aroma, too. Somehow gamey, like blocked pipes. I checked the car park. The black Polo was still there.

  So where was 24d?

  I turned to leave, and that’s when I saw him. He was in the corner, behind the armchair.

  Even without checking I knew he was dead.

  THIRTY-TWO

  By the position of his body it was evident that his neck had broken. Whoever had killed him had curled him up tight, forcing his thin legs in against his chest and wedging them in place with the armchair. He didn’t take up much space and looked even skinnier dead than alive. Killing him must have been a simple task.

  I checked his pockets. They were empty. Nothing to identify him.

  As I flipped back one side of his jacket, I saw a rip in his shirt. I also pinpointed the gamey smell I’d picked up earlier. He’d soiled his pants. I could see why, too. His shirt wasn’t ripped – it was cut. And there was the deep black-red colour of blood soaking his hip and the carpet beneath him.

  I peeled back the shirt. 24d had been tortured. Somebody had used a knife on him, jamming the blade in his side and making a hole just above the hip bone. The pain must have been unbearable. I lifted his head, wondering if he’d had a chance to cry out. But that had been impossible; the corner of a bright yellow handkerchief protruded from between his lips, with the rest stuffed down his throat.

  Torture. The kind of thing people do with only two aims in mind.

  Information or revenge.

  I discounted the second; as far as I knew, 24d was a stranger here and hadn’t seemed the sort to hurt a fly. But the information he had which would have made this worthwhile was the whereabouts of Edwin Travis.

  And the location of the local cut-out.

  I had to get out of here. But finding Travis was a priority. Without him, my job was over. I stood up and made sure the body wasn’t visible from a casual look through the door. I didn’t want the maid coming back and screaming the place down before I was clear and away.

  I stepped out into the corridor and three doors down almost walked into a man coming out of another room. He was tall and heavily muscled, with a bullet head. He moved like a club bouncer, all shoulders and arms, and was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket. As he turned to pull the door shut, his jacket swung open to reveal the leather strap of a shoulder harness across his chest and the butt of a semi-automatic in a holster. Then he saw me.

  His mouth dropped open in surprise, and I could see him trying to compute whether I was a threat or not. Then a light came on and he lashed out with a fist like a bucket while reaching for the gun.

  I didn’t know how, but somehow he’d recognized my face, and that worried me.

  As fast as his reactions were, my appearance had caught him off-balance. I ducked beneath the punch and turned, kicking his right knee from under him. It gave with a sharp crack of bone and he started to fall, a scream of pain building in his throat. I hit him across the side of the neck and bounced him off the wall as he went down, out for the count. Then I grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him back into the room he’d just left and rolled him behind the bed. As I did so I heard a sound behind me and swung round, expecting trouble number two and ready to go again.

  It was Ed Travis looking at me from the next bed.

  His eyes were rolling imploringly above a strip of tape wrapped around his head and over his mouth, and his hands and feet were taped up tight so he could barely move. He was sweating freely and looked like a man living a nightmare.

  I peeled away the tape from his mouth and he yelped as it took off some skin from his lips.

  ‘Sorry. Who’s your friend?’ I asked him.

  He shook his head without replying, and I saw why. His lips were dry and cracked, and he was having trouble breathing. The heavy must have had him taped up for some time without water. He also had a heavy bruise under one eye and possibly other injuries I couldn’t see.

  I made him stay where he was and got a glass of water from the bathroom and dribbled a little over his mouth. ‘Take it easy,’ I said, when he tried to grab the glass from me. ‘Where are you hurt?’

  He flapped a hand over his ribs. I told him not to talk and peeled back his shirt. He had some vivid bruising across his chest and stomach where he’d been punched repeatedly, and I didn’t want to speculate on how much internal damage might have been done. Whatever it was, there was nothing I could do about it at the moment.

  Once I was sure he’d drunk just enough to keep him going I went over to check the windows. If the unconscious man now snoring behind the bed had any colleagues about, they were out of sight. But staying here was now even more risky with a dead body down the corridor and the likelihood of someone coming up here to join the muscle-man.

