But why choose the comms section to run a test? Had there been a leak pinpointed in the department somewhere? Or had Ledhoffen been blowing smoke just for the hell of it to feed her own sense of self-importance?
She unlocked her office door and scooped up a pencil from the floor beneath her desk with a huff of irritation. She hated untidiness around her workstation and wondered how she’d missed it. Like her boss, Brian Callahan, a senior Clandestine Service Officer who spent most of his time at his desk running officers and assets rather than out in the field, she preferred everything tidy and controlled. She didn’t have quite his level of what some people claimed was OCD but she’d learned early on here that distractions in the office could lead to an eye off the ball for those people outside; people like Portman who depended on maximum focus to complete their missions.
The screens and servers were all quiet, her latest assignment now over, and she just had to fill out a report to submit to Callahan, as part of the process of getting it signed off. She adjusted the position of her keyboard and tilted the monitor back a touch to its normal position.
A copy of a security memo lay in the centre of her desk, and she scanned it briefly before realizing she’d seen it already. She made a mental note to speak to the janitorial section to ask them not to touch stuff in here. Coming in on a rush job meant being able to use everything that was hers without having to resettle it first. Like jumping in her car and having to move the seat back into its slot, something she always had to do if one of her house-mates borrowed it for a date.
She’d discovered before that if anyone else used her work station while she was away or on vacation, they never left things as they’d found them. Instead there would be a mess of drawers churned over, coffee rings on the desk top, headphone wires tangled like spaghetti or screens left on when they were no longer in use. Damn, she better not start picking up their bad habits, otherwise Callahan might decide to get in someone matching his own levels of major-orderliness.
She picked up an A4 legal notepad on the corner of her desk. It wasn’t a comms pad which had to be stripped of notes at the end of each day and locked in the safe in the corner of her office, but a plain paper pad she used for innocuous in-house tasks such as noting upcoming courses, times and dates, keeping on top of knowledge streams and job development programmes. Getting ahead in the agency meant not standing still, even if you didn’t aspire to the upper echelons of the organization.
She opened the pad where the corner of a page was folded back and straightened it out. It was a blank page apart from a square doodle in one corner. Squares. She was always drawing squares, often with elaborate borders and containing words usually related to something on her mind. A roommate at college had noticed it and once said it was a classic demonstration of anxiety syndrome. Lindsay hadn’t been able to fault her. Yes, she had anxiety issues like every other person on the planet, but nothing out of the ordinary. At least, she hadn’t considered a desire for success in exams and course work at all unusual.
Watchman.
The word was written in the centre of this particular square.
Damn. How careless could she be? She ripped out the page and fed it into the shredder in the corner. A brief buzz and it was gone, reduced to a mini-confetti in the drum beneath, unreadable and beyond any attempt at reconstruction.
She felt a pulse throbbing in her temple, and told herself to get a grip. OK, that was a mistake, leaving a code name on a notepad ready for anyone to see. Especially that particular code name. She turned and scanned the rest of the small room. Was that all she’d left on show? God, she needed to get her head in order. The recent closed comms sessions had been demanding, but this wasn’t the first time she’d done them, nor would it be the last.
She checked the desk drawers, telling herself she was letting her imagination get the better of her. A pencil on the floor was no biggy; it could have rolled off the desk as she was getting up to go to lunch and hit the carpet without a sound. And the pad was … well, yes, she’d been beyond careless doodling an operative’s code name on it. She would have to mention it to Callahan, just in case. In case of what – in case someone had been in here and might report it? But who would that have been?
She paced the office, trying to steady her thoughts. She knew what was happening: she’d been in a position once before where someone – a senator in the all-powerful Intelligence Community – had come into her office and subsequently attempted to bully and threaten her for no other reason than to undermine the CIA. He hadn’t succeeded, but it had been an unsettling experience that had left her feeling vulnerable.
She checked her watch. Twenty-eight minutes, give or take one. That was how long she’d been gone. Easily enough time for … and now she really was being paranoid. Is that what this place did to you in the end? A job involving endless smoke and mirrors, staring at screens and imagining all manner of scenarios going on in the big outside world, working like a rat in a science lab.
She left the room, locking it behind her and walked along the corridor to Callahan’s office. He was just leaving and opened the door as she was about to knock.
‘Sorry,’ he said, stepping around her. ‘Big meeting on.’ He paused and smiled. ‘Can it be quick?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, noting his sense of urgency. She desperately wanted to say that, no it couldn’t wait, but decided not to. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
‘Great.’ He started to turn away, then paused. ‘I’ve heard you did good work the last few days. Glad to hear it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She flushed at the compliment. ‘It was a bit intense but interesting.’
‘What’s it been, ten-hour stretches at a time?’
She smiled. Callahan knew how long it was to the minute. ‘Eight, actually.’
‘Long enough. Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ With that he waved and was gone.
