Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  Conkley was well aware of the potential dangers to himself of approaching Cready. She was ruthless when it came to protecting her sources, but even she couldn’t guarantee total secrecy in the city which never ever went off duty. She was too well known in official circles and anyone she met with was immediately considered to be providing her with information … or of being the next person on her hit list.

  Surprisingly, she had agreed to an early meeting at a bar on 7th Street, where Conkley had been admitted by a security guard who had patted him down carefully before giving him the nod. Cready obviously carried some weight here, but he wasn’t surprised. They probably owed her for past favours. Put a media hitter like Cready in any evening or lunch-time bar or restaurant with a known staffer close to government and the place would fill quickly with the kind of political observers who relished being in on the early stages of a media hatchet job. And Marcella Cready was known for following only the leads to the biggest of stories.

  ‘I don’t want every detail at this time,’ she told him, gesturing for him to take a seat at a corner table. The rest of the room was deserted, the doors closed. Conkley sat down and wondered if the table was bugged.

  Up close Cready was stunning, with slim legs, glossy hair, a full, curvy figure and flawless skin, save for a tiny hint of laughter lines around the eyes; only Conkley doubted they had anything to do with humour. She wore a suit that had probably cost what Conkley earned in a couple of months, and sat like a queen receiving a subject. But the good looks stopped short at the eyes, Conkley noted; they were almost dead, and ran across him without a flicker, assessing and probably dismissing him.

  She made no offer of a drink, but that was fine. It didn’t make him feel good, but he hadn’t come here for a pep talk or a boost to his ego. The situation had gone beyond that.

  He was accustomed to briefings, and gave her a summary of what he knew. She said little, occasionally making a brief note, which confirmed to him that there had to be a recording device nearby. The thought gave him a minor anxiety attack; he had never thought about his every word being recorded outside the confines of government before, yet here he was putting on record clear proof that he was involved with a group of men attempting to profit by using classified information that he had provided and been paid for.

  When he finished speaking, she nodded once. ‘Very well. It sounds like a possible story, but I’ll have to run my own checks first. As soon as I’ve confirmed the viability of what you’ve told me we’ll have another talk.’

  Conkley was alarmed. ‘You won’t go near them, will you? I mean, Benson and the others. They’ll know something’s been said.’

  She smiled knowingly, which should have made her look beautiful and helped light up those eyes. But it made her look even colder, as if the façade might crack. ‘You mean everybody else will start asking questions about what I’ve got on such eminent gentlemen?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘That won’t happen unless I want it to. You think I only ever get seen by chance in this town?’ The corner of her mouth dropped in an involuntary show of superiority, and Conkley decided he really didn’t much like Marcella Cready.

  But it was too late for that now. Needs must. He’d thrown the bait out, and it had been snapped up. All he had to wait for was to see if the bait was acceptable.

  ‘Um … what about …?’ He wanted to say payment, but he couldn’t bring himself to utter the word. It seemed too … seedy.

  Cready did it for him. ‘I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars in cash on confirmation that I’m happy to run with it, and a further fifteen on publication. I’ll also require you to sign a contract confirming our agreement and the dates of all our meetings and exchanges, and an agreement to not divulge any information elsewhere.’

  ‘What? Why?’ The idea of his signature on a piece of paper alarmed him. What he wanted to do was talk the talk and fade quietly into the sunset and obscurity, not be on record for ever as some kind of paid betrayer.

  ‘Because if I run with this, it will be my exclusive. I never share – you should know that by now. And when the lid comes off this – and believe me, if what you’ve outlined is true, Benson will not take the exposure lying down – I don’t want any disagreements in court about who said what and when. Understood?’

  He nodded. The interview was over. He stood up, feeling as if he was being dismissed from the principal’s office, and was ushered out by the security guard, who smiled and wished him a nice day.

  Marcella Cready watched Conkley go with mixed feelings. She had wanted to ignore him, to show her contempt for him and others in his position. A little man, like so many attached like grubby little pilot fish to the real power brokers in and around government, he was easy to despise. She wasn’t even surprised by what he had outlined to her. Having never commanded real position, he had found himself drawn into a situation where he could exercise some kind of imagined power through the information he was able to sell, no doubt flattered by those who probably despised him just as much as she did.

  But dismissing him simply as a weak little man with imagined fears would have been criminally negligent of her. She had realized that the moment he began talking; the moment he had mentioned Senator Howard J. Benson.

  Benson was one of the big beasts of the Washington community; a charming, impressive, smooth operator with almost unlimited connections, he had ceased being a senator when he realized he could command greater power and influence in Washington by serving in other capacities. Capacities where she suspected – no, knew – he had crossed the line on more than one occasion, either by hiding facts that would prove unpalatable to the American public, or by accepting ‘fees’ that would in any other area of the administration have been regarded as bribery. Yet she had never managed to pin anything on him with the kind of absolute accuracy that was needed to bring him down. She had tried more than once, and come close. But Benson had friends, and those friends never spoke, mostly, she suspected, because he had something on them.

