TWENTY-SEVEN
Senator Howard J. Benson sat in his office and studied a list of scribbles in his notebook. It wasn’t as complete as he would have liked, and possibly not entirely accurate. But he’d only had a few seconds to look at the original, which was in an open mission file on Assistant Director Sewell’s desk. He’d managed to take a quick look when Sewell had excused himself to take an incoming call. Fortunately, Benson had been blessed with a politician’s memory. He’d made the notes after excusing himself to go to the washroom.
He now had something he could use to put a stop to Callahan’s private gun-for-hire.
A call came in. The number was unlisted. It was the man he knew as Two-One.
‘What have you got?’
‘You were right about Brian Callahan.’
‘How so?’
‘He rarely moves far from the Langley bubble. But six days ago he travelled to New York City. He checked in to a CIA front office at ten-fifteen New York time and thirty minutes later he was joined in a secure room by a civilian. They spent forty minutes together, which went unrecorded, then went their separate ways. That was Callahan’s only trip out of Langley other than family business.’
‘Did you get a name for this civilian?’
‘Yes, sir. He booked in as Marc Stuart Portman, a resident of New York. I got a photo from the security camera which I’ve just sent over. A passport check makes him a holder of dual US–British nationalities. I checked with a few places and he has almost no profile, which takes some doing. This guy’s a pro.’
‘That much I gathered. So what exactly do you have on him?’
‘He’s a contractor, obviously. Moves around, is known to have used at least one cover name, with addresses in New York, London and Paris. He has had contact with various agencies here and possibly overseas, but I can’t prove that for sure without further digging.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It could take time and cause ripples. Are you ready for that?’
‘Make it as fast as you can but don’t trip any alarms. What else?’
‘The rest is supposition. He’s ex-military; he has to be.’
‘Official records?’
‘I tried that but I haven’t found a link yet. He may have been enlisted for only a brief period and got busted or discharged, so there’s nothing of significance to show up.’
‘This is not helpful. The man can’t be a ghost.’
‘Actually, that’s not strictly true.’
‘What does that mean?’ Benson’s voice was a snap. He was fast becoming frustrated at the lack of detail. He knew the extent and depth of modern military records, and knew that very little managed to sink without trace. There had to be something somewhere that would give him some leverage on this mystery Watchman; leverage that could help him undermine Callahan’s faith and reliance in the one man he believed could get Travis out safely.
‘Well, I found one hint on a file, no more than that, that he might be former French Foreign Legion. But that’s unconfirmed.’
‘Can’t you find out from the French?’
‘No. They’re not in the habit of disclosing information about former personnel – to anybody. Portman isn’t like most of the contractors out there, I can tell you that. He keeps his head down and doesn’t mix with any of the regular guys I spoke with, doesn’t go to any of the usual hangouts to trade war stories. In fact, none of them had heard of him save for one former SEAL who said he’d done a job in Peru with a guy named Portman once and he said he was right up there.’
‘I take it that’s some kind of sub-level alpha-male compliment?’
‘I would say so. Coming from a SEAL, it means Portman’s something special.’
‘Christ, you sound as if you admire the man.’
‘I know the type, that’s all. It comes back to the ghost thing.’
‘How?’
‘If he’s as good as he seems to be, and he’s worked for the CIA or other agencies before, my guess is his records could have been blanked out.’
‘How do we confirm that?’
‘We don’t. I’ve tried before. If agencies want a former member of the military to disappear, that’s what happens – they disappear.’
‘You mean their specialists?’
‘Those and others they use on a freelance basis, yes. The kind of people they want with no footprint.’
‘So he is a ghost.’
‘As good as.’
‘Let me know as soon as you have something. Anything.’
Benson cut the call. This was a waste of time. It was yet more evidence of the CIA’s cavalier attitude and their willingness to impose their own rules on established procedures. He had come across mentions before of former special forces personnel ‘disappearing’ from the records on a temporary basis, presumably allowing them to be used thereafter as unattached personnel to prevent any trail coming back to the US government. He had even been persuaded against his instincts of the usefulness of such ploys, but now saw it as further proof that the CIA was capable of almost anything in the furtherance of their ‘missions’, adding to the established stories of extraordinary rendition and so-called torture flights.
His incoming mail beeped. He found a file containing a single photo. It was a black and white face-on shot and showed a slim man with short dark hair and dark eyes. He was entering the CIA front office in New York. Dressed in a sport jacket and plain pants, he could have been anybody off the street. He looked about medium height and might have been of Spanish or Italian stock, but it was hard to tell. He had the compact appearance of a man who kept himself fit, the type Benson had seen many times over the years connected to the CIA and other agencies.
Benson had an uncomfortable feeling taking hold deep in his gut. The fact that this Watchman a.k.a. Portman was a professional was bad enough; but having dual nationality and addresses in other countries put him way beyond the normal level of contractors and second-hand soldiers for hire. With what Benson and the Dupont Circle Group were hoping for as an outcome with Edwin Travis, a pro with a Navy SEAL’s mark of approval could pose a serious problem if he was successful in his assignment.
