‘Let us move on, please,’ said Sewell. ‘Any further questions about where we go from here?’
Callahan closed his mouth, relieved to see that line of discussion shut down. He noticed the dark look Ledhoffen threw at him and decided to ignore her. The last thing he wanted to do was to get into a pissing contest on specifics with any of these people, especially one like Ledhoffen who was rumoured to have friends in high places. In any case she appeared to be less than well-informed about the kind of work they did out in the field, which might excuse her manner as a case of eagerness overcoming tact.
‘Is there a political aspect tied to this … collection of information?’ queried Gina Patel. She was a slim woman in her late twenties or early thirties and spoke softly with a faint accent.
‘That’s a good question,’ Sewell interjected smoothly, no doubt also relieved at the change of direction. ‘There’s always the potential for a political angle in these events, but it doesn’t seem likely this time … at least, I can’t see one with the Russian angle.’ He smiled in Patel’s direction. ‘But that’s something I’d like you to monitor for us from here on in, Gina, in case anything should blow up.’
Callahan explained further, ‘The source, Tango, was employed in a senior administrative role in the security police. But their system has cut-outs so that only preferred and senior rank officers get to report on a governmental level. It’s how they get known and favoured when it comes to gaining key positions and promotions.’
‘Was?’ Ledhoffen again. ‘You think Tango is dead, then?’
‘We have to assume that, yes. Under the circumstances there’s every likelihood he was intercepted. If true it would probably have been by Hezbollah’s counter-intelligence unit. They’re not known for treating people kindly, especially suspected traitors.’
‘What about your contractor?’ she shot back. ‘What was his reaction when this happened?’
‘He did as I ordered: he left the area immediately.’
‘Without checking up on the source? That’s cold.’
Breakman made a noise and shook his head, but a look from Sewell stopped him saying what he thought.
‘I think,’ Sewell said, raising a hand, ‘there are two aspects here that we all have to be aware of. The first is to ascertain what happened to the source, Tango.’ He looked at Callahan and Jackson. ‘I take it you two have a way of doing that via someone on the ground?’
Jackson nodded. ‘It’s already underway. But they’re not active service personnel so it will have to be low-level and may take time.’
‘Same here,’ Callahan said. ‘If it was Hezbollah behind the shooting they tend not to broadcast the news until they’re ready to use it. They prefer to hide their bodies unless they can use them.’
‘Fine. Do what you can. The second aspect is more worrying for our whole community. Put simply, one of our experienced assets has found himself on somebody’s kill list. With the kind of work he does that’s not impossible but it is unusual. That means we all have to take note. This person operates alone and undercover so as not to get made by anyone – or, at least he hasn’t until now. And nobody sends out two shooters each with a target’s photo just on the off-chance they might stumble on him in the street. This has all the marks of a planned operation.’
‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’ asked Groll.
‘Less than you might think, thank God,’ Callahan replied. ‘If it did we’d have a war on our hands, which is why we train everyone to be as effective as they can. If they sense they’ve been compromised they get out and we work on finding a replacement once the dust has settled.’
‘So what,’ asked Ledhoffen, a frown edging her eyes, ‘is the agency’s view on what happened to the two shooters?’
Callahan looked at her but said nothing. He wasn’t sure if she was there solely to raise awkward questions or if it was another display of her inexperience. Whichever it was, it made him wonder what the point was and why she was being confrontational. He glanced at Sewell, but the senior man seemed unaffected by the exchange.
‘Two nil to us is my guess,’ growled Breakman, in the brief silence.
Ledhoffen bristled at that and said to Callahan, ‘Are you not going to tell us?’
‘I think we all know the answer to that, Ms Ledhoffen.’ Sewell sat back. He looked tired. ‘Let’s not pursue it further.’ He looked around the table. ‘This was intended as a general briefing only until more details emerge. My concern is that the asset’s presence in the country, planned at short notice, seems to have been realized very quickly and acted upon. That’s pretty unusual. Needless to say we do not discuss this with anyone else at this time. If you should come across anything further which might add to the discussion, let me know.’ He nodded at Callahan, Cardew and Groll in turn. ‘You three are our ears, so if you come across any chatter going on out there, report it to me for evaluation. Brian, I guess you’ll be debriefing Watchman as soon as he’s out of there?’ At Callahan’s nod he looked round and stood up. ‘Thank you, folks.’
Callahan made his excuses and left the room as soon as he could. On the way back to his office, it occurred to him with a sense of uneasiness how events could come back to haunt you long after first occurring. In this case it was the photo of Marc Portman resurfacing.
The original person who’d instigated it was no longer alive to talk about the how, and the person who had retrieved it from the CIA system had vanished like mist. It was too late to do anything about it except to think of a way of finding out where it had come from on this occasion and who had punted it into circulation with an active kill team.
One thing his instincts told him was that it hadn’t been lying around in a foreign security service archive, waiting to be used again. Whoever had let it loose again had done so for a specific purpose.
And therein, he thought, lay an oddity. In such a prime nest of secrets and suspicions as Langley, where everything and anything was fair game to be tabled at moments of forensic foraging like the attempted assassination of an important asset, nobody around the table just now had raised the most unmentionable of all subjects.
