Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  ‘Unless you can beam us up, we’ll continue west and cross the border into Moldova. I’m guessing the embassy in Kiev is off limits?’

  ‘Absolutely. We had an update earlier and all arrivals and departures are being filmed and checked, probably on orders from Moscow. Complaints have been delivered by the ambassador but the government in Kiev says the observers are nothing to do with them. The airport is also under virtual lockdown with restricted flights and long queues at passport control. Assuming you make it to Moldova, advise when and where and we’ll arrange a pick-up.’

  I asked him to put me back to Lindsay and he did. There was nothing for it now but to hit the road and get out of the country as fast as we could. But first I needed some extra information and was hoping Lindsay could step up to the plate.

  ‘How can I help?’ Lindsay didn’t sound quite as upbeat as she had before, and I wondered if the situation was getting to her. It must have been tough sitting at a desk knowing what was going down but being unable to do anything to help.

  I told her what I was planning on doing.

  ‘Moldova? That’s quite a road trip. Do you have a route?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but it’s subject to change. I need you to monitor all traffic along the way, including and especially military vehicles or roadblocks. All I can see is what comes up on the horizon; I need a regular overview of what’s happening on the ground so I can avoid problems. Can you do that?’

  ‘Sure can.’ Her voice tone had lifted at the prospect of something to do and I could hear the click of the keyboard in the background. She was already checking out maps and data. ‘Right, I have an overlay with satellite feeds and news reports of movements throughout the region. I’ll keep an eye on your location and report in whenever I have something.’ She hesitated. ‘What about signals monitoring in the area? Won’t increased contact make it more dangerous for you?’

  ‘Not if you keep it short and sweet.’ I figured that regular bursts of speech lasting less than ten seconds were unlikely to be picked up, since each burst would be too brief for monitoring stations to pin down our location effectively. And being on the move would help us stay off the radar. What it would do was give me eyes and ears on information that I currently didn’t have.

  ‘I can do that. Anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  FORTY-ONE

  After signing off from Watchman, Lindsay sat for a few moments deep in thought. She felt oddly unsettled, her mood even a little flat out of concern for the two men out in the field and her own sense of helplessness, as if she should be doing more for them than simply sitting here in the safe cocoon of the CIA operations centre.

  She’d been warned during training and by Callahan himself that such thoughts were entirely normal. Mission support staff wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have them, especially when their contact was limited to the close, almost intimate environment of a secluded room and a set of headphones, each word carrying such a wealth of meaning. And that closeness made it inevitable that the distance between them did not mean the support staff would be entirely removed from a real, tangible sense of the dangers the operatives might be facing.

  But that was something she had quickly realized she would have to accept: that Watchman was doing his job, and she had to do hers, no matter what happened.

  It was about this time that she came to realize that her particular job was attracting some attention from other personnel in the ops centre. On rare forays to the rest room area, which were mainly as a means of exercising her legs on the stairs, she was aware that she was a subject of discussion. Most of the personnel she saw were more senior in service, and she had the firm impression they knew the Watchman mission was something a little special and out of the ordinary.

  That fact was even more noticeable since the imposition of red light rules. There were no actual lights, as one might see in a recording studio, but signs put up on the approaches to this section of the ops centre had undoubtedly changed the atmosphere, if anything intensifying the already muted air of calm purpose that permeated the building. She had also picked up a sense that if there was any scuttlebutt going on, it was centred around events in Ukraine. The others must have known she was a trainee, plucked off the program by Callahan, yet she detected no animosity, merely a curiosity and a shared understanding, even of approval as evinced by brief smiles and nods of recognition.

  Without knowing it, she had become one of them.

  What she hadn’t found so easy to deal with was Senator Benson’s questioning. She hadn’t enjoyed being asked about Karen or Tommy, finding his manner too probing, too intrusive, especially since she had already given complete disclosure throughout the vetting procedure she’d undergone after applying to join the CIA.

  But there was something else there, too; something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She’d had a feeling throughout the talk that there was something behind Benson’s questions, an underlying purpose which had nothing to do with reports or an interest in the wellbeing of newcomers to the Agency. His attitude had been too secretive, almost insidious in nature, as if he were harbouring some ill-purpose which was going to come back and bite her and her family.

  She was also dismayed by discovering that she had wanted to say something to Watchman about it. It would have been a gross infraction of protocol and hugely irresponsible of her to load that on him on top of everything else he was undergoing, and she was relieved she had come to her senses in time. Here was a man she didn’t know, had never met, with indescribable pressures on him as he made his way through a war zone with the responsibility of bringing out another man to safety, and she’d very nearly blurted out her worries about being asked a few questions by an individual she found unpleasant.

  She told herself to get a grip and turned to her keyboard. If she couldn’t talk to Watchman and felt unable to discuss her concerns about Benson with Callahan, she could do the next best thing. She could put her thoughts in writing. At least that might alleviate the situation and her mood enough to allow her to get on with the job.

