A Hostile State

by Adrian Magson

  As Callahan walked back to his car he thought over what Hoffman had said. The man had been as direct as usual, not sugar-coating his opinions. He could have taken a purely conciliatory tone, avoiding any judgement of the situation Callahan and Portman faced. But that hadn’t happened, and that reinforced just why Callahan had come here: to hear the unvarnished truth.

  TWENTY

  Callahan returned to his office and got caught up in discussions on minor issues. When they were done he checked again for messages. Nothing. He sat deep in thought, trying to decide how much of what Hoffman had said was possible and untangle the lines of conflicting interest that lay in what had happened earlier in the meeting room.

  Intelligence agencies were, by their construction and purpose, full of competing divisions, each attempting to keep ahead of the race for funding and prominence. A certain bear-pit mentality had always been present and even encouraged, for the most part working well enough and driving each division to do the best work possible. Such was the simple law of survival.

  He picked up his phone to check progress on the search of the data files for the faces Portman had sent in when there was a knock at his door.

  It opened to admit Carly Ledhoffen.

  ‘Do you have a minute, Brian?’ she asked.

  He nodded, surprised by her appearance, and put the phone down. He wanted to tell her that now wasn’t a good time, but couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. Maybe this was a chance to sort out the reason for her confrontational attitude earlier.

  She glided in and sat down, bringing a hint of expensive perfume with her. ‘I got the feeling we weren’t on the same page back there,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s not the case. Perhaps we could discuss that.’

  He recognized the HR negotiating tactic for what it was. Agree and control. ‘Sure. But allow me to go first: are you stress-testing my operations?’

  She blinked slowly twice, doll’s eyes up-down, up-down. ‘What makes you think we’d be doing that?’

  ‘It’s what the Support Directorate does, isn’t it? Push the boundaries to see if there have been failures or weaknesses in mission objectives relating to staff?’

  ‘We have to do that sometimes, yes. It’s part of our remit of duty and care to support the use of our officers in the field.’ She gave him a wide-eyed look, adding, ‘Although as you yourself said, this asset is not an officer.’

  ‘So we shouldn’t look after them, too? Is that what you’re saying?’

  She waved a hand. ‘I’m sorry, but if you have a problem I’m sure my head of department will be happy to discuss it with you.’

  ‘I’ll pass, thank you. But let me tell you, you’d get the same response from any other controller and agent runner in this building and other intel agencies. We use what resources we can for covert ops and I value each one highly, staff or not. You seemed to suggest in the meeting that my asset should have endangered himself by going deeper into the territory than he already was and finding Tango.’

  She began to speak but he held up a hand.

  ‘Forgive me interrupting but do you have the slightest idea just how dangerous it is out there? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. Also, under the circumstances, the chances of the asset getting anywhere near him, let alone getting either of them out in one piece, would have been miniscule to zero.’

  She said nothing for a moment, although he noticed a slight flush had crept across her cheeks. He couldn’t decide whether it was embarrassment or anger, but didn’t care. Sometimes you had to play it rough to get the message across.

  ‘I confess I don’t,’ she said finally, and ducked her head. ‘I think I owe you an apology, Brian. These two meetings were my first at this level and I guess I’m still learning. I didn’t mean to imply criticism of your asset or his methodology. I’ll make sure your points are well known.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘For what it’s worth I think the way you were treated at the end of that last one placed an unfair amount of pressure on you and your staff. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thought so. I hope it doesn’t pose a threat to anyone … for example, Miss Citera.’

  Callahan wondered what the hell she playing at. She made it sound as if she were more familiar with Lindsay than having had a had a passing chat in the cafeteria. In any case, if Broderick wanted to ensure Callahan followed his instructions, putting a clamp on his immediate staff was beyond his powers. He made do with a simple, ‘It won’t. But thank you.’

  As she left the room, Callahan’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Portman.

  On our way out following attack by armed Agusta. Seriously??

  It was followed by three words. The locator for the next position.

  He fed the words into the app and a grid-lined map of Cyprus came up on his screen. They were heading for a spot on the south coast. He called up another map of the island and checked the coordinates. RAF Akrotiri.

  He couldn’t fault the British for their choice of safe haven. It was as secure a place as any but only as long as Portman stayed inside the base perimeter. Problem was, he’d have to move sooner or later. And Portman was right to be pissed, as the double-interrogator in his message suggested. Seriously, what the hell was going on?

  The other question was, how far would whoever was targeting him go?

  The first attempt might have been random, if you joined Broderick’s obtuse thinking and ignored the photos. But if he and Hunt had been followed and come under fire again, it was more than coincidence, but a concerted effort to nail him. If so, whoever was pushing this had good resources and wasn’t likely to give up too easily.

  He had to get him out of there to another safer place. And he had to find out who was behind this. He picked up his phone and dialled Vale’s number in London. Time to ask another favour of the MI6 officer.

  As he did so a message box appeared on his PC screen.

  Urgent briefing Rm U3. 10 mins.

