He gave a thin smile. ‘Ledhoffen was included to sit in on the briefing list for this one by the head of security in the Directorate, yes.’
He didn’t clarify further and Lindsay didn’t ask. It wasn’t their position to query what was discussed with other divisions or why.
‘Forget it,’ he said with a sigh. ‘There’s a lot going on here and we’re all on edge. Let’s focus on the task in hand.’
She was glad of the change of subject and said, ‘Sir, is there really nothing we can do to help Portman but wait?’
‘Not yet. The three-word code I just gave you is his current location in Lebanon. He and the MI6 officer, Hunt, are making their way to an eventual site in Cyprus. All we can do is wait and see if they make it safely past all the stops along the way.’
‘Can’t they be picked up and fly direct?’
‘Not easily. They would have to pass over heavily restricted areas and we know from experience that overflight permission would not be granted. An area further north offers a clearer corridor, and I just heard that the British are putting that in place right now. Once they’re on the island they should be home and dry.’
‘I hope he’s all right. I was thinking what you said about the snipers.’ Callahan’s mention of them earlier had stayed with her. He hadn’t included specific details, which she suspected was deliberate, but it added an extra dimension of threat when she thought about their methods of stalking, lying in wait and long-distance kills … and how their targets rarely knew they were coming until it was too late.
Callahan waved it off. ‘He’ll be fine. I can’t say the same for the two snipers, however.’ He gave a grim smile and murmured, ‘Sorry – forget I said that. I’d have the Support Section down on my neck for talking out of turn and frightening the children.’
She preferred not to think about it and blocked the unwelcome images from her mind. ‘I still don’t understand how they found him,’ she said. ‘The photo, I mean. I thought he was off the radar.’
‘He is – was. It’s a long story but these two appear to have been waiting for him … or, at least, they knew precisely where to find him, which is just as bad. We have to assume they might not be the only ones sent after him. We don’t yet know who sent them so we’re having to work on identifying the shooters from our database of known operatives. Hopefully it will give us a heads-up.’
Lindsay felt a chill wind about her that was almost personal. She’d spoken to Portman a lot on comms while supporting him and monitoring his activities and movements and, in spite of the clipped way they were forced to converse due to mission pressures, she felt they had established a friendly working relationship. She had met him only once, which had been in Washington. Callahan had asked her to debrief him after a particularly arduous mission, and she’d been surprised by how unremarkable he was.
For someone whose life had been on the line more than a few times in some of the world’s toughest trouble spots, times when she’d been able to talk him through a situation and even provide active back-up when needed, he seemed about as far from the usual man of action she had seen around Langley, such as in the Special Activities Division, as it was possible to get. But she knew enough about him to know that he was one of the most effective contractors out there.
‘Is it possible Portman made a mistake or was it bad luck?’ she asked. She knew Portman’s skill was in being able to move around covertly and avoiding being pinged or noticed. It was what made him invaluable to the CIA and other agencies, especially for missions where they either didn’t have enough of their own people or deniability meant bringing in a skilled outsider like him.
‘I’d like to think it was bad luck,’ Callahan said eventually. ‘But since both snipers had the same photo of him, it’s unlikely. It must have been pre-arranged. Who by, we don’t know, but it must have been someone with resources.’
‘But how would they have known where he was, if this assignment was set up at the last minute?’
‘That’s what we’re all asking. To date I don’t have an answer.’
Lindsay felt shocked by the stark possibility presented. She didn’t know anything about Portman’s mission in Lebanon other than what Callahan had told her. It would have been different had she been his comms support, as she would have had a detailed agenda of his movements and locations, tracked and filled in carefully on her screen so as not to lose sight of any potential threats in the same area of operations.
But the circle of other people involved would not have been extensive; the old need-to-know dictum beloved of security officials still counted for much. An individual or even a group would find it difficult to track a man like Portman without some serious back-up facilities. And that kind of pull fell into the realm of a state-operated agency rather than an individual player.
‘What else can we do?’ The question was out before she could stop it. ‘Sorry – I didn’t mean to imply you’re not already …’
Callahan smiled warmly. ‘That’s all right. There’s nothing we’re going to be authorized to do. But it doesn’t mean I’m prepared to leave him to his own devices. I owe him more than that.’ He reached for a small notepad and pen, tore off a sheet and wrote down three words with the date and time received and passed the note across the desk. ‘I have to go out in a little while. While I’m gone, this is the latest locator from Portman. I want you to take it back to your desk as it is and leave it there in plain sight.’
‘Sir?’ She gave him a look.
He replied with a wry smile, ‘Don’t worry. I’m just trying something. I’ll explain another time.’ He hesitated then added, ‘We’re putting what we have through the grinder right now to see what comes up. In the meantime, if Ledhoffen or anyone else speaks to you on the subject, let me know immediately.’
NINETEEN
The CIA in Langley didn’t actively discourage old Cold War warriors from visiting, especially if they had anything to offer in the way of valuable insights into the thoughts and methodology of the nation’s common enemy. But Russell Hoffman, once one of the most highly regarded, if secretive operators in the old CIA, had long ago blotted his copybook in criticizing the administration and its soft approach to Moscow’s continued interference.