Was there an active leak inside the CIA?
THIRTEEN
We were on a stretch of road with no side turnings and no way of avoiding the roadblock. Going back would look too suspicious and the soldiers would be on us within minutes. Half a dozen armed soldiers in military fatigues were standing around a couple of olive-coloured Humvees parked across the centre of the road in a vee-formation.
They’d chosen a good spot; the road here was bordered by a wall of rock on one side and a steep drop into a dried-out river gulley – a wadi – on the other. If we tried to push our way through the narrow gap and misjudged it, this little Suzuki would ping off the heavier vehicles and we’d end up with our faces buried in the rock wall or lying upside down in the wadi being shot up by the soldier manning an FN MAG machine gun on one of the Humvees.
‘They’re not after us,’ Isobel said calmly, and began to slow down. ‘They’re regular army. It’s a security thing they have to do all the time. Are you carrying a weapon?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t tell her I actually had two because one was plenty enough to worry about in this situation. Anything more would be showing off.
‘Better pray they don’t decide to search us, then. Let me do the talking.’
We drew to a stop behind half a dozen other vehicles, a mix of trucks and small, battered sedans. The south-bound queue looked a lot longer, and a group of soldiers was clustered on the other side of the two Humvees checking documents and drivers. The men nearest to us didn’t appear quite so busy but their body language showed they were on edge as they quickly checked the trucks in front of us and waved them on, spending a little more time on the cars.
Then it was our turn and the soldiers spread out around us with professional ease. I wondered what they were looking for. I guess we’d soon find out.
A man with three dark stripes on
his uniform stepped up alongside and eyed the Suzuki carefully. He even gave one of the tyres a kick as if it might be up for sale. I put him in his forties, a career soldier and nobody’s fool. The dark stripes made him a sergeant 1st class and I guessed this little exercise was his team’s current assignment for the day.
Isobel wound down her window and said a soft hello in French. She received a half smile in return which almost reached his dark eyes. He replied in French and asked where we were going and what was our reason for being here. So far so calm.
‘I’m a regional organizer for the UN aid missions here,’ Isobel replied carefully, and produced a sheet of official looking paper. ‘We’re trying to monitor the refugee situation in this area, as agreed with your government through Prime Minister Saad Hariri.’ She smiled and added, ‘I realize, of course that he is no longer in charge, but I understand the new administration wishes for that agreement to continue. So do we.’
In true military fashion the sergeant didn’t look impressed by the name-dropping. He was either allied to a different section of the various power groups in this country or he simply didn’t give a damn because he had a job to do. He looked at me. ‘And this man? Who is he?’
‘He’s my guard,’ Isobel said, and waved a dismissive hand. ‘I was advised by Major General Imad Osman of the police that I should travel with him because of the troubles.’ She finished with a faint snort of derision which I took to signify that she had no need of a guard and that I was surplus to requirements but what could she do?
The sergeant sniffed and studied me for a moment. While he did that another soldier, an older man with the wizened toughness of a long-time veteran, wandered up to the rear of the Suzuki and peered in the rear window. He rubbed a hand on the dusty glass for a better view, and I was beginning to wonder if the chit-chat with his sergeant had been a ploy to put us off-guard.
I turned my head to see what he might be looking for and hoped there wasn’t anything back there to make him go for his gun. Then my blood ran cold. Lying on the back seat where it had slid out from my bag was the spare magazine for the Hi-Power.
‘American?’ the sergeant asked me in English.
‘Absolutely not,’ I said, laying on a touch of outrage. ‘Français.’ Luckily, I had a passport to back that up. But if the other man spotted the spare magazine no passport on earth was going to help us. I tapped Isobel on the leg and gestured to the rear, and she pretended to be adjusting her seat belt to have a quick look. She was quick on the uptake and with amazing coolness took the scarf from around her neck and tossed it into the back, covering the magazine.
‘It’s so hot,’ she murmured to no-one in particular.
‘Military?’ The sergeant flicked his eyes to her, then back on me. I made sure to keep my hands in full view all the time.
‘I was, a long time ago.’ It was pointless denying it because who else but someone with military experience would be employed as a guard in this country? In any case, most three-stripers the world over can spot a former soldier at fifty paces. It’s in the stance, the eyes and the body language, and almost impossible to eradicate completely.
‘With?’ Damn, he wasn’t going to let this go. I glanced at Isobel, but she was calmly fanning her face as if this kind of delay was all in a day’s work when you knew the country and nothing to worry about.
‘The Legion.’ I wasn’t concerned about him being able to check it out because I knew the French Foreign Legion doesn’t reveal that kind of information to outsiders.
‘Really?’ His face cracked with the beginnings of a grin. ‘My uncle was with them for ten years. Which brigade were you with?’
‘The best – the 13th Demi.’ A bit of bragging between army units never goes amiss and it would come across to him as completely natural.
He pulled a mock-sympathetic face and said. ‘No, sorry, my friend, but my uncle was in the best – the 2nd Foreign Parachute Brigade.’
