The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  As an experienced former field controller, and given his oversight role in SIS, he was granted the courtesy of hearings most other officers would not have had. Hearings where he could voice his misgivings, doubts and concerns about the dangers to the personnel involved. The people he spoke to were senior managers, each capable of stopping an operation in its tracks on the grounds of safety, necessity or national security, and each with considerable experience in seeing officers go out into hostile territories where casualties were not unknown.

  They listened, nodded at each point he raised and considered the implications, even his carefully worded suggestions that not only had Moresby frozen him out of the announcement of the plans, but that the officer selected for the operation lacked the required experience. But each had politely and firmly knocked him back. Moresby, they advised him, had presented carefully considered plans with full risk analyses and outcomes, and the dice had fallen squarely in his favour.

  With his final meeting over, Vale retreated to his office and shut the door. He felt humiliated. He was in the middle of the world’s most effective intelligence gathering organization and he was powerless to use any of it.

  He checked a slim file in his drawer, and scanned the brief report on the man who had saved Nate’s life.

  Marc Stuart Portman resides in Paris, London and New York. All address titles are held and dealt with by Belnex, an offshore administration company based in Gibraltar, as are various hotel group account cards. Described variously by neighbours as friendly, aloof, a businessman or job unknown, the subject’s passport details list him as holding joint American and British nationalities, aged 38, with no next-of-kin and no outstanding physical characteristics. He is slim to compact with dark hair cut short and lightly tanned skin. Enquiries at fitness suites near to his homes reveal use on an ad hoc basis under the above name. Suite instructor in London describes him as fit and strong, focussed but not obsessive in his training regime. Instructor in New York (ex-US Marine Corps) believes him to be former military but says he doesn’t talk much and doesn’t answer questions. Each reported no obvious tattoos or other military-related body markings.

  No records found of education, military service or employment. Search ongoing.

  A copy of a passport photo was attached. It showed a man with neat, dark hair, dark eyes and prominent cheekbones. Unremarkable looking and of Caucasian, possibly Mediterranean appearance, he was everyman, save for the directness of his gaze. Vale recognized that type. There were at least a dozen men fitting that description in this very building, some of them specialists in the Basement. They all had the same look. And like them, Portman probably had the ability to merge in a crowd, unmemorable and grey.

  Also like them, he could undoubtedly handle a weapon on first contact with deadly effect and come out unscathed.

  He picked up his phone and dialled Scheider’s direct number. Portman was primarily a US citizen and spent most of his time there. It was logical, therefore, to take up Scheider’s offer and see what the Meat Grinder could turn up about him.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ the American said. ‘We’ll get right on him.’

  Nine

  Parillas made a big show of climbing out of the car and looking down at the box, then lifting his chin as if asking what it was. The fat man said something and Parillas bent to lift the lid up and down as if testing the hinges. For good measure he gave one side a gentle kick before nodding and asking another question.

  The fat man went through the motions of haggling, which I didn’t think would fool anybody for a second. But maybe it was the way they do things down here. It was their show and probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for strangers meeting in a car park in the middle of the day and making an exchange of some kind.

  Parillas handed over some notes and lugged the box on to the back seat of the Land Cruiser, while the fat man waddled back to his pickup and took off.

  ‘We just bought a piece of furniture,’ Parillas said, in a weak attempt at humour. ‘There are guns and cell phones in the box – all throw-aways. Were the jackets and hats your idea?’

  I nodded. Disposable clothing is useful for changing one’s profile in tight situations. Followers of a target automatically lock on to colours, clothes and the physical characteristics of the person they’re tailing. Switching any of these creates confusion and maybe a chance of getting clear. Changing physical points isn’t so easy, but putting on a jacket, taking off a hat, picking up or discarding a bag, are often sufficient to throw off a tail.

  We set off again, this time for a kilometre or so, before Parillas stopped to drop me off. It put me five minutes’ walk from the hotel where the meeting was to take place. I stretched into the back and opened the wooden box, and took out a 9mm semi-automatic and a spare magazine, a pale linen jacket roomy enough to throw on over my own jacket, and an anonymous baseball cap. A cell phone completed my kit and I was ready to go.

  We synchronized watches and cell phone numbers, then I shrugged on the jacket and left Parillas to disappear somewhere quiet until it was time to arrive at the hotel for the meet. I had more than an hour to scope the area, and figured that should be enough to spot trouble if it was waiting. If there were any bogies around and I hadn’t spotted them by then, we were in deep water.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have long to wait. As I approached the hotel, which was in a busy section of town, I saw two black SUVs nosing at walking pace through the traffic. Alone, they might have gone unnoticed in such a crowded street. But keeping pace alongside them were several men on foot, scouring the faces of pedestrians.

  I felt alarm bells ringing. This wasn’t good. They might have been local dealers for all I knew, putting on a show of strength to win over some turf. Or a local law enforcement team on an exercise. But if so, why here, right now?

  I took out the disposable cell phone and hit speed dial to warn Parillas. If they were the cartel, we had no choice – we would have to abort. The meeting must have been compromised, although whether Achevar had already gotten scooped up was an unknown quantity.