It had been enough to make him persona non grata to the overly sensitive higher management, keen to protect the new echelons from the hawkish views of what they regarded as gung-ho oldsters from a long-gone era. Not that Hoffman went that far back; he’d been too young for the original Office of Strategic Services, changed in 1947 to the CIA, but not so far back that he hadn’t learned a great deal from the life and operational experiences passed down by its instructors and field personnel.
Strictly speaking, Brian Callahan knew he would have been criticized for meeting up with the former spook. But right now he didn’t care; he had an asset under threat and wanted an outsider’s perspective on the situation, unvarnished and free of any ambition for higher office. Anything that helped him pull Portman from out under the hammer was worth considering. Furthermore, he was coming round to the uncomfortable conclusion that he no longer felt able to confide his worries to his colleagues. Too many of them appeared to be in search of a quieter life without ripples.
Even more worrying was his growing suspicion that information about Portman had originated from inside Langley itself. He had no idea if that was right, but he hoped to find out shortly. He just hoped he hadn’t roped Lindsay Citera into something they would both regret by getting her to leave his note on her desk.
‘So how can I help the new CIA, Brian?’ Hoffman greeted him as they sat down across from each other in a bar a short spit from Logan Circle in downtown Washington.
The way he smiled robbed the question of abruptness, and Callahan was pleased to see that the former spy had lost none of his sense of humour. He was looking old, though, and shrunken, with a florid complexion and a spider-work of veins in his cheeks. He still had a full head of hair but the grey had settled into near-white
, giving him the air of an aging college professor.
‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked, and raised his glass in salute. The bar hadn’t got busy yet and the few other patrons were tables away, so their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.
‘It is to this suspicious old goat, and I haven’t lost my sense of expectation yet.’ He grinned and sipped his whisky with relish, then waved his other hand, which was covered with liver spots. ‘You know I once spent so long in hot climates these darned things used to join up to form a decent sun tan. Now it looks like I’m rotting away. Old age is shit, Brian. Don’t let anyone kid you otherwise. What’s the problem?’
‘I have an asset,’ Callahan explained, making circles on the table with the glass, ‘an American who’s been targeted by the opposition.’
‘Targeted how?’ Hoffman leaned forward in his seat. It was a tiny move and easy to miss by those who didn’t know what to look for. But an easy-to-read sign of interest. Once an operative it was always there in your blood, never quite leaving you.
‘Two snipers – one and a back-up. Middle-Eastern location when nobody should have known he was there. We haven’t identified them yet but something tells me it wasn’t a local team.’
‘But you have an idea, right?’ Hoffman was still sharp, able to pick up on nuance where others might miss it.
‘A hint. They were carrying a photo of our man, last used by a Russian security contractor in Ukraine a while back. And one of the shooters swore at him in Russian.’
‘So FSB, then.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘In my experience, none of their so-called contractors ever got there without having strong connections to the KGB or their successors.’
‘Would that include GRU?’
‘Damn right it would. But how likely is it?’
‘How do you mean?’
Hoffman shrugged. ‘Well, I’m guessing if this man of yours has been targeted, he must have bumped noses with them at some stage. And they’re a mean bunch. They hate losing face.’
Callahan nodded. ‘He has some history there, yes. My question for you – and we don’t know for sure yet – is it likely to be an individual or the state?’
Hoffman sat back as a couple of clients wandered by, his security antennae clearly still active. He waited until they were out of range without needing to check, then asked, ‘Why are you asking me, Brian? Last I heard Langley is full of hot-shot analysts who can tell you everything you need to know. I’m old and tired and not a favourite of the current management. Ask anyone.’
Callahan chuckled. ‘So tired you couldn’t wait to come here to find out what I wanted? Right.’
‘True enough. Call me curious. And bored. So?’
‘So maybe I don’t trust some of our hot-shot analysts as much as I should to give me an honest, unvarnished answer that hasn’t been filtered through the political machine first.’
‘I see. Like that, huh? You’re asking me who I think in the Russian food-chain might have the hots for your man.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, it could be anyone with access to the resources needed. But an assignment like this, going after one of our people? Not so many. And nobody without connections. Good connections.’ His expression left no doubt where his thinking was leading.
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
The older man toyed with his glass for a few moments. Then he said, ‘I’m only hesitating because I don’t want to set a fire under your ass merely because I’m old, cynical, experienced and wouldn’t trust this current Moscow cowboy any more than I did the grey men who went before him. They’re all gangsters in smart suits, in my opinion – not unlike some of our own administration, if you get my drift.’
‘I’m listening.’
Hoffman nodded. ‘OK. I take it your man usually has zero profile and keeps his head down?’
‘He’s the best I’ve worked with. His name is known to very few people and even I don’t know where he lives.’
‘Yet his photo is out there.’
Callahan winced at the thought. ‘I thought that was a one-off. The man carrying it in Ukraine wasn’t alive to pass it on.’
