Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  He had taken some serious risks by sending out the information from the list he’d seen in Sewell’s office. But that had been unavoidable. Putting a crimp in the Watchman mission had required drastic measures and calling in outside influences was the only way he could think of that would achieve the objective at short notice. He didn’t see it as disloyal or even treacherous betraying Travis to the Russians, and neither did he give much thought to the danger the State Department employee might run. He knew well how these things went: there would undoubtedly be some protracted discussions and a deal of posturing from both sides to satisfy national pride. But a compromise would eventually be reached and Travis would be on his way home soon enough, a shop-soiled but undoubted hero in the eyes of the State Department and his loving family.

  As for Portman, Benson wasn’t remotely interested. Contractors, or mercenaries as they used to be tagged, knew the risks they ran when they took up their sordid trade; weeping tears over them when they met their inevitable fate could be best left to soft-hearted liberals and men like Callahan.

  Thoughts of the CIA officer revisited a niggle of concern lingering in the back of his mind. He was acutely aware that this whole business could come back to bite him if he didn’t take great care. If anything went wrong and the man with Russian connections didn’t get the job done, someone, somewhere – and he was betting on Callahan – would set the tracker dogs sniffing along the audit trail of anyone who had come remotely close to the mission. Although he was certain that he would remain above any suspicion, given his record and position in the Intelligence Community and Washington generally, it paid not to ignore the possibility of fate playing a deceitful hand.

  Which was why, to avoid that possibility, he had decided to lay a false trail before it got that far. He could have simply sat back and allowed Two-One to arrange the payment to Lindsay Citera’s bank account and for a phone call to encourage her fate to be sealed. Who was more likely to sell highly sensitive information than a young, impressionable but naïve trainee with a dysfunctional family and money problems?

  But sitting back would be cheating. Where was the fun in not being in on the kill, if not specifically, then helping set it up?

  On arrival at Langley he made his way through security to the Operations Centre, where he was greeted by Jason Sewell. The assistant director seemed puzzled by the request for the meeting until Benson casually mentioned the forthcoming Select Committee budget discussions.

  ‘I need more beef on current operations, Jason,’ Benson said easily. ‘If they think things are quiet, they’ll assume you don’t need resources – which means they’ll cut you back even further and give it to Homeland Security instead. I’m sure you wouldn’t wish for that to happen.’

  Sewell pulled a face. After many years of being in the senior echelons of the intelligence world, he knew all about the workings of these committees, and how there were some who were looking for any excuse to cut back on clandestine activities spending compared to other forms of intelligence gathering and security. If he had any thoughts about Benson’s role in such areas, he hid it well. ‘Of course, Senator. I can give you a rundown of what we’ve got on, certainly. But it’s pretty much already on paper for them to see.’

  ‘I know. And I sympathize, I really do. But don’t you have some manpower issues I can feed them?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, take this current Watchman situation. You told me Callahan had to pull a new recruit off the Clandestine Trainee Program to act as Watchman’s communications support. That surely speaks of a lack of experienced personnel in key positions, doesn’t it – of overstretch?’

  Sewell lifted an eyebrow. ‘Well, that particular person is not without some experience, it’s true … but we could always do with more facilities. We’re being asked to do more, with more targets to watch, so that’s affecting our demands on current personnel. And with experienced operatives being attracted to the private market, and natural wastage through retirement and ill-health, it’s an uphill struggle, I won’t deny.’

  ‘Good. Numbers are important, without a doubt. But it’s the people situation that swings votes, Jason. Committees are swayed by the usual buzzwords of inclusivity and equality, and the bringing on of fresh talent across the board. Give them a sense that their budget-stripping is going to cut the feet out from under a new generation of, shall we say, gender-specific personnel, and they shy away from that potential fragmentation grenade.’

  ‘I see. So what do you want from me?’

  ‘As a percentage of intake, how many women have you got currently in training?’

  ‘Right now?’ Sewell had to think. ‘I’d say with the current batch, probably thirty per cent. Why?’

  ‘Because nobody, not even the bean counters in government, wants to be seen as responsible for killing the aspirations of young American women in the service of this great country. Especially not those prepared to engage in the dangerous fields of work like the Clandestine Service. It’s even tougher with ethnic recruits, too; interfere with that and it’s a vote-killer – but don’t quote me on that.’

  Sewell nodded. ‘I see your point. So how can I help?’

  ‘Let me have a chat with one or two of your trainees, find out what their aims and aspirations are. I think it’s time to put some of these points before the right people, to flesh out the fact that these young patriots entering the service are not simply functionaries and bean counters but are actively involved in the war against terrorism and the protection of this country. What do you think?’

  ‘Of course. I agree one hundred per cent. Tell me where you’d like to start.’

  ‘Well, how about one of the live operations. Let’s begin with the young woman working on the Watchman assignment, shall we? What was her name again – Linda?’