  There was no list of attendees attached, and no indication of subject matter. He checked his agenda but no meeting had been scheduled in. Coupled with Portman’s problem it was unusual enough to worry him. And room U3 was of a size to suggest that he wasn’t the only person who’d been summoned.

  He continued with his call to Vale. They exchanged brief pleasantries, then Vale listened without comment and agreed to help without question. Thank God, Callahan thought, replacing the phone, for professionals.

  As he stood up, his phone burbled. He considered ignoring it but a sense of urgency prevailed.

  ‘Callahan.’

  ‘Brian? Glad I caught you.’ It was James Cardew of the Middle-East desk. He sounded breathless. ‘I’ve just had a report from our guys monitoring ground movement over Syria and its border territories. They caught track of a helicopter on an early-dawn flight crossing the border at extreme low level and duck-hopping over the hills into the Baalbek area of north-eastern Lebanon. They don’t have details of where it came from – it just popped up at a level to clear the peaks before dropping out of sight and continuing west.’

  ‘Syrian or what?’

  ‘No idea. We couldn’t get any ADSB beacon or transponder signal.’

  ‘They were flying dark.’

  ‘Looks like it. You don’t get everything going down at the same time. Shortly after that there were signs of light flashes on the Lebanon side of the hills indicating what could have been a fire-fight. Would that be anything to do with your guy?’

  Callahan said, ‘I don’t know. Can you send me the co-ordinates?’

  ‘Will do. If it’s him I hope he’s keeping his head down.’ He paused then said, ‘You know the Russians have a facility just across the border, don’t you?’

  ‘I heard there was one, but not the specifics.’

  ‘No matter. It’s a recent set-up. We think it’s a small base for monitoring anti-government forces in Syria’s northern sector, but they seem to have been scoping the border region with Lebanon a lot recently. We haven’t yet worked out why.’

/>   Callahan swore softly. It made sense. If the flight had come from a Russian base it pointed even more firmly to a sanctioned operation … or one with a great deal of latitude for using their facilities. ‘If it was a Russian machine, why the fire-fight?’

  ‘They might have run into trouble from a border unit who got hot to trot. Not everybody in the region is happy with the big bear being so close.’

  Callahan thanked him for the information and thought it over. The idea of Russian forces crossing borders was hardly new; they had the capability and the nerve to probe borders and push boundaries wherever they could if they saw a useable advantage in doing so. They were currently doing that all over Africa. If this latest action was them rather than a rogue group pursuing Portman, then he was up against a more serious problem than they’d thought.

  He jotted down the three locator words on a piece of paper and made his way to Lindsay’s comms room. She was studying a map of Lebanon and the eastern Mediterranean. Already doing research, he noted approvingly, just in case.

  ‘Another locator,’ he told her, handed her the slip of paper. ‘Leave it on your desk top with the other one I gave you.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  After the open space in Lebanon and the air base on Cyprus the atmosphere at Frankfurt International Airport was a shocking contrast. There was too much movement, too many people and a whole lot more noise. It was like stepping from a church into a packed night-club, an assault on the ears and eyes with no way of turning it off other than by backing out.

  Trouble was I couldn’t back out. There was nowhere for me to go.

  And it was the perfect place for an assassination. Lots of people, lots of kill-points. An open attack would cause wide panic and the attackers could slip out under cover of the mêlée and disappear.

  I lingered as long as I could air-side, but my time ran out when the crowds disappeared and there was a gap before any new arrivals started flooding in. Eventually, coming under the gaze of a security cop, I’d been forced to make a move towards immigration and the arrivals hall.

  I checked my phone for Callahan’s instructions. They didn’t amount to much.

  Terminal 1 – send locator and wait.

  It sounded very specific but I wasn’t going to argue. If he wanted me to sit and wait in a particular building he must have his reasons.

  I made my way to the main hall and looked around. I needed somewhere out of the crush but within sight of the main exits. I skirted the mass of travelling public, patrolling security guards, airport officials and staff, and found a coffee stall with some seating nearby. I sent Callahan a locator code as requested, then sat back and waited, eyes on the surrounding area and trying to chill when all my instincts were telling me to go dark.

  Leaving Lebanon had been easier than I’d thought possible. After a brief stop at a field of new refugee tents for Max to unload his boxes, during which he’d said not to move but play dumb if asked, we’d continued on our way across-country with Max following a route which seemed to involve a lot of twists and turns. Eventually the sea had come into view and we cleared the coast and were on our way to Cyprus across a sun-sparkled water of the most amazing blue. Thankfully there was no sign of the Agusta to spoil the ride.

  When we landed it was at the British RAF base at Akrotiri, where Max directed us to a jeep waiting nearby and waved us goodbye. The driver got us aboard then set out at a fast clip for a small building on the far side of the field, away from the general structures. It felt a bit like being treated as having something contagious but I didn’t mind that. Even in and around military bases it was normal to be segregated from other forces to avoid being asked awkward questions.

  As we got inside the building we were approached by two men. One was a uniformed officer with the rank of captain, the other a sergeant carrying a canvas bag. The officer checked our names then nodded to the sergeant and said, ‘This is one of our armourers. I’ll have to ask you to turn over any weapons and ammunition you might be carrying, then we can get on with processing you through to your next destination.’