‘The argument still holds, though; he’s no longer covert. However, to answer your main question, whoever is after him, we have to assume they have clout and access to manpower and facilities.’
‘Acting on their own initiative? That’s a risky move.’
‘True enough. But some risks pay off. Look at all the guys queuing up to become oligarchs. They all know their turn might come to fall under the hammer, yet they still push themselves forward. And the grey men with all the political and security connections; once they get close to the presidential office and get a taste of power, they usually want more. That includes doing what they think will be approved, even if it isn’t.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a dangerous ambition.’
‘You think that’s the answer?’
‘It’s certainly one. The only alternative is that the order might have come from the very top.’
Callahan lifted an eyebrow. ‘From Putin? You think he’d really get that involved?’
‘Why not? He’s got the bit between his teeth right now and is riding high on a wave of popularity. The strong man of Russia who wants the position for life – and he’s likely to get it. He’s about as untouchable as it gets over there and he doesn’t give a brass fuck about procedure.’
Callahan smiled at the unusual cuss word. Hoffman wasn’t normally given to bad language. Maybe he was beyond caring.
The older man pursed his lips. ‘On balance, it could be either. If it’s a lone operator driving this, or someone in a small group, he’s got balls, I’ll say that.’
Callahan was unsure. ‘But why would Putin bother? He’d be admitting that one man on our side had got to him – the leader of the Russian nation.’
‘I agree. It sounds unlikely. But who the hell knows how any of them think over there? Pride is important to them and colours a lot of what we think we know. The only ones more inscrutable live in Beijing. How much has your man butted up against Moscow?’
‘A bit, here and there. You know how their influence is spreading; it’s not as if the globe is nicely divided up any more. We bump noses a lot more than we used to.’ He thought about it and said, ‘I can tell you that he pulled a State Department official out of a lock-up in Ukraine a few years ago. That probably didn’t endear him much. There have been other encounters, too.’
Hoffman’s eyes widened. ‘I heard about that. So that was your man? Was there any collateral damage?’
Callahan hesitated before replying. He trusted Hoffman more than most former spooks, but his default position was not to give anything away. ‘There was some. It got messy.’
Hoffman smiled. ‘Messy. I like that. You mean he had to go active. Which I’m guessing wasn’t his first time.’
‘You know I can’t confirm that.’
‘I get it. Well, in that case I’d say he probably got picked as a target by someone with an agenda. Doesn’t matter who or what he did, but if he’s someone who thumbed his nose at them more than once, and they were looking to make an example of him, he’d have been up there on the list.’ He sat back. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done that. Back in the day they tried a few times to even the scores, to slow us down. It was small scale mostly, designed to unsettle us. But it never lasted long.’
‘Is there any way we can stop it? If we use defensive force how do we know they won’t take similar action against more of our people?’
‘You don’t. It could start a shooting war, and I doubt you want that.’ Hoffman twirled his glass. ‘To be honest I’m not sure how you can stop this particular activity short of putting a bullet in the man who issued the order. But even if you could find him and it was possible it would be counter-productive; there’s always someone else ready to pick up the slack and prove himself more effective.’
‘So what then?’
‘T
he easy thing? Decommission your asset. For good. Take the knight off the table.’
Callahan shook his head. It made sense, but he wasn’t about to do that without a lot of thought. ‘We’d be losing a good man.’
‘True. But if this is as personal as it sounds, he’s become red-lined and you’ll lose him eventually anyway. Get him to drop out and become invisible. That way he’ll live longer and your conscience will be a lot healthier.’
‘You sound as if you’ve been there.’
Hoffman tilted his head, indicating yes. ‘It was a long time ago. One of our guys thought he’d got blown by East German counter-intelligence. He’d been in deep cover for a couple of years and was nearing the end of his tour. We wanted to extract him but the people at the top demanded one more mission.’ He looked suddenly tired, the memory clearly still haunting him. ‘He was ex-USAF, a farm kid from Arkansas who’d made it into intelligence work. A nice guy. I met his family. They were good people, too.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He disappeared. I never did find the answer and the SSD weren’t about to tell us.’
Callahan blinked. Although a former CIA field operative himself, being consigned to an office in Langley for too long tended to blur the brutal reality of what could happen out there in the shadows. But he knew Hoffman was right.
‘I’m not sure our man would go for it.’
‘He might not have a choice. It would be the smartest thing to do – for everyone.’ He took a final sip of his whisky and put the glass down. ‘That aside, you could start close to home and find out who’s helping the people who’re after him.’
‘I’m working on that. I hope it isn’t true.’
‘Cautious answer.’ Hoffman smiled. ‘Some of the newer people seem to think that the old-world security problems we had in my day no longer exist, that all their fancy technology and analytical bullshit will take care of everything. Not true.’
‘You think?’
‘Sure. The answer is as old as the hills, Brian. Someone has put the finger on your man. It’s as simple as that. The question is, was it someone on the outside … maybe someone he’s worked with before? Or someone closer?’ He stood up and dusted his hands off. ‘Good luck.’
A Hostile State Page 12