TWELVE
Callahan hurried up two flights of stairs to a meeting he could have happily done without this late in the afternoon. He would have preferred going for a coffee somewhere well away from here and staring at the traffic for a couple of hours instead. Something mundane where he wouldn’t have to think about life-or-death situations where an agent’s existence might hang in the balance. He liked seeing the ordinary world going about its business, and a part of him wondered how easily he might find it to one day settle into a life of everyday domestic routine instead of the push-and-shove of intelligence work.
But duty called and, if what he’d heard earlier from Portman was true, this was no blow-in flash of panic, of the kind you got from an inexperienced agent in the field who’d sailed too close and carelessly to the wind, or who thought they’d been blown after spotting the same face twice or receiving a phone call followed by an immediate hang-up.
What had happened to Portman had been of the highest-level threat and would call for the same degree of reaction.
Not that Portman did panic. He didn’t have ice in his veins, but Callahan was pretty sure that whatever flowed in them was permanently set at a low temperature and not easily disturbed.
He arrived at the nominated meeting room on the heels of a small group of other attendees who’d been summoned by Assistant Director Sewell. Sewell was already seated, he noted, as was his custom. He’d been around too long to waste everyone’s time and they all knew it.
While the six other attendees arranged themselves in order of importance, Callahan arrowed in on a seat near the far end of the table, where the shrapnel of blame, if any was in the air, usually took a little longer to reach. Not that he felt it was likely here. He knew what the meeting was about, but it was too early to guess where it was headed. For now it was probably going to be listen a lot and say no more than you had to.
Sewell raised a hand and conversation died. He was a comfortable-looking man in his mid-fifties, with a genial smile and the watchful eyes of someone who had been around the block a few times and knew all the moves in this vast den of secre
cy and intrigue. However, for a man of his rank to be here in person instead of on the other end of a video-conference line, Callahan figured it had the potential to be a real zinger.
‘You all know each other, I guess,’ said Sewell, his voice soft but with a core of authority, ‘so I won’t waste time on introductions except for,’ he nodded at a woman to his immediate right, ‘Carly Ledhoffen representing the security section of the Directorate of Support. Her head of section is unavailable so they’ve asked her to sit in on this.’
Ledhoffen responded with a cool smile at nobody in particular and said nothing.
Spartan in appearance, the room was devoid of windows, pictures or other adornments. Although there were none of the usual cluster of wires and electronic devices that dominated so many parts of this building, with telephones carrying direct links to certain strategic numbers, of listening and recording devices linked to other rooms where words and reactions would be transcribed, recorded and remembered for all time, it didn’t mean they weren’t there.
The CIA, like most other intelligence agencies, had long ago learned that words were weapons, as much used against itself as outside enemies, and if someone somewhere was going to trip over their feet and cause a major fuck-up of Titanic proportions, politically speaking, it was worth having a note of who said what and when.
Callahan knew each person present, with the exception of Ledhoffen. He’d seen her around the building but not to speak to. Other than that the group was the usual mix of representatives with expertise on a broad range of issues. Sewell would have chosen those he considered most relevant without making the attendance list too unwieldy. He lifted a hand to acknowledge their presence.
There was James Cardew from the Middle-East desk; George Jackson from the Defence Intelligence Agency; Fred Groll from the National Security Agency; Craig Breakman from Special Activities and the only other woman, Gina Patel from Political Analysis.
Sewell looked down at a scratchpad in front of him and said, ‘There are others who were unable to attend at short notice. They’ll be informed in due course.’
Murmurs and nods around the table showed the gathering settling down and shifting into business mode.
‘Brian,’ said Sewell, ‘perhaps you could give us a brief background on what happened?’
Callahan nodded and cleared his throat. He disliked this kind of verbal delivery; so much of what was said on the hoof could be taken out of context and used against you if someone had an axe to grind. Not that he expected that here, but you never knew. Give him a keyboard any day and he could have composed something informative, to the point and free of potential misunderstandings. He decided to keep it brief.
‘This morning I received news from an asset code-named Watchman on the ground in Lebanon. An attempt was made on his life by a sniper. It was entirely unexpected, as was the discovery that the shooter was clean. He had no phone, no ID or any other documentation. What he did have, which raises serious questions about this matter, was a photo of Watchman himself.’
The mood in the room went still as the implications sank in.
‘That wasn’t all,’ Callahan continued. ‘There was a second man who he believes was a back-up. He was the same: clean with no ID. Watchman came across him while evacuating the area. He described both men as either serving or former military and armed with automatic weapons. The real kicker was that the second man swore at him in fluent Russian.’
Someone in the room muttered a quiet oath, echoed by feet shifting under the table as the implication of that sank in.
‘Their vehicle was clean, apart from some rations and a used cellphone, probably a burner. No numbers or call history, no way of telling where it was from.’ He barely lifted his hands off the table. ‘That’s all we have at the moment. I have photos of the two shooters and we’re currently trying to identify them from our files.’
Cardew, a professorial individual in his fifties, with thick spectacles and thinning hair, was the first to speak. ‘This Watchman,’ he said, once he was sure Callahan had finished. ‘Can I ask why he was there?’