  ‘Uh – Lindsay. Lindsay Citera. I don’t see why not.’ He picked up his phone. ‘I’ll get someone to take you downstairs.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Lindsay Citera was leaving the washroom in the Operations Centre when she heard a vaguely familiar voice drifting along the corridor. For a moment she couldn’t place it, but she guessed it must be coming from close by her comms room. Callahan had arranged for a sit-in replacement for regular breaks, and she had left a fellow trainee named Matt to hold the phone while she was out for a comfort break. But if somebody was down here she needed to be back at her desk.

  She smoothed her fingers across her eyes and picked up her pace. It had been a while since she’d last spoken to Watchman, and she’d been staring at the monitors ever since as if that alone would get him to call again with news. Not that she was hanging on his every word, but she could barely even guess at the stress he must be under. At least being able to exchange information with him, however insignificant it might be, was better than sitting here with nothing to do.

  As she was learning fast, being comms support for a live operation wasn’t the all-action, breathtaking activity she and most of her trainee colleagues had imagined. Forget everything you saw in films, with lots of shouting for more intel, location of target groups and calls for backup; most of it involved a great deal of waiting, with brief periods of feverish note-taking and background research work when the calls came in.

  As she rounded the corner, the identity of the voice’s owner suddenly came back to her, along with a tang of his cologne, and she felt a sense of panic. Benson. Why was he back here? Christ, she’d only been away from her desk five minutes, max.

  She entered the room to find the senator leaning over Matt’s shoulder while the younger man explained the workings of the various screens. One was a satellite display showing a detailed layout of the Ukraine countryside near Pavlohrad, with an overlay of local conditions such as traffic movements, weather and, recently added by a National Security Agency feed, a colour schematic of reported troop movements in the area, both government and separatist forces. On the next screen was a detailed log of Lindsay’s last conversation with Watchman, with a t
imeline trace of his route from Donetsk and a computer-generated transcript of his report. This included the confrontation with the troops in Donetsk and his escape with Travis.

  ‘Sir?’ She stepped inside the room, easing past Benson’s bulky form, and reached across to shut down the report screen. As she did so, she gripped Matt’s shoulder angrily, digging her nails in, and threw him a murderous look as he looked up and took off his headset. She’d expressly told him to leave the screens in sleep mode, so that there was no danger of them being seen by anyone unauthorized.

  ‘It’s all right, young lady – Lindsay, isn’t it?’ Benson waved a casual hand and stepped away. ‘I remember how conscientious you are. Nothing seen, nothing remembered. I have Assistant Director Sewell’s authority to be down here.’ He smiled in a self-important way, trailing his eyes over her chest before nodding at Matt. ‘Your young colleague here didn’t let anything slip, I promise. It was actually you I wanted to speak to.’

  ‘Me?’ Lindsay looked at him and felt the cold knot of apprehension in her stomach. What on earth could this man want to ask her? She glanced around hoping Brian Callahan would come to help her, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Benson misinterpreted her reaction and gestured towards the corridor. ‘Good idea. Perhaps we could find a seat somewhere quiet. I’m sure Matt, here, wouldn’t mind staying on for a few minutes to hold the fort?’ He glanced at Matt for confirmation, patting him on the shoulder like a favoured nephew.

  ‘Of course, sir. No problem.’ Matt flushed under the senator’s touch and Lindsay was pleased to see that he looked ready to squirm. Serves him right for being such a suck-up, she thought.

  ‘Good, good. I need your take on life here as a new recruit and trainee, Lindsay, and what your hopes and aspirations in the organization might be.’ He led the way along the corridor to a room with a water cooler, and they took seats. He brushed at an imaginary speck on his sleeve and added, ‘You’d be helping me enormously for a report I’m preparing for an upcoming Senate Select Committee.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It would be of great value, believe me.’

  ‘Fine, sir. How can I help?’

  ‘Well, first of all, why not tell me about your family. You have a sister, I believe? Karen, is it?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’ Lindsay felt the knot loosen a fraction. Maybe this was nothing more than what he’d said: information for a report and background data about staff. Human resources stuff.

  She looked down at her feet while gathering her thoughts. Talking about Karen wouldn’t take long, and was easy to explain. She was a headstrong kid who’d got in with the wrong kind of people. But hopefully that was now heading the right way. She just hoped Benson wasn’t going to ask about Tommy; that was something she preferred not to go into. It was all on her file, but Tommy had screwed up in so many ways it was hard to know where to start, especially telling it to a stranger. She felt disloyal at the very thought, but there was no hiding the fact that Tommy had brought most of it on himself and seemed not to care about the effects on the rest of the family.

  She looked up and saw Benson was smiling almost patronisingly. At that moment it suddenly hit her that he knew Karen’s name. But how could he? She felt the knot harden again. Did this mean he’d been given access to her personnel file?

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Tell me about Karen. What does she do for a living?’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  We were back on the M04, which looked pretty much as it had the other side of Pavlohrad. It ran through predominantly flat farmland dotted with glints of water from rivers and lakes, and marked by the march of pylons disappearing over the horizon. We didn’t have time to take the minor roads, the way I’d been forced to do after leaving Donetsk. Unless we ran into more trouble and had no choice but to find cover in the back country, I was sticking to the more direct route. The further west we could get, the safer we’d be.