  The phone rang for a full thirty seconds. I cut the connection and tried again, checking to make sure I hadn’t fed in the wrong number.

  No answer.

  Ten

  It was too much of a coincidence. From Parillas’ dismay at finding I was an outsider, to his general air of edginess when he let slip that he’d once lived here, and then his insistence on keeping me away from Achevar – all of that. Now he’d dropped off the net.

  It didn’t feel good.

  I ducked into a doorway and ripped off the linen jacket, dumping it behind a trash can. I stuck the baseball cap in my pocket, as that might come in useful. Then I checked the semi-automatic to make sure it was in full working order. Finding out later that it was a useless piece of junk would be fatal to my chances of getting out of here alive. But it was clean and well used, ready to go.

  I figured I had two options: one was to bug out and head for the border, calling up Beckwith on the way to warn him we were blown and I was in need of a fast passage through the control posts. How he got me out was up to him; if he didn’t, I’d just have to walk across the border and hope I didn’t get stopped. The other option was to stay and find out what had happened. What if Parillas was simply in a bad signal area somewhere, or was ill and couldn’t respond? He was hardly my best buddy, but if he was in a jam I couldn’t just leave him. I’d made that mistake once before and didn’t want to repeat it.

  I left the shelter of the doorway and made a circular tour of the block housing the hotel, shuffling along with my shoulders hunched, another wage slave going about his business. The area was packed with small shops, a riot of colour and music and smells, some familiar, others I couldn’t place. As I walked I checked the street and the surrounding rooftops. If the area was being blanket-covered by the opposition, who I figured had to be the Cartel, they would have watchers at ground level and high up, strategically placed to follow Parillas’ �
� and my – progress to the meeting point. That way they could lift us both off the street while keeping a bird’s eye view of any law enforcement in the area.

  I saw two possible spotters fairly quickly. Both with the cold expression of gang members, they were standing on a corner, scanning the crowds and holding cell phones ready to use. I couldn’t see any tattoos or other insignia, but that didn’t mean much; if they were under orders to be discreet, they would hardly be advertising their presence openly. I walked by them without a flicker and checked out the cars parked in the street, another customary blind spot for placing backup muscle.

  By the time I got back near the front of the hotel, I’d seen four more men. The two SUVs I’d seen earlier were now stationary two blocks down from the hotel, their engines off. The men with them were clustered on the sidewalk outside a small coffee bar, evidently waiting for orders.

  On my way round, I’d formulated a plan based entirely on surprise and impulse. It wasn’t great and my chances of success were limited, but it depended on getting to Achevar and persuading him to follow me. Otherwise I’d have to leave him.

  I slipped down a side street alongside the hotel and found a narrow door reinforced with steel plate. A pile of crates holding empty beer bottles stood nearby, ready for collection. I hefted one of the crates on my shoulder and walked inside. I was in the rear of the building, the air thick with cooking smells. A young woman in kitchen whites stepped out of a door ahead of me, spotted the crate and nodded towards a room on the far side, where I could see more crates stacked by the door.

  People see what they expect to see.

  I dumped the crate in the storeroom and continued along the corridor towards a rack of tourist brochures and city maps. The reception area was close by. I could hear a woman taking a booking just out of my line of sight to my left, marking the reception desk, and got a glimpse of the main entrance and a circular door dead ahead. A sign on the wall pointed to the stairs and elevator.

  I made a show of checking out the literature while eyeing the foyer, which had a marble floor and lots of yellow lights reflecting off brass panels, and pots of large exotic plants in the corners.

  I heard a man’s voice, deep and fast, followed by a laugh. Then a shoulder appeared round the edge of the wall, so close I could have touched it.

  It was a security guard complete with shoulder badge and a gun on his hip.

  I held my breath. No way would I get past him. I needed the emergency stairway. I turned back down the corridor the way I’d come and saw that the doorway the young woman had come through moments earlier was now closed, and carried a running man sign. I must have walked right by it.

  I ducked through and found myself in a lobby at the bottom of a flight of concrete stairs leading up. The air here was stuffy and warm, with no ventilation. Tucked under the stairs and spilling out into the lobby were some damaged chairs, a broken headboard and a couple of electric lamps, and I guessed the fire regulations didn’t stretch this far. Before going further, I took out the cell phone and tried Parillas once more.

  Still no answer.

  I walked up the stairs, my shoes crunching on a fine coating of grit, and hoped there were no security cameras in operation. Just in case, I opened a map I’d picked out of the brochure rack downstairs and held it in front of me with my head down and one hand inside my jacket on the gun.

  I passed the first floor landing and stopped to check for voices. Nothing. But it was hard to tell with the hum of traffic and bustle filtering in from outside. As hotels go, it couldn’t have been in a busier district. I checked my watch. Four fifty-five.

  I continued on up and did the same at the second floor, then walked up to the third and stepped out into a corridor. It was carpeted and well lit, and smelled more like a hotel, with a hint of air-freshener and cleaning liquids. I walked along until I reached another small lobby area with a single elevator and a flight of stairs. I listened for a moment over the void, but couldn’t hear anything.