  With a careful eye on the screens, she wrote down everything that had happened, listing as carefully as she could every question and comment he’d made, every nuanced suggestion and threat. It might not go anywhere, she knew that; she was after all a greenhorn at this game. But if something did happen following Benson’s strange behaviour down here, she would have a dated record of her concerns.

  That done, she busied herself linking up additional monitors to give her extra live feeds from the National Security Agency at Fort Meade and the Defense Intelligence Agency’s analysis centre at Bolling. Both were capable of giving coverage of activity on the ground over Ukraine, which she hoped would help Watchman through any trouble spots. Added to news reports and updates, she should be able to spot any build-up of activity before he ran into it.

  However, it still left a small gap in up-to-the-minute data, and she wondered how to close that gap right down. What she needed was real-time coverage of the area Watchman was travelling through, an eyes-on view of what was really going on down there ahead of him. There was only one way she could think of, a method of intelligence-gathering that had been covered in some of the recent training lectures.

  But to access the facility required a decision way above her pay grade.

  She typed a brief note advising Callahan of her actions acquiring live data-feeds from the other agencies, and requested the one additional measure. He might say that it was impossible, that budgetary or policy reasons would get in the way. But if he approved it, she might be the first trainee ever to instigate the use of a camera-equipped UAV – an unmanned aerial vehicle or drone – to provide live backup for a hot mission.

  FORTY-TWO

  Brian Callahan was also deep in thought after his talk with Portman. He was astonished by what he’d just learned and what it meant for him and the Agency. The discovery of a photo ID of Travis in the hands of a Ukrainian private in
vestigator was alarming enough, and following the plain-text message sent to Travis containing the address of the CIA cut-out in Donetsk, his suspicions were instinctively directed towards the State Department and their earlier carelessness. They had done it once – they could have easily repeated that mistake. But something told him that wasn’t the answer. Something else was going on here. Because for the man to have had a photo of Marc Portman entering the CIA sub-office in New York showed a security breach of an unprecedented kind and could have come only from somebody on the inside.

  Further, this wasn’t the acquisition of documents or even archived files, which would have been serious enough. This was up-to-the-minute theft of security material and could have only come from somebody with current access to CIA storage systems – namely, hard disk drives.

  He looked at a note he’d made while talking to Portman, and reached for the phone. He gave the details about Voloshyn to one of the team of researchers in the building. ‘Find out everything you can on this man; where he lives, his history – including military service – and what this company BJ Group is all about.’

  ‘Right away, sir.’

  He put down the phone and went back to considering the issue of Portman’s photo, and was mentally composing a security breach report for immediate circulation when Assistant Director Sewell walked in and dropped a folder on his desk with a slap.

  ‘I’d like your comments on this, Brian.’ Sewell sounded abrupt, even bad-tempered, which was out of character, and swung away to stare out of the window, his shoulders stiff.

  Callahan reached out and opened the folder, wondering what was wrong. It was part of Lindsay Citera’s personnel file, and contained a summary of the vetting reports and background analysis on her family, friends, contacts and lifestyle, which every applicant to the CIA had to go through. He skim-read it but could see nothing to indicate why Sewell should be so edgy or concerned.

  ‘Sorry. What’s the problem?’

  Sewell turned back. ‘It’s been brought to my attention that Citera has family problems that might put her in a situation to become compromised. Were you aware of them?’

  ‘You mean her brother being in a military lock-up? Of course. It’s on file. So?’

  ‘And her sister with serious debt problems?’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Did you also know that Citera has been sending her sister considerable amounts of money recently?’

  Jesus, thought Callahan, where the hell is this going? ‘Actually, I didn’t know that, Jason. But so what? If we questioned the credibility of every employee who helped out their family with money, we’d have to clear out well over half our workforce, starting at the top. Hell, I send my daughter a cheque every month to help with her school expenses. That doesn’t make me a security risk … unless, of course, someone thinks otherwise?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Sewell blinked in surprise at the strength of Callahan’s response. ‘I’m simply checking something, that’s all, and wanted to run it by you first.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Callahan pushed the folder away, sensing it contained nothing relevant to Sewell’s real reason for being down here. ‘Do you mind telling me what this is really about? Are you unhappy with her performance as Watchman’s comms support? Because if you are, I’d appreciate a heads-up on why – and how you came to that conclusion.’

  Sewell’s jaw tensed, and he sat down with a heavy sigh. He slid a sheet of paper across the desk. ‘I’m sorry, Brian, but I’ve just had a call from one of our background investigators in the security section. They’ve uncovered evidence of an unidentified payment of twenty thousand dollars into Citera’s account.’

  Callahan felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. Instinct told him it was a mistake … except that the security section didn’t make mistakes like that. He looked at the slip of paper, which was an internal memorandum of the kind he’d seen many times before, usually dealing with minor security lapses by personnel and intended to highlight possible action to be taken by their supervisors. ‘It could be entirely innocent – or a banking error.’

  ‘Not according to security. They do this all the time, checking out bank details and transactional movements. It’s all very clear: the payment was made through an overnight hole-in-the-wall deposit vault at a downtown branch of Citera’s bank. It was in cash, using a paying-in slip with a source name that leads nowhere. I’ve asked for a photo record of the deposit, but I’m not holding out much hope of getting anything.’