  I checked my phone for the map and considered what alternatives might be open to us if we were forced off-track. Moldova had been the exit route from the beginning, since heading east or north was pointless; sooner or later we’d run into the wrong people. Besides, neither direction offered a safe exit even if by some miracle we stayed out of trouble. Going south, on the other hand, would take us towards the Black Sea, but I didn’t fancy our chances there, either.

  That still left Moldova, a small country sitting on Ukraine’s western border. I checked the app, which gave the distance as roughly 300 miles, give or take. It was a long way but do-able. If we made it and stayed clear of trouble, we stood a chance of being lifted out by Callahan’s people. Before making that decision, however, and before calling Callahan, I had to make certain of some facts.

  ‘Did Denys say what would happen after he handed you over at the Tipol?’

  ‘No. I asked him but he said he didn’t know. They operated on a strict cell structure. He knew the address and a phone number for the local cut-out in Pavlohrad but that was all. I think each cut-out had the same information. He stopped and made a call before we arrived in the town and was told to go to the hotel where you found me. We were waiting to hear from the local man to see where I was going next.’

  ‘It was a woman.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘The cut-out was a woman.’ I looked at him and held his gaze. I could have let it slide, allowing the fate of an unknown CIA asset to disappear unspoken into the history books of covert missions. But I needed him to know how serious this was. That people had got hurt and if he didn’t do exactly as I said, he would go the same way. ‘Her cover got blown and she was arrested by your pal in the grey suit.’

  He looked stricken. ‘I didn’t know that – that she was a woman, I mean.’

  ‘No reason why you should. At the request of the State Department, Langley activated a secure line of cut-outs to get you out of the country. You wouldn’t have needed to know any of them beforehand, but it looks as if some or all of the addresses got out there. Starting with Denys.’

  ‘How?’

  I didn’t tell him because I didn’t know. I also didn’t want to freak him out with an attack of departmental guilt over the fact that the State Department had sent the data unencrypted. He’d know soon enough when he got back – if he got back – that his bosses had been careless, even negligent, with sensitive data. That would be for him and them to live with. For now we had to focus on the next move.

  ‘Did they say what they wanted you for?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man in the grey suit.’

  ‘At first he didn’t say anything. He was fairly officious, even aggressive, but I put that down to being on edge with all the guns in the area. I got the impression he was taking me out of the hands of the separatists without their knowledge. Was that possible?’

  ‘He certainly had the muscle for it.’ I told him about the blanked-out trucks and the soldiers who looked anything but irregulars. ‘I think he was going to ship you back east. If he’d left you with the separatists there’s no saying what would have happened. But you don’t need to feel grateful to him – he would have used you any way he and his bosses thought fit. What else did he say?’

  ‘On the way to the place where Denys lived, he said he knew I was connected to western spies and traitors and he wanted all their names and addresses. I told him I didn’t know but he wouldn’t listen. He said he knew I’d had help while I was in the country, and if I gave him the names and addresses, he’d negotiate with the authorities and arrange for them to put me on a plane home. After you got me away and Denys took me to Pavlohrad, the other man showed up. I think he’d tracked Denys’s car.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He asked pretty much the same questions, only not so nicely.’ He winced at the memory. ‘Was he Russian?’

  ‘I believe so. Probably with connections to the separatists and on through to Moscow. I think he was there to take you back to Donetsk. Once back there you’d have been part of another trade. They’re
all looking for bargaining tools.’

  ‘Those photos you were looking at,’ he said after a while. ‘The one of me is a State Department file copy. I recognized it.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘How can that be possible? How does a file photo of me get into the hands of a thug like that?’

  I didn’t say anything. He was just thinking out loud and hoping against hope. A former member of Military Intelligence would know perfectly well how it was possible for information like that to get into the wrong hands without me having to tell him. The reasons for spying hadn’t changed much over the years, but the various methods of acquisition and delivery had.

  ‘And the one of you,’ he continued. ‘You know where it was taken, don’t you? I saw it in your face.’

  He was smart, in spite of his injuries, and perceptive.

  ‘I know, yes.’

  ‘Do you know who took it? Can you work it back from there?’

  I knew the where, all right. The photo was a still taken from the security footage at the entrance to the CIA front office in New York where I’d first met Callahan. I could tell by the clothes I’d been wearing.

  Who exactly had acquired the still was more of a puzzle. It was simple enough to do; you simply selected the section of footage and clipped the best frame you could find. From there you either copied the frame to a flash drive and walked out with it, or you emailed it from a secure, isolated workstation.

  There was a third way, of course. Somebody with the right credentials could have accessed the hard drive remotely and simply taken what they wanted.

  Somebody inside the CIA.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Walter Conkley had found himself an ally, albeit a slightly dubious one. Marcella Cready was one of the most feared journalists in Washington, and had long been a painful thorn in the sides of the establishment and the power brokers swirling around the Capitol, with few able to escape her scrutiny when in pursuit of a story. Winner of numerous awards for investigative journalism, Cready had focussed her work on exposing criminal activities in government agencies, the military and even the UN. Although now in her early fifties, she was as sleek as a fashion model and had lost none of her campaigning fight, and had the tenacity of a pit bull when she fastened on a story.