A Hostile State

by Adrian Magson

  ‘You know you can stay here tonight. I’ll get the stuff ready for you for an early start.’

  I thanked him and took out my cellphone. The second call I had to make was overdue.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Brian Callahan was just completing a comms meeting when his cellphone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. There was no caller ID but he knew it had to be Portman. His sense of relief was tinged with irritation at not hearing from him sooner.

  ‘Marc, are you all right?’ he said, closing his office door behind him and waving away one of the admin staff carrying a batch of files. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you do not have nine lives. What are you doing?’

  Portman said, ‘I’m trying to ignore the fact that you’ve been told to dump me as an inconvenience. How’s that working for you, by the way?’

  Callahan winced at the cool tone of Portman’s voice. ‘It’s not, as you probably know. I wish I could say and do more, I really do.’

  ‘I believe you. You work for some nice people up there.’

  ‘Tell me about it. How’s Lindsay holding up – is she OK?’

  ‘Better than the people above you deserve. She’s tough, but I sent her away to get her clear of whatever’s going to happen.’

  ‘Yeah – sorry. I should have explained. I didn’t want her to become collateral damage because of my position.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘A little restricted, truth be known. But I’ll survive. It was the best way of doing it and helping you out that I could think of.’ Even as he said it, it sounded lame, but he figured Portman would understand. ‘I knew you might need some back-up cover and she’d be able to move without anyone watching her. I also knew you’d look after her. There’s nobody else I’d trust to do that.’

  ‘She’ll be safe as long as she stays off the radar.’

  Callahan sighed. He didn’t bother asking where Lindsay was because he doubted Portman would tell him. Not that it would matter. Mixed with his concern was the knowledge that there was little more he could do to help Portman, and that in all likelihood he himself was being watched on orders of Broderick at the State Department to make sure he obeyed instructions to break off all contact with his man. But he was way past that and hoped to prolong it for as long as he could.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Portman’s voice was calm. ‘You’re in a bind, I know that. But there is one thing.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘It’s time to end this. It’s gone on too long.’ There was a pause and Portman said, ‘Is the leak still active?’

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  ‘I’ll be sending you a new locator. Make sure it gets known. I’ll do the rest.’

  Callahan didn’t like the sound of that. But trying to stop a field operator like Portman would be like throwing stones at a runaway tank. And deep down, he sympathized; being a moving target was no fun and Portman sounded as if he’d reached the end of the wire. ‘You’re going to draw them out? How will that work?’

  ‘It might not, but it’s worth a try. If they lose enough people they might decide to cut their losses.’

  Callahan had heard that argument before. He just didn’t know in this instance how much was enough. ‘Sounds like a major piece of action. How many is it so far?’

  ‘I haven’t been counting. But with the two far-right bangers who came after Chesnais it’s getting close to two figures, mostly walking wounded but some not.’

  Callahan winced in spite of himself at the cold summary. He hoped to God that no such statistics became known around Washington; people like Broderick at the State Department would throw up their hands and have a hissy fit, ignoring the fact that espionage and intelligence-led operations were a kind of war, and in war there were always casualties. He was pretty sure, though, that nothing would ever come from the Moscow end, that at some point their involvement would sink into obscurity, the details wiped from the record as a face-saving exercise.

  ‘What’s next?’ he asked.

  ‘You probably shouldn’t know. Look out for the locators and feed them down the line. I’ll do the rest.’

  The connection was cut and Callahan put down the phone with a feeling of helplessness, all too cruelly aware that he was no longer running his asset, and that all he could do was sit out the next phase of whatever Portman was planning.

  FORTY

  The following morning I was up early and on the road. Fabien had given me a couple of suggestions for places where I could hunker down, both of them well away from people but with good routes in and out. He’d even offered to come with me as a second gun but I’d clamped down hard on that one. It had been a long while since he’d been hunter or hunted, and those skills, no matter how well-learned and put into practice, diminish over time. The mental reactions to a threat slow down and the body doesn’t retain the muscle memory needed to move instantly when danger presents itself. In any case I didn’t want to put his life in danger any more than I had Lindsay’s.

  This was my fight and I had to finish it.

  On the way out to the car Fabien handed me a large tactical bag. It was made of canvas and too heavy to be a sandwich and coffee. But I didn’t need to look inside. It carried the familiar gun-oil aroma of an armoury, along with the smell and feel of something like a rolled-up groundsheet, military grade. Old smells, old memories.

  ‘It’s not much,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope it helps.’ He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘It’s all clean so use it then lose it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘I appreciate it.’

  He gave me the sign of the gun with his forefinger and thumb for luck, then turned and walked back inside.

  My phone beeped into life after a couple of miles and I stopped to see who was calling. It was a text from Lindsay. She said she was at the hotel near the Parmentier métro and told me to be careful. I told her I would and she should see some of the sights. I wasn’t being over-casual, but wanted to take her mind off what was happening.