  I turned round just as Travis finished th
e water and nodded. ‘It’s OK. Thanks. I’m good.’ He shook some feeling back into his arms and feet, and gingerly tucked his shirt in, wincing as he touched his stomach. He stared down at the thug behind the other bed. ‘I thought I was dead. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t tell him. He was like a madman – but controlled. Sadistic.’ He took a deep breath as the shock suddenly hit him, and his face, which was already pale, went a shade of grey. He rolled off the bed and just about made the bathroom, where he threw up noisily in the sink. Sudden rehydration will do that to you.

  He came back out wiping his face with a tissue and looked at me with a vacant expression. I’d seen that look before in others. It’s the kind of phase a person goes through just prior to sinking into a state of severe shock. He had tear streaks down his cheeks and when he spoke his voice was shaky. ‘He wouldn’t believe me. He told me what he’d done to Denys and he’d do the same to me if I didn’t tell him the address.’

  ‘Hold it. Denys? Denys who?’ I had to keep him talking, keep him thinking about putting words together. The alternative was for him to go catatonic.

  ‘The man from the apartment who brought me here. His name was Denys. He wouldn’t tell me his family name. You didn’t know?’

  ‘I didn’t need to. What address was he talking about?’

  He coughed with difficulty and cleared his throat. ‘The next in line. The cut-out. I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen—’

  ‘Did you tell him?’

  ‘No!’ He looked offended. ‘I couldn’t. I was only given the first address – that was Denys’. He said it was best if I didn’t know who he was delivering me to in case we ran into a roadblock. He said if that happened I should call the US Embassy in Kiev and find somewhere to hide until they could arrange a pick-up, and not to trust anybody.’

  ‘And he left you here?’

  ‘Yes. He said he had to go out and that I should stay inside. I think he was going to make contact with the local asset, but I didn’t hear from him again. Oh, God, that noise.’ His mouth fell open and he looked sicker than ever.

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘I heard something in the night. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, but it sounded like somebody hitting a pillow. You know … the way you do when you can’t sleep? Jesus, I’ve only just realized—’ He stopped speaking as imagery in his head told him what it must have been.

  ‘Don’t think about it,’ I told him. ‘And then this guy turned up?’

  He looked distraught. ‘He said he’d killed Denys because he refused to talk. Is that right – he’s dead?’

  I nodded. It was pointless hiding the truth and he had to know how serious things were. I was still puzzled about who bullet-head was and why he was here – and how he’d obviously known who I was. I bent and searched his pockets. He had some cash, a cell phone, a wallet with a couple of credit cards and a plastic ID card which gave his name as Greb Voloshyn. A business card described him as a private investigator and security guard with a company called BJ Group based in Kiev.

  In his inside jacket pocket I found two photos. One was of Edwin Travis.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, and stuffed both photos in my pocket. I helped Travis to his feet, taking care not to put any strain on his ribs. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  As we moved towards the door, I glanced out of the window. In the distance, two cars were approaching at speed with headlights on. One had a red light flashing on the roof. The other was a military jeep. It was just what we didn’t need right now.

  But what also worried me was the second photo I’d found in Voloshyn’s pocket.

  It was of me.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Benson, Chapin, Cassler and Teller were once more in the secure library at Chapin, Wilde & Langstone. The atmosphere was brooding, following the news of growing tensions in Eastern Europe. This time they were served glasses of whisky with soda and spring water on the side. But none of them had added anything to the fine malt.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Benson, opening the meeting, ‘that it would help us if the wheels were to come off this particular wagon.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’ Cassler was staring into the screen of a tablet showing a summary of the latest trading figures. To judge by his expression, the wheels had already come off his particular transport. As they all knew, the European markets had changed overnight and he’d lost heavily before he could take action. He looked far from pleased at the results and a bead of sweat was visible on his mottled skin. If there was one thing they all knew Cassler hated, it was losing money. Of all of them, he was probably the most exposed financially.

  ‘It means this whole thing is moving too slowly and we have to force the issue.’

  ‘Enlighten us, then.’ Cassler looked irritated, as if his personal pain was being ignored.

  ‘For our plans to work,’ Benson announced, ‘we need Congress and the White House to harden their stance on Travis’s situation. The State Department’s jumping up and down but Travis is just one man who happens to have his ass caught in a sling. As far as the White House is concerned, he’ll be fine as long as everybody keeps talking.’