‘Then he has my profound respect. How are his knees?’
That made him laugh. He said, ‘Not good. Too many jumps. He’s still tough as leather but he walks like a duck.’ He rattled off a translation for the benefit of his colleagues, who gave what I guessed were whoops of Lebanese one-upmanship. The older man peering into the jeep turned and joined in, giving a descending whistle noise while with his free hand he mimed a high dive towards the ground, before turning and walking away to much laughter from the other men.
The sergeant handed Isobel her authorization document and said, ‘Travel safely, m’sieur, madame. Be aware it is dangerous to leave this road, especially towards the border. We cannot help you if you do.’ Then he stepped back and waved us on. Isobel thanked him politely and edged us carefully past the Humvees and we were through.
‘The Foreign Legion?’ She stared at me. ‘That was one heck of a bluff.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘Seriously? Why the hell did you join them? Were you on the run?’
‘It’s a long story.’ It was one I didn’t want to go into, another part of my life and long gone. Thankfully she didn’t push me on it and we sank into a long bout of silence, both relieved that the roadblock had gone as well as it had. It took another ten miles of silence before the tension began to evaporate.
Eventually Isobel slowed before turning right onto a rough, rubble-strewn track climbing into the hills. There were no signs so I guessed this wasn’t going to end up at a decent four-star hotel with room service and a pool. The jeep’s suspension creaked and groaned as we climbed, the wheels dipping into crevices which couldn’t be avoided, and I hoped it didn’t give out on us out of sheer fatigue. We were already beyond help unless a friendly truck driver happened along.
‘What are we supposed to do with this when we’re done?’ I asked, nodding at the dashboard. My tip had been generous as she’d asked, but not big enough to buy a replacement.
‘We dump it,’ Isobel said. ‘Hadid has a side deal on used cars and this one’s not registered to him. If asked he’ll say it was stolen by militants. They’re always on the lookout for vehicles and run a trade in knock-offs to fund local operations.’
The track wound around the side of the hill, and as we climbed I spotted the top edge of a square structure standing out against the surrounding sandstone. It must have been the only building for miles and I wondered who had built such a place out here. It wasn’t exactly on a major bus route, although there wouldn’t be much of a problem with noisy neighbours.
‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘The safe-house?’
Isobel nodded. ‘Home from home. It used to belong to a local government minister. He thought it would be a good place to establish a base for weekend hunting parties. Migrant bird hunting is a big thing around here. When he realized nobody else was interested because of the risks involved with the changing situation he abandoned the project. MI6 bought it through a middleman in case it ever came in handy. It’s a bit obvious but nice and remote and it’s only for one night. We get airlifted out in the morning.’
The track wound its way across a momentarily flat area, then lifted us up a steep gradient riddled with potholes and cracks that made the suspension of the jeep groan even louder. Two hundred yards later the scenery changed dramatically and Isobel swore and pulled to a stop, a vague ghost of trailing dust brushing past us in the air and momentarily shrouding us like a veil.
‘Christ,’ Isobel muttered and cut the engine. ‘If I’d known the family was coming to stay I’d have dusted first.’
The side of the hill all around the house was a mass of makeshift shelters, weather-worn tents hung with washing, and campfires. And people. Hundreds of people. There were men, mostly old, but hugely outnumbered by women and children. A mist of dark grey smoke from the numerous fires drifted over the scene, eddying and swirling with the movement of the breeze and lending it the kind of surreal quality any Hollywood filmmaker would have given their right arm to be able to emulate.
But you can’t replicate that kind of
scene. It was misery in the flesh, a setting right out of the news but with the added quality that only seeing it first-hand can bring, rather than through the lens of a television camera.
Neither of us spoke; it was all too sudden and shocking. I’d seen worse, but usually when I’d been expecting it. And even though I knew perfectly well what the refugee situation was like all over the Middle East, my guard had been let down while focussing on getting away from the men who’d tried to kill me.
Then the smoke at one end of the encampment shifted and swirled, like a curtain moving aside. It revealed among the flood of humanity three men in military uniform emerging from one tent and pushing into another. They were accompanied by several soldiers armed with automatic rifles, shoving aside anyone taking too long to move out of their way.
The people outside the tent could only comply and stare, their faces dull and empty of expression. Any instinctive protest at the invasion was no doubt suppressed for fear of drawing the attention of the soldiers when all they wanted to do was sink into this unwelcoming landscape and find somewhere to hide.
The soldiers reappeared and moved to the next tent, flanked by their guards. There was something about the way they were focussed which indicated they were looking for someone specific but I didn’t think it was us. At least I hoped not.
When the three men came out this time they were bundling a man before them. He struggled to get free, but one of the armed soldiers clubbed him with the butt of his rifle and his comrades dragged the man away, pursued by a handful of women and children, all pleading with them to let him go.
When the scene was swallowed up by a denser curtain of smoke moving across I knew that was our signal to move. If they saw our vehicle they’d be down on us in force, our appearance in this remote place too unusual to ignore.
A Hostile State Page 8