Callahan nodded. ‘He was tasked with collecting some information from a local DIA source, code-named Tango. A rendezvous had been agreed previously with the source’s DIA handler, but the handler fell ill and had to be air-lifted to an isolation hospital on Cyprus. The DIA asked if we had anyone available to go in for them at very short notice. It was a simple collect-and-go assignment, the sort we engage in all the time. We were happy to oblige.’ He paused and nodded at Jackson from the DIA. ‘As a result of the attack we’re both contacting a handful of other assets in the region to pull them out as a safety measure.’
‘Isn’t it unusual, sending in a substitution when dealing with a source?’ said Groll.
Callahan passed the ball to Jackson, who said, ‘It’s not the way any of us likes to do things, that’s true. Sources like to know who they’re dealing with – and that works both ways. We had Tango’s firm assurances that what he had was vitally important and needed getting out. Luckily for us you guys had someone near enough to give it a try.’
‘And the asset was OK with that?’ Breakman, from Special Activities, asked. ‘It would have been risky for him.’
‘It was,’ said Callahan, ‘but considered worthwhile. We’ve used him on several assignments before and he’s very experienced in high-risk situations. He was operating alone and wouldn’t have agreed if he thought the odds were stacked against him.’
‘Is he local?’
‘No.’
Breakman asked, ‘How long had he been on the ground in-country?’
‘About twenty hours. The assignment was estimated to take less than twenty-four, all going well.’
‘So he hadn’t been there long enough to have picked up tails, then,’ Cardew surmised.
Callahan nodded. ‘Correct. His end of the mission had been put together at very short notice. Tango had advised that he was nervous about being under surveillance and insisted on a change of RV for the handover.’
‘Was this Tango person trustworthy?’ asked Sewell. ‘He couldn’t have been burned and turned or had a change of heart?’
Jackson interjected. ‘We don’t think so. He passed the code tests we’d set him to make sure he wasn’t being controlled or coerced to communicate under duress. He was due to be pulled out in the next few weeks and relocated with his family to a place of safety so he had everything to lose by switching sides. As for the asset, nobody was supposed to know he was there, much less what he looked like.’
‘Yet two shooters were waiting for him. And Russians at that.’ This from Breakman and the room went still again.
‘Do we know when the photo carried by the attacker was taken?’ Groll, the NSA representative, was heavyset with dark, wavy hair and an intense look. Callahan knew him for having a keen eye for detail and an analytical approach to problems.
‘We do. As far as I’m aware it’s the only photo of Watchman in existence. It was recorded by the security cameras at our New York front office about four years ago.’
‘What was he doing there?’ Carly Ledhoffen hadn’t said anything so far, watching and listening as each person spoke. She waved a hand laden with a gold bracelet and the emphasis laid on the last word carried no small hint of surprise. ‘And don’t we carry photos of all such external personnel? It could have come from anywhere.’
‘To answer your first question, he was there to be interviewed by me for an assignment – a short-term contract. As for the second, it’s not CIA practice to have a bragging wall of contractors past or present for everyone to see.’
‘So this person is an American? Does he have a name?’
‘I can’t reveal that,’ Callahan replied, adding quickly as Ledhoffen’s mouth opened, ‘nor his nationality.’ His instincts were against relaying any other information if he didn’t have to. It might come out sooner or later because there were others on the code-circulation list, but that was down to others to control.<
br />
‘But he’s a contractor?’
‘Correct.’
‘Ex-military?’ She glanced towards Breakman with a faint hint of distaste as if classifying his kind as some sort of unwelcome outsider. The Special Activities officer scowled in return but said nothing.
‘I think with the kind of work we ask him to do, that speaks for itself.’
She continued, ‘If he’s not a trained field operative, but gets around a lot, might he not have been spotted on his way there or when he arrived in-country?’
The question received a few nods around the table, but Callahan ignored them. It was a valid question but would lead the discussion nowhere fast. ‘Your point being?’
‘From the few I’ve seen these contractors tend to stand out in a normal crowd. Couldn’t local security have read this Watchman for what he is, or maybe someone recognized him from some previous activity?’
Callahan was beaten to the punch by Sewell, who said firmly, ‘Not this one. It was his first time in Lebanon. It’s possible he might have been spotted by chance by someone from outside the country, but it’s a long shot. The short time frame involved setting it up makes it very unlikely.’
‘How so?’
‘To spot him coming in, acquire a photo ID from whatever records were available, get a two-man team together and on his tail armed and ready to take him out all within twenty-four hours … that happens in films, not real life.’
Cardew leaned forward and added, ‘Correct. And neither the Lebanese government nor Hezbollah, who are the real strength in the country, has the resources to do that. The worrying thing is this photo must have been accessed from our records. Can we find out when?’
‘We already know the answer to that.’ Callahan wasn’t keen to add anything further for general discussion, but if what he knew came out later, there might be some questions asked about why he’d remained silent. ‘That photo was originally found in the possession of a Russian security operative in Ukraine a few years ago. We believe it was sourced by someone with inside access, but we have no way of tracing that original source.’
A Hostile State Page 7