  Callahan stared at him, amazed at the ease with which Sewell seemed to have picked up and accepted this particular bug. ‘I see. And you don’t think that maybe it’s a little convenient? Even obvious? Lindsay wouldn’t even know anything about this – she’s been down here all the time.’ He checked himself not to go too far; stranger things had happened in the intelligence world and against all his instincts he could be proven wrong. But he felt this was an important point to make his feelings known. ‘In any case, may I ask since when did any assistant director check the background details of a trainee officer? We have a security section whose job it is to do that.’

  Sewell’s jaw clamped tight. ‘Maybe so. That’s why I’m giving you the chance to find out before I instigate an official security check into every aspect of her life going back to day one. You know what will happen if I do that.’

  Callahan knew, and felt sick. Lindsay would be taken off the assignment and detained pending results of an enquiry. In the end she would be out of a job or consigned to whichever backwater dead-end post they could find for her. ‘But we’re right in the middle of—’ He stopped, suddenly seeing visions of the photos Portman had talked about.

  Christ, no. It wasn’t possible.

  ‘What?’ Sewell had noticed. ‘Brian?’

  Callahan took a deep breath. ‘I was about to come and see you, anyway, prior to making a security breach report.’ He relayed what Portman had told him, and the likelihood that classified material had been leaked from within the CIA’s own structure. ‘No way would the State Department have had Portman’s face on file, and certainly not from a security camera in the New York office. It has to be a leak.’

  Sewell didn’t look convinced, but Callahan wasn’t surprised. Sewell wouldn’t have been the first senior officer of an intelligence organization to doubt the possibility of a mole on the inside passing on information. ‘I hate to suggest this, Brian, but isn’t it possible that Citera might be the leak – bearing in mind what I’ve been told?’

  Callahan fought to keep his cool. This was in danger of turning into a witch-hunt. Sewell seemed ready to convict Lindsay at every turn, proof unseen. ‘Seriously? I don’t see how. She wouldn’t have access to the camera hard drives, not unless she’s a lot more IT-savvy than her record shows and managed to access systems that have all kinds of firewalls and security protocols to prevent that.’

  ‘It’s possible, though.’

  But Callahan wasn’t buying it. ‘But why? For what purpose? She’s not in the pay of a foreign government – I doubt she’s ever given it a thought. Christ, Jason, she’s helping Watchman, not trying to betray him! In any case, how did security know about this alleged unidentified payment? Something must have made them look. What was it?’

  Sewell didn’t even blink. ‘You know I can’t share that. All I can tell you is that a line of information was passed to them that indicated there might be a security problem with an employee, rendering her open to unacceptable external pressure.’ He stood up. ‘I think twenty thousand bucks amounts to quite a lot of pressure, don’t you?’

  Callahan stood too, his thigh slamming a desk drawer shut with a loud bang. ‘Dammit, Jason, wait. This mission’s at a critical point right now. Watchman’s got Travis and they’re making a run for the border with Moldova. That’s a long drive through God knows what kind of obstacles in a country that’s falling apart day by day. Watchman needs the eyes and ears and uninterrupted connection with a person he’s come to trust. Take that
connection away and we might as well kick his legs from under him. You know the effect it can have – you’ve been there yourself.’

  Sewell didn’t look convinced. ‘People get replaced in mid-op all the time, Brian. You know that as well as I. Portman will cope.’ He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t you say he’s the best at this kind of work?’

  ‘Sure I did. And he is. But this is a distraction he doesn’t need. Don’t forget, he’s not on his own out there – he’s got another man in tow. We owe them both all the guidance we can give them. You take that away and the consequences could be severe.’ He stopped speaking, aware that he was sounding passionate and repeating himself, and in danger of overstepping the line. He wasn’t so close to Sewell that he could get away with almost anything, and certainly not with telling him that this was all bullshit, which he was sorely tempted to do.

  Sewell was chewing on his lip in thought. He eyed Callahan and slowly nodded his head. ‘OK. I hear you. But from this minute on, you don’t let Citera out of your sight. You ride right alongside her, monitor her calls, stop all visitors and make sure she doesn’t have access to anything other than the equipment she needs for the job. Red light rules, got me?’

  ‘I hear you.’

  ‘In the meantime I’ll have security hold fire on their investigation. Let’s get Portman and Travis home first.’

  ‘Fine.’ Callahan nodded. He wanted to say more but knew he’d gone about as far as he could – for now.

  Sewell stepped towards the door, then paused and turned back. He gave Callahan a bleak stare and said, ‘One other thing, Brian. I appreciate and understand your loyalty to your staff. It’s commendable. But let me remind you that if I wish to involve myself in internal security matters, it’s well within my scope of responsibility to do so.’

  With that, Sewell walked out leaving Callahan conscious that he’d come closer than he’d ever thought possible to bringing his career in the CIA to an abrupt end. But he didn’t regret it. He might be wrong about Lindsay Citera, but only time would tell. For now, he had to keep this operation running. He’d deal with the fall-out later.