  The area I’d finally chosen to use was centred on a stretch of marshland, with plenty of trees intersected by a small, meandering river. Fabien had described it in some detail, his knowledge gained from down-time visits to do some solitary fishing and hunting. It was currently a private reserve, he’d told me, but unused. He’d also warned me to be careful where I put my feet, a familiar warning when operating in enemy territory and traps were waiting for the unwary.

  The approach roads were gated and locked, and Fabien had provided me a key which he said would get me through and into good cover for the car.

  Marshes, trees, reeds and water – and no people. It looked like typical guerrilla or maquis country. But that suited me fine. Once in there I would be in control. I hadn’t felt much of that in the past few days and I felt relieved that things may be swinging my way for a change. I didn’t know what the skillsets of the people chasing me might be beyond the standard military gun and close-in knife work which they’d exhibited so far, but I guessed I’d soon find out.

  I stopped a few miles later on the brow of a hill to make sure I hadn’t picked up a tail. The road both ways was clear to the horizon and there was nothing in the sky tracking my progress as far as I could see. But who knew? Small drones are tough to locate, able to fly high to avoid being detected, using whisper-mode motors and mounted with high-resolution cameras capable of picking up amazing detail on the ground below.

  This game was getting way too complicated.

  I checked the bag Fabien had given me. On the very top was a wrap of cheese sandwiches and a couple of apples with two bottles of water tucked down the side. Field rations. Underneath was a FAMAS F1 assault rifle and three spare clips, a groundsheet, binoculars, a sleeping bag, a survival knife, a coil of tripwire and four stun grenades, aka flashbangs in a canvas bag. I saw the way Fabien’s mind was working. Every convenience required for a fun day in the country.

  And he’d thrown in a military crossbow.


  I eased it out of the bag. It was small, lightweight, made of a composite injection-moulded body and fibreglass limbs. I’d used one a few times on practice ranges as part of a general weapons-training programme, but never for real. Picture a skeletal rifle stock with a small bow perched across the top and you have a virtually silent and deadly assault weapon. Where they were known to be used they carried a powerful psychological aura unmatched by any gun. Nobody likes the idea of being pierced by something they can’t hear coming and can’t extract.

  I replaced everything in the bag and continued driving until I reached the area I’d chosen. It lay in a shallow dip in the ground, with rolling hills running away either side. The trees were extensive, running from halfway down the slope on one side and merging into a stretch of marshland a good mile long and half a mile wide. Glints of water showed a number of ponds dotted here and there, each surrounded by reeds and tall grasses with a winding river bisecting the area and running east to west.

  I checked out the approach road carefully through the binoculars. A turning off the road led onto a track which fed down into the trees and marshland, with another line which had to be a track leading up on the far side to the north.

  One way in, one out. It wasn’t perfect but for my purposes would do me fine.

  I turned onto the track, which looked and felt little-used, with weed-filled ruts in the dried earth on each side and a high line of grass running down the centre which whispered on the underneath of the van like a voice telling me stuff I couldn’t understand. The fields on either side were planted with what looked like sugar beet, leaving a nice open view across the land for some distance. A cloud of dust was billowing up behind me, which was a useful sign. Anyone approaching down here or down the far side would throw up a similar warning visible for some way, hopefully with time enough for me to get ready.

  The track took me down to a weathered wooden gate about a hundred yards short of the trees. I got out and checked the lock and chain. The key fitted, although I had to work it a little to get it to turn. It was another indication that nobody had been down here in a while. High above me a couple of skylarks did their musical thing, and a flock of pigeons were poking about in the soil of the fields, too busy to bother looking at this stranger turning up nearby. It was like being in a different world, one I hadn’t experienced enough of.

  I got back in the van and drove through the gate, getting out and locking it behind me. There was no sense in making things easy for them. Then I drove down into the trees, the overhead canopy dimming the light and casting a soft shadow over the undergrowth on either side.

  The track wound between ponds, each roughly half the size of a football pitch, and reached the river. It was little more than fifteen feet wide and maybe ten deep, the water running clear and smooth with long lines of weeds twisting in the current like ladies’ hair.

  A bridge made of weathered railway sleepers provided the only crossing, and I checked it out on foot before driving over. It seemed robust enough, each sleeper bedded down into the soil on either side and held in place by large rust-brown metal spikes. I got back in the van and lowered the windows. If anyone was around I wanted to hear them. I drove across the bridge, the tyres rumbling over the ridges and gaps between the sleepers and making the steering judder.

  The trees on the other side of the river were thicker, the undergrowth tangled and untended for probably decades and forming a dense wall of vegetation that blocked out everything on all sides. It was like entering a mini-jungle, the atmosphere at once oppressive because of the absence of air and the high degree of constant humidity from the soil.

  There were flies, too, and tiny midges forming clouds in every clearing. With them came the sickly smell of old mud tainted by rotting vegetation. I’d been in places just like it before and felt a shiver across my shoulders in spite of the warmth hanging over me like a cloak. Jungle fighting was a special art, and one I doubted I would ever come to enjoy.