  Chapin looked interested but wary. He hadn’t touched his whisky and seemed tired, as if his reserves of energy had washed out of his system leaving him drawn and pale. ‘What about the planned rescue operation? I thought that was under control.’

  ‘I’m keeping close tabs on it. Travis was moved from his hotel, and the contractor managed to get him away from his escort. I don’t know the details, but I gather he used force. Travis is now in a pipeline heading west, but I understand the contractor has run into some problems.’

  ‘What sort of problems?’ Chapin leaned forward. As a former intelligence officer, he knew what it was like to hear that an asset had been blown and was being hunted down. It was the kind of news that had haunted agent runners down the decades.

  ‘His continued freedom is in doubt. In fact, if certain factions over there knew where he was right now, they’d pick him up and put him on display. Which would be a shame.’ Benson gave a ghost of a smile that betrayed the sentiment for what it was. ‘But that’s a consequence of the games the CIA thinks it can indulge in.’

  ‘A real shame,’ said Chapin. ‘Still, good plans fail all the time. But what will that mean to Travis? He’s in this pipeline, isn’t he?’

  Benson hesitated. He’d been wondering how to broach the subject ever since making the phone call that had set things in motion. He still wasn’t sure how the others would take it. He felt they weren’t quite as … committed as him.

  It came down to acceptable losses. Losing an unknown contractor was hardly a tragedy; it happened all the time in Afghanistan, Iraq and other places. But losing a member of the State Department was much closer to home. The ripples would be felt throughout Washington and would have even the most enthusiastic of apologists for Russian foreign policy demanding action against them and their agents. He wasn’t sure how it would be received here among this small group of self-interested individuals, but he couldn’t hold off for ever; time was getting short and he’d already set things in motion. It was now or never.

  ‘He’s in the pipeline, yes. But pipelines are fragile structures. They get breached from time to time. Sometimes with serious consequences.’

  ‘What are you saying,’ Teller queried. ‘Pipelines? Breached?’

  Benson threw him an angry look. He still hadn’t forgiven Teller his lack of tact in front of Conkley. ‘I’m saying we need a catalyst. A human one. Something that will harden attitudes.’

  ‘Like?’ Cassler prompted.

  ‘What I’m thinking of would be a tragedy for Travis’s family,’ he said carefully, ‘but every conflict has its casualties. The knowledge that a member of the US State Department was running around the country in the hands of people with questionable loyalties would raise questions all the way back to Moscow, I feel sure. They’d want to do something about it. Something that
would give us an edge.’ He sat back and waited. There. He’d got as far as he dared to voicing the unsayable.

  Edwin Travis had to meet with an accident.

  There was a long silence while they digested the full meaning of what he was suggesting. Even Cassler put down his tablet and looked around at the others. His expression was close to incredulity. But that might have been the onset of reality hitting home.

  Benson caught the look and cursed beneath his breath. He’d been counting on the moneyman to seize any opportunity going to lead the financial charge. Once he was on board, he was certain the others would follow.

  ‘What are you saying would happen,’ Ambrose Teller asked in his convoluted way, ‘if such a tragedy came about? Would Moscow really be so upset at finding he was on Ukrainian soil that they would use it? I assumed they must already know he’s over there holding talks, as have many others.’

  ‘Of course they know.’ Benson bit back on his impatience. They were starting to get cold feet. ‘But that’s politics; better to have an appearance of openness than not. Even Putin recognizes that – up to a point. In any case, I’m sure Travis was being watched to make sure he didn’t cause too much trouble. The Russians are clever; allowing a measure of foreign “discussion” is good for their image. Not that they’re officially involved, anyway. Remember, they disclaim any control over these so-called separatists, so their hands are clean. They can stand by and watch it all without being tied to any nastiness that might happen. But given the chance, they’ll make capital out of it just to deflect international disapproval from their own involvement.’

  ‘Interesting scenario.’ Chapin spoke softly, but there was uncertainty in his voice. He threw Benson a cool look. ‘But you’re talking about two men being wasted, Howard.’

  ‘I’m suggesting what could happen.’

  Chapin snorted at the other’s careful choice of words. ‘Jesus Christ, I always knew you were a ruthless bastard. I just never realized how far you were prepared to go. Are you serious?’