  And he knew it. He knew it and revelled in his untouchability. She could tell by the way he barely bothered to conceal a smirk whenever they met on the various junkets and power meetings where the press was invited, and the comments he made within her hearing, as if challenging her to try again.

  She had certainly tried, but nothing concrete had emerged and she had been forced to drop it, safe in the knowledge that one day somebody would talk and she would have her moment.

  Now this. This was different. Conkley, for all his faults, had brought something real to the table. Something she could fasten on. Notes, dates, events. And recordings. It meant all the friends in the world wouldn’t help Benson once the facts began to dribble out. Because one thing about friends like these was, they could quickly become enemies if the right pressure was applied and they saw the dangers to themselves of being associated with a man on the brink of disaster.

  She gathered her things together and nodded to Sean, the security guard. He walked towards the back of the bar and opened the outside door for her, checking the street carefully before allowing her through. Leaving via the back entrance wasn’t Cready’s usual style, but in this town it paid to be unpredictable.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I stopped in a small town fifty miles west of Pavlohrad to get some supplies. It had been slow going, with several brief diversions off the road when I spotted military trucks or potential roadblocks. Travis wasn’t looking great and I figured he was dehydrated and in need of something to eat. I also needed to call Callahan.

  I’d seen signs of more military activity building behind us, to the east, with helicopters skidding about on the horizon and fighter jets trailing smoke across the skies. Trucks, too, had whipped past us the other way, carrying troops and supplies. Whatever was happening over towards Donetsk wasn’t good and getting worse.

  As we entered the suburbs I saw a roadside café with a couple of trucks and a handful of cars and, further along, a used-car lo
t. Mostly four-wheel drives, they ran the range of rough-country farming work-horses, with heavy-duty tyres and the kind of battered appearance that made them blend into the background.

  I pulled up outside the café and told Travis to stay where he was and keep his head down. I could pass as a worker ant, but Travis looked too smart and groomed, as unwell as he was, to be anything other than someone with connections and money. He was also talking louder than he needed, even in the car, which I figured was a sign of fever from his injuries and the stress of the situation. An American voice out here would immediately stand out and be remembered.

  The interior of the café was rough and ready, but busy enough so that nobody looked up when I walked in. Most of the customers and staff had one eye on the rolling news on a large screen behind the counter. It showed the countryside outside Donetsk, the sky blackened by palls of smoke rising from burned-out vehicles and makeshift barricades, and groups of soldiers and militia with a rag-tag of weapons standing around watching the skies for signs of incoming helicopters or fighters. The atmosphere in the room was subdued, and I guessed for most of them it was tough watching their country being slowly torn apart and not being able to do a thing about it.

  I bought some bread, meat and fruit and three litre bottles of water, and took them back to the car. Travis barely noticed, so I left him to it and took a walk along the road to the used car lot.

  The owner was sitting alone in a small hut, eyes fixed morosely on a tiny television screen. He had a bald head, bushy eyebrows and few teeth, and barely nodded when I signalled that I wanted to check out the models on display. Most were beyond their prime, and looked ready for the scrap yard. But a dark green Land Cruiser looked as if it had some mileage left in it and I asked the owner if he wanted to do a deal.

  He shrugged; the sign of a man who’d thought he was going to make a sale too many times before now only to be disappointed when it didn’t happen.

  I told him to wait and went and got the Isuzu. When he saw it, he looked a little more interested and tore himself away from his television and came outside for a look. When I popped the hood and revealed the gleaming engine underneath, he looked suspicious.

  ‘Why?’ he said. ‘It’s a good car. Is it stolen?’

  ‘Too noisy,’ I replied, as if I didn’t know you could repair broken mufflers. ‘And my wife says it’s too fast, that I’ll upset the neighbours and kill myself and our unborn children.’

  He shrugged, plainly not caring if the story was true or not. I stepped back while he did a tour of the car, kicking the tyres and checking the underneath, and hoped he didn’t want to check the inside before agreeing a deal. I’d need to get the guns out unseen first otherwise he’d go back in his hut and slam the door.

  He scrambled out from under the car with a toothy grin and nodding slowly. But the deal wasn’t made yet.

  ‘I have to call someone,’ he said, and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.

  ‘A customer already?’ I said.

  ‘Of course a customer.’ He sneaked a look at me from under his eyebrows. ‘You think I’m calling the authorities to ask their permission?’ He made a foul spitting sound and laughed. No doubt he’d already got a buyer lined up for such a vehicle and the authorities weren’t going to know a thing about it. In the present climate of unrest I wasn’t surprised. Under-the-counter sales were probably the best he was going to get and he wouldn’t have to worry about paperwork on a rogue four-wheel drive that was going to disappear as soon as it left his yard.

  He spoke rapidly for about two minutes, alternating between cajoling and forceful and ending on a don’t-care note. I didn’t get anything from the one-sided conversation, save that the person on the other end was driving a hard bargain. In the end he nodded, said yes and snapped the phone shut.