  Time to go visit Mr Achevar.

  It’s always easier walking down from a higher floor to the one you need. That way you get advance warning of anyone waiting, because guards don’t always look up; they expect trouble to come from the lower floors. It also gives you the chance to turn and go back up if you need to, because up is generally less busy. The closer to the ground in a public building of any kind, the more likely you are to run into trouble.

  I stepped off the bottom stair and checked the corridor. Empty. If Mr Achevar was still waiting, he must be getting edgy.

  The door to thirty-four looked perfectly normal. I took out the gun and held it down by my leg, and stood to one side. I knocked.

  No answer. I knocked again, slightly louder. Maybe Mr Achevar was taking a nap.

  This time the door clicked and moved, then swung open a little.

  I smelled Achevar right away.

  I stepped inside, following the gun, although I didn’t think I’d need it. It was a standard room, with a single bed, TV, a couple of chairs and a writing surface with a drinks tray. There was no sign of the occupant, but it looked as if a hurricane had gone through, tearing the place apart. The bed had been stripped and ripped, drawers opened and the chairs tipped upside down and sliced open. Even the corners of the carpets had been lifted.

  I sniffed and felt my gut twitch, and eased round the corner of the bathroom door.

  Louis Achevar was slumped in the shower tray. Blood had splattered up the wall and shower screen, lending the scene a pink hue that was anything but soft.

  He had died hard, and I hoped for his sake that it had been quicker than it looked. Somebody had hacked off his hands and feet, the latter still in their shoes. They were lying outside the shower, placed neatly side by side, as if he might have stepped out of them before folding himself into a tiny ball and dying. His hands had been placed on his chest, with the fingers dipped into the gap where his throat had been sliced open like a pair of lips.

  A towel had been stuffed in his mouth to prevent his screams being heard, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and faeces. Dozens of flies were coming through the air vent in the wall, rushing to settle on the body, where they began feeding greedily off the slick layers of blood.

  I heard a police siren blip some way off, and felt the hairs lift on the back of my neck. I didn’t have much time. I was pretty sure that if Achevar had brought anything with him to hand over to Parillas, like a memory stick or a notebook, it had been taken. Even so, I had to look. I didn’t waste time checking the body; the pockets of Achevar’s pants had been ripped outwards and his shirt torn open. So I focussed on the bedroom area, trying to get inside the mind of a man terrified for his life yet determined to hand over information about his employers.

  There was nothing. The searchers had done a thorough job, even checking the top of the wardrobe and inside the TV. The only things left were the hotel facilities folder and a local phone directory with a cheap ballpoint pen lying nearby.

  My cell phone rang. It sounded too loud in the confined space of the room, and I wondered if they could hear it outside.

  I checked the screen; caller’s number withheld. I hit the button and listened. I could hear breathing, and some voices in the background. Then another blip of a siren, sounding very close to whoever was calling me.

  ‘Portman?’ It was Parillas. ‘Where you at, man?’

  For a brief second, I wondered if I’d been wrong and he’d genuinely got held up. I said, ‘I’m close. Why – are you in trouble?’

  ‘No, man. Everything’s cool, y’know?’ His breathing was harsh and I wondered why he was calling me ‘man’ and sounding so hip.

  Something wasn’t right.

  The police siren.

  ‘Are we ready to go?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Not yet.’ A gabble of voices sounded in the background, then he continued, ‘Tell you what, come in to the hotel. It’s safe, OK? I got Achevar, but we need to move fast.’

  ‘Go
t it.’ Liar, liar. I shut off the phone and heard shouting outside. I stepped over to the window. I couldn’t see the area right in front of the hotel, but people on the far side of the street were all focussed on something further along.

  The two SUVs I’d seen earlier were still there, but a police cruiser had stopped alongside them, the driver gesticulating for them to move along. After a moment, he stopped waving and nodded, and drove off, one arm hanging out the window. At that, the men at the coffee bar broke away and began walking along the street. They looked as if they meant business.

  Just as I was about to move away, the rear door of the nearest SUV opened, and a man in a pale jacket jumped out. He stood on the sidewalk listening to someone inside, then grinned and slapped the roof of the car before turning and chasing after the other men.

  They were all heading towards the hotel.

  I watched as the man in the pale jacket caught up with them and clamped an arm across the lead man’s shoulders. The movement lifted this one’s shirt, revealing the butt of a semi-automatic stuffed into his waistband. Whatever the man in the pale jacket said to him was enough to have him shouting orders to his companions, and they put on a burst of speed, spreading out across the street.

  I swore silently. It was a trap. And I’d walked right into it.

  The pale jacket was similar to the one I’d dumped in the trash earlier, the partner of the one delivered in the wooden box.

  It was being worn by Oscar Parillas.

  Eleven

  I got out of there fast, snatching up the phone directory on the way. It seemed to be the only thing the searchers hadn’t touched. I didn’t know if it was meaningful, but I could get into that later.

  For now I had to survive the next few minutes until I got clear.

  I hit the emergency stairs on the run. This time I wasn’t being too careful. Distance was of the essence; between me and the cartel gunmen outside, and distance from here to the border.