  The sergeant stepped forward and relieved us of the pistols and spare magazines. If he was surprised that Isobel was toting the Glock he kept his face blank. Maybe they had ladies of a certain age coming through here with guns all the time. He quickly and expertly checked that there were no shells left in the guns before thanking us and walking away. All in a day’s work.

  The officer directed us to a small waiting room with a phone and said, ‘I’ll have to ask you to stay in this room until it’s time to go.’ His tone of voice and the presence of two armed guards in the corridor suggested that wandering around the base would be actively discouraged. ‘There’s coffee and tea and toilets, so please help yourselves.’

  He disappeared with a vague half-salute and while Isobel got busy talking to London, I sent a locator to Callahan, more in the hopes that he’d respond telling me what I’d be doing next. When Isobel finished the call she put the phone down and came across to me.

  ‘This is where we part company,’ she said. ‘I have orders to go back to the UK, and you’re booked on a military flight to Frankfurt leaving here in a few hours.’

  ‘I wish I could say it’s all been fun,’ I said. ‘Interesting, maybe. Are you going to be all right?’

  ‘Me? Yes. I’ll have to go through a long bitching session about why I got kicked out of the country and then I’ll be off somewhere else.’ She looked a little regretful. ‘I enjoyed this last bit. Made a change from pretending to be an aid coordinator. What will you be doing?’

  I shrugged. ‘Same as you. An inquest into what happened, then a few days of down time. After that, I’m not sure.’

  ‘I forgot, you’re a free agent, aren’t you? I suppose I shouldn’t use the word agent around here.’ She grinned like a naughty schoolgirl. ‘People might get the wrong idea.’

  I gave her a hug. Under any other circumstances it would have seemed odd, but after what we’d been through together it seemed a natural thing to do. ‘Thank you. You saved my hide back there. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Stop it. You’ll have me in tears.’ She didn’t look even close to it. She turned and walked out without a backwards glance. One tough lady. I liked her.

  Time passed slowly, the way it always does when you don’t want to sit still. People came and went, mostly without acknowledging me, and the hours stretched out. Eventually the officer who’d greeted us on arrival came and escorted me out to an aircraft waiting on the tarmac.

  A line of mixed travellers in a variety of uniforms and short haircuts was waiting patiently to get on board, with none of the eager push-and-shove of civilians. They all looked a little spaced out, with sunburned faces and varying states of body slump, and I could only guess where they’d come from and what they’d left behind. Wherever it was had to be a hot-spot somewhere to the east. I was relieved nobody tried to start a conversation and was asleep before we reached the end of the runway.

  My phone buzzed. I was on my third Frankfurt-strength coffee and was beginning to feel as if I’d been plugged into the mains, with that sense of edginess that makes everything around you seem forced and induces a general body itch that won’t go away. I looked at the text. It was from Callahan.

  2 gunmen accessed Akrotiri base 4 hrs ago. Both attackers shot dead and two security personnel wounded. Your photo again but no ID. Suggest extra vigilance.

  What the hell was going on? First the attack on me near Yammoune, in Lebanon, followed by the Agusta dusting down the olive grove with some serious gunfire. Now this. Launching an attack inside a British RAF base where there would have been armed security demonstrated a serious level of determination or desperation. Or maybe the attackers had had no real idea of what they were up against.

  I sent a note back.

  Have you ID’d the first two?

  Not that it helped me to know much either way but it would show me they were on top of the situation.

  Fifteen minutes lat
er there was another text.

  One name possible. Checking sources.

  Well that was something. If they had a line on one of the gunmen it might lead to others and eventually give them some idea of where he’d come from … and maybe who was his employer. Like every other aspect of intel work it was a process: identify, confirm and connect, working along the line to check known associates, background and history to see who was pulling the strings, who had given the orders. And why.

  I couldn’t answer that so I focussed on watching the terminal hall around the main entrance. Passengers and greeters were hurrying by in a steady stream, each in his or her own world, pushing baggage carts, dragging kids, carrying overnight bags or clutching flight documents. A familiar sight the world over.

  Then I spotted two men who’d pushed through the main entrance and stopped just inside. They were getting in the way of other arrivals but they didn’t move, oblivious of everyone else. One was checking his phone while the other stood close by, scanning the hall.

  On first sight they looked fairly normal: average faces, dark hair, somewhere in their late thirties or early forties. Medium height, a couple of guys on down-time, wearing jeans, windcheaters and soft boots. Not US military, though, which was common around here.

  Yet there was something about them that struck me as odd. Then it hit me: where other travellers were stopping to peer up at the flight schedule boards, clutching their flight documents in the excited or edgy manner of all travellers, these two did none of that. Here to meet someone, perhaps? My gut feel said not.

  Then the man with the cellphone said something to his companion and looked up.

  He was looking right at the area where I was sitting.

  I grabbed my backpack and slid out of my seat, moving slowly because sudden movements stood out, even here in this maelstrom of people.