Still, he had a plan for that. All it would take was the decisiveness and courage to make another phone call. Only this one was way off the board of acceptability in normal terms, and would be regarded as treachery of the highest order in most quarters if it ever came to light.
He considered the probability of that ever happening, and dismissed it as unlikely. But what would happen if he took no action and allowed Portman to bring Travis home? Good for Travis, of course, and a hero’s return for Portman if his name ever got into the spotlight. But after patting themselves on the back and thanking their lucky stars that they had retrieved the situation, the idiots in the State Department and the White House would go back to watching and waiting while other countries stepped in and took the initiative. And the spoils.
No. What he was planning would see the budgets and power return to the US Intelligence Community where it belonged, although not necessarily the CIA, not after he’d finished with them. It would cement in the eyes of the outside world at least, his reputation as an impartial advocate for the protection of the country, while being a hard-hitting monitor of illegal activities carried out in the name of the state. On the back of that, there would be an inevitable pressure on Congress and the Department of Energy to ease exports of energy to the European market.
Which would play right into the hands of the Dupont Group.
He took another cell phone from his desk. This was a disposable device and one he used very rarely. He dialled a Washington number and waited for it to answer. He could picture the room where it would be ringing, see the man sitting behind the ornate desk. A man with all the appearance and trappings of Washington affluence, an East Coast accent and great teeth, but with his heart and soul, along with a host of useful contacts, directly inside the Russian intelligence network.
While wait
ing, he studied the photo of the contractor named Portman, trying to read into his soul. He wondered what made such a person tick. Was it money? Patriotism? Honour? Kicks? A death wish?
He hoped it was the last one. Give it a few hours and Portman would have his wish granted in spades.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was close to the intersection with the M04 to Pavlohrad when my cell phone call light flickered. I stopped by a clutch of trees at the side of the road and picked up.
It was Lindsay with an ‘A’.
‘How you doing?’ she said. She sounded chirpy. Casual. But behind it was a rigid professionalism.
‘I’m good. What’ve you got?’
It was an update from Callahan. Donetsk International Airport had just shut down, a victim of the unrest. Closed until further notice. Even if I’d wanted to, flying out from there was no longer an option.
It didn’t matter. I hadn’t planned on going out that way, anyway. Turning back east would be like walking into a sack. But it gave me a feel for the way things were going locally. With the airport closed, the mood of isolation and unrest would spread quickly to other parts of the region. There would be the inevitable ramping up of police and military activity, of curfews and the restriction of movements. If it spread far enough and encompassed the west of the country, getting Travis out might be a problem.
‘There are no reports so far in the national media or via any of the state security links we have access to that could be related to your presence. There was a brief reference to an attack on security members in the Kyiv’ski District, but it was dismissed as the isolated work of criminals and no arrests have been made.’
‘Nice to know that’s what I am.’
‘I have an update regarding the next cut-out. She’s been contacted and will store Travis overnight at a local hotel where she’s the deputy manager. Her husband has strong pro-Russian family links, so she feels Travis will be safer in the hotel out of the way. It’s called the Tipol, close to the river. I checked the website and the building’s big enough so he can be anonymous if he keeps his head down.’
‘Good work. Anything else?’
‘How’s your status?’ She was probably thinking about the two shooters. It was nice of her to ask, but it was standard procedure. A field operative who has specific fears he can’t or won’t express is a danger to himself and his assignment if those fears are unresolved for too long. It’s the job of the handlers to tease out any such issues. They might not be able to do much about them, but talking helps. If that fails, the extreme is intervention.
‘My status is fine. I’m staying on the move.’ If Olena Prokyeva had managed to get word to Ivkanoy about what had happened, the chances are he would be even more on my case and would have more people out looking for me. The biggest danger for me lay in new faces, especially in built-up areas; I simply might not see them coming. Out here it wouldn’t be so easy for them, but the threat was still real.
Lindsay was ahead of me. ‘I did some checking,’ she said, ‘on the man Ivkanoy. Interpol and the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs have files on him. He also shows up in their State Prison Service records. He seems not to have a first name – at least there’s nothing on record. He’s done time for numerous offences, including murder and extortion. So not a nice man.’
‘Good to know. And the shooter?’
‘Olena Prokyeva. She has an interesting history. She completed military service and was stand-by on the Russian Olympic shooting team in 1988 and again in 1992. It was reported that she should have been in their first team but lost out because she was Ukrainian and had an attitude problem.’
‘They got that right. Where did she serve in the military?’
‘Afghanistan in 1989. That was right at the end of their involvement. She appears to have gone off the rails after that and dropped off the radar. Until now.’
‘Good to know.’
‘That’s not all. Ivkanoy has extended family across southern and eastern Ukraine and over the border into Russia. One of his cousins is Yuri Beltranov, named recently as a leader of a separatist pro-Moscow group in the Luhansk district. Ivkanoy is rumoured to be one of his sponsors for political position in any new administration.’