  When I reached the far edge of the trees I stopped. A padlocked gate was in front of me, the double of the one I’d just come through. This one opened onto a track continuing up the slope and disappearing at the top. I checked the padlock. Same key.

  I drove back into the trees and found an area which formed a natural hideaway. It was big enough for the van to be hidden unless someone stumbled on it by accident. If they did I wouldn’t be in it. Then I spent more than an hour scouting the whole area on foot.

  The recce was essential. I needed to familiarize myself with the layout, noting possible choke points around the ponds and old fishing platforms with rotting planks long unused. An ancient wooden dinghy lay upturned in the shallows of one pond, but I decided against that as a hide. Once in I’d be trapped with no quick way out and no cover. I checked points where I could cross the river if I didn’t mind getting wet, and potential hides where I could slip in with minimum effort and maximum effect.

  All the while I was accompanied by birdsong high in the trees. They had gone quiet when I’d first climbed out of the van, no doubt unaccustomed to visitors in the backwater retreat. But after a while they’d resumed their chatter. It sounded to me as if they might be laughing, but I’m no expert on bird-talk. It seemed incongruous to think about what might happen here shortly, but I’d witnessed the stark contrast between nature and what man’s presence can do to it too many times to be surprised.

  With my recce over I stopped and took out my cellphone. I’d done everything I could think of to make this as defensive a position as I could. I was going to send Callahan my locators based on the wooden bridge over the river. Whichever way the opposition approached, from north or south, they would mentally pin the target area as being in the centre of the trees.

  They wouldn’t know about the fine detail, of the bridge, the river or the ponds until they got down here on the ground. It would leave them no time to do a complete recce of the area before they had to begin looking for me. That would work to my advantage because anything they wanted to do would have to be on a first-visit-as-seen basis, with no opportunity for preparation or practice.

  I sent Callahan the locators. He would know what to do with them. If the leak was still working, the words would quickly find their way out and along the line. If the opposition were anywhere in the region, which I guessed they were, they’d be here within an hour or two max.

  Then I settled down to wait and listen to the birds. If I didn’t hear anyone coming, they would.

  FORTY-ONE

  Callahan’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen and saw three random words but no message. He wrote them down on a slip of paper and walked down to Lindsay’s room. He was as certain as he could be now that this was where the leak occurred. But this would be the acid test, as much for Portman as it would be for himself.

  He entered the room and placed the slip of paper on Lindsay’s desk, pinning it in place with the corner of her in-tray. He made a small detour on the way back to his own office past the room where Andrews worked and gave the researcher a nod in passing. Andrews acknowledged it and turned to a second monitor on his desk showing a CCTV feed.

  As Callahan sat down his feelings were mostly of unease at what was playing out. There was no going back from this, for him, for Portman and for others in the building, all in different ways. And the shockwaves wouldn’t stop here; the State Department would also reverberate with accusations of deceit, gullibility and even negligence while those with most to lose would seek to step quickly away from any political fall-out for ignoring warnings and placing their trust in a Moscow sleeper.

  His desk phone rang. He half expected it to be Sewell calling another meeting. Instead it was a familiar voice with a British accent. Tom Vale.

  ‘Brian? I’m on a flying visit. Can you spare five minutes? It would be worth your while, I promise.’

  The operations director for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service rarely had reason to call in person. Callahan was surprised but not displeased. The two men had had commun
ications before and the two shared agreements on many issues. Portman had worked as a contractor for SIS on occasion and both agencies had cause to have been impressed with his work. In fact Vale had long been a supporter after Portman had saved the lives of two of his people in insurgent-riven Somalia.

  ‘Of course, Tom. I’ll have someone bring you up.’

  While he waited for Vale to be escorted to his office, he wondered at the reason for the rush visit. Vale would normally have made an appointment, but clearly this hadn’t been possible. Something was in the wind.

  Vale entered the office and they shook hands. Callahan noted how tired the Englishman looked and said, ‘Would you like coffee or tea?’

  Vale shook his head. ‘Thank you, Brian, but no. I can’t stay long. I have a flight back to Northolt waiting.’ He took a seat and launched right in. ‘Are we all right to talk?’

  ‘Of course. It’s not bugged, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He grinned. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s about Marc Portman. I know all about his situation, of course – and we’re grateful for him helping Isobel Hunt on their way out of Lebanon – but a few things have surfaced which I think you need you to know.’

  ‘Do I need to be concerned?’

  ‘For Portman, possibly. As you know it’s not often our people get targeted on an operation the way he has over the past few days. Fortunately the interest is usually short-lived and doesn’t get physical bar a bit of protesting and wailing. But this time has been different.’

  Callahan said nothing, although he marvelled at Vale’s degree of understatement; the level of violence aimed at Portman and Vale’s officer, Hunt, had been off-the-scale lethal. And thus far it hadn’t shown any signs of ending.

  ‘We’ve picked up a whisper,’ Vale continued, ‘about the people responsible for the operation against him. On the surface it appears to be a select, unattributed group based in Moscow, all with previous ties to their security or intelligence community.’