  When he turned back to me he was grinning widely, displaying a large amount of empty gums.

  We agreed a straight swap, no questions asked, and shook on it. It was a great deal for him but I didn’t have the leverage or interest to try holding out for more. If he was suspicious about why I was selling and who Travis and I might be, he didn’t seem to care much.

  I shook Travis awake and told him to keep his mouth shut while I transferred everything from the Isuzu, making sure the car lot owner wasn’t looking when I moved the weapons. Travis looked shocked when he saw the OSV-96 with the sniper scope, but I ignored the questioning look and checked that there were no traces of us left behind.

  I handed the keys to the owner and he gave me a spare set of keys to the Land Cruiser in return, which he’d left running to warm up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said, one hand on the door. ‘Not east, I bet.’

  ‘No. Not east. Why?’

  He lifted his chin in the direction of the town centre. ‘Don’t go that way. Police and soldiers asking questions.’ He pointed across the road to a narrow street. ‘Go that way for a kilometre and you will see the road heading west out of here. Turn left and keep going.’ He winked and disappeared inside his hut, and I wondered if the advice had been to keep us out of trouble or to stop any awkward questions from police coming back to this car lot.

  It didn’t matter; the advice was well-meant and I figured it was worth taking.

  We snaked through the outer suburbs, following a series of quiet back streets, until I saw a line of lights heading west. I turned left and we soon left the town behind. After a few miles I saw a track running down beside a small lake and decided we’d come far enough. It was time to eat and rest up.

  I made Travis drink at least half a bottle of water. Rehydration would clear his head a little and keep him going. We had a long way to go yet and I needed him as lively as possible.

  Then I rang Langley.

  FORTY

  Lindsay picked up after two rings. ‘Hi. We were getting worried.’ I heard the rattle of keys and guessed she was checking my location by the signal. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s OK. We’re heading west, currently static. Is Callahan in?’

  She put me through. Callahan sounded calm but I knew he’d be chewing his teeth over the lack of hard information. We’d agreed from the start that I would only report in when and if it was necessary and safe to do. But I knew that was easier for me, the man in the field, than it was for him, stuck in an office and waiting for updates.

  ‘I’m looking at your location on screen,’ he said, no doubt referring to a map overlay on a satellite view of the countryside we were currently occupying. It was slightly unnerving to know that he was probably looking right down on the lake, although he wouldn’t be able to see us, as the last satellite view would already be a few hours old. I just hoped there was nobody else with the same view, such as Grey Suit or any of the others currently tracking us, official or otherwise. ‘Is Travis with you?’

  I confirmed he was. ‘He took a beating along the way but he’s hanging in there.’

  ‘Army or militia?’

  ‘Neither. A third party named Voloshyn, a bruiser working for a private security company in Kiev. He killed the Donetsk cut-out after torturing him. He wanted to know where the next cut-out was, but I think Travis was the main prize. Somebody doesn’t want Travis leaving the country.’

  Callahan was silent while he digested that for a second. It was probably the kind of off-the-wall suggestion he didn’t want to consider. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Voloshyn knew exactly where to find Travis and the local cut-out. He could have only known that by having access to the list of addresses … or by having been given the location of the hotel where Travis was dropped off.’ I didn’t bother mentioning that 24d’s car had been right out in the open for anybody to see, and that if Voloshyn had been given the details, he’d have simply had to drive around until he saw it. The town wasn’t that big and 24d wouldn’t have been expecting company.

  ‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’ Callahan sounded doubtful, and in the main he had good reason. The CIA prides it
self on its state-of-the-art security against leakages of this kind and the loyalty of its employees. But I had worse news for him yet.

  ‘Thing is, Voloshyn also knew who to look for. He was carrying photos.’

  ‘What?’

  I explained about the snaps I’d found on Voloshyn. I’d already considered the possibility that Callahan himself had access and opportunity to acquire both photos, but dismissed the idea. If he’d wanted this mission to end badly, he could have arranged for a much earlier pick-up by security forces in Donetsk, not left it until now when we were more likely to get free and clear. In any case, I trusted him.

  The fact remained that Voloshyn must have known the area Travis was heading for in the first place, so all he had to do was keep his eyes open. The rest had been down to simple grunt work and observation. And as a PI, whatever his connections elsewhere, he’d have been equipped for both.

  But it had needed somebody to feed him the information in the first place.

  I gave Callahan the name of the security company Voloshyn worked for so he could check it out. Whoever had put Voloshyn on to Travis’s location must have left an electronic trail somewhere, but I wasn’t holding out too much hope of it being easy to find. But if Callahan could find a way to put pressure on Voloshyn’s employers, it might give us a clue where the orders had originated, albeit probably not the actual source.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘In the meantime we’ve issued a warning for all assets to take full security measures in case they’ve been compromised. It’s going to shut down some of the networks for months to come. What’s your plan from here on?’