‘You’ve been busy. Thank you.’ The last bit of information didn’t exactly add to my feeling of well-being, but it was good to know where I stood. It also explained why and how Ivkanoy was able to send two shooters after me so casually; he didn’t fear being implicated because his cousin the separatist leader would be his protector.
‘How’s the work?’ I asked, watching a long line of army trucks thudding east. They were full of troops and equipment, and had an APC at the head of the column ready to clear the way. They looked like they meant business. A military chopper was keeping station overhead, jinking back and forth to study the landscape. It all looked a little unreal, like military convoys so often do.
‘Quiet. I get to see even fewer people than you do.’ There was a smile in the voice and I guessed she was in some kind of isolated room surrounded by electronic equipment and cut off from visitors. Like being in a hospital room only without the smell of medicines. I sensed a reserve, too, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m good, thanks. Speak later?’
I signed off and got back on the road. If something was bothering her she was too professional to let it out, and I had other things to do.
I found myself in a steady stream of traffic heading west, with bunches of military vehicles and lines of trucks parked at the side of the road. It seemed as if the entire Ukrainian army was on the move, heading towards the east and the separatist militias waiting for them. The soldiers here were standing around smoking and waving encouragement to a few going the other way. None of them looked as if they were relishing the part they were going to play, but they were doing what soldiers do everywhere, which was waiting for the next list of orders from the high command.
The countryside here was flatter than I’d seen before, with gently rolling fields heading off into the distance and not much in the way of trees, other than a long line bordering a rail track heading, I guessed, to Pavlohrad.
As I was taking in the detail, I heard a car horn to my left. A military jeep loaded with armed men was sitting right alongside me. The driver didn’t have a whole lot of room, but he was flashing oncoming drivers to get them out of the way and they weren’t arguing. The front seat passenger flipped a hand for me to pull over and stop, while the rear seat passenger had a grim smile on his face and an AK-74 pointed at my head.
TWENTY-NINE
I pulled over and rolled to a stop on the grass verge. The jeep pulled over with me and stopped in front, blocking any escape. Seconds later I was out of the car and standing against the hood, with the rest of the traffic thundering by a few feet away. The two men from the back of the jeep stood guard, while the front seat passenger strutted his stuff and demanded to know who I was and where I was going.
I was worried this might be another Rambo-style vehicle check, but it quickly became obvious that there was something too efficient about the officer and his men, and that they weren’t playing at being traffic cops just for the hell of it.
I told him I was from Germany and that I had a family to feed and was looking for work. I’d heard about some kind of government hostel hiring a maintenance man in Pavlohrad and was hoping to get the position.
He nodded like he was familiar with the place and peered into the car. I held my breath. If he saw the sniper’s rifle I was in a whole world of trouble. He took an age walking round the car, tapping on the roof as if deep in thought. All the while I waited for him to open the doors and for the hammer to fall.
But he didn’t. Instead he turned back and began flipping through my papers. I relaxed a little. I knew the address was a blind and even if he had the time or inclination to check it out, it would come up good.
‘You’re a long way from home. An
d Germany is a rich country.’ He meant why was I wasting time looking for work in a poorer economy that was in danger of disintegrating into civil war any day now.
‘I heard things were good here for people willing to work hard. I want to set up a business, employ others.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not good right now but you have to take a chance and run with it, right?’
He grunted with scepticism and I knew why. The kind of chances the military takes bear no resemblance to those in civilian life. Guns and ammunition present a more final and binding solution than spreadsheets, order books or corporate rules, and risk for civilians is measured purely in economic terms, not life and death. ‘It sounds a good plan, but you should pay more attention to news reports. What kind of work do you do?’
‘Electrician, plumber, carpenter … whatever you want me to do, captain,’ I replied. He was a junior lieutenant but he didn’t take offence at the promotion. His mouth twitched and he handed the papers back and nodded at the rear of the Isuzu. ‘If you’re so good with your hands, get your stop light fixed – it’s flickering like a welcome sign on a Black Sea whorehouse.’
A burst of chatter from his car radio interrupted any further discussion. He listened, head cocked to one side. Whatever was said galvanized him into action. He gave a brief signal to his men and said to me, ‘You can go.’ With that, they all jumped aboard and were gone.
I let out my breath and got back in the car. It had been a random stop, but served as a timely reminder of just how fragile my presence here was.
Pavlohrad was quiet, with wide roads and not much in the way of traffic to fill them. I guess anyone who didn’t need to travel was keeping their heads down. The elegant gold mushroom domes of the orthodox Christian churches flashed in the light, and after all the signs I’d seen of military activity, the town was indisputably civilian in tone and appearance, with an understated elegance to the buildings.
I followed the main road in and passed a large IS-3 Russian heavy tank sitting on a plinth. It was a memorial to the liberation of Pavlohrad in 1943 and a simultaneous reminder of the country’s past and its links to its vast neighbour to the east.
Close Quarters Page 14
