Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  ‘I know.’

  A little later he said, ‘Do you have a girlfriend? I’m guessing you aren’t married.’

  ‘No, I don’t have a girlfriend, and no, I’m not married. Never found the time or the right person.’

  ‘Don’t you have aspirations for something different?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like marriage, kids – that kind of thing.’

  ‘No. Maybe one day I’ll hit the wall and do it, but not yet.’

  ‘The wall?’

  ‘The point at which I find that there’s something else I want to do, that life will throw me a random card and use up whatever chances I might have been given.’

  ‘Random? Is that another way of saying fate?’

  ‘You can call it that if you wish. Life is random; it’s not predictable like a lot of people think. If it was, the biggest growth industry on the planet wouldn’t be technology or social media or alternative energy; it would be soothsayers and palm readers. Look at Denys: he thought he was out of it and clear. Then random came along in the shape of Voloshyn.’

  ‘I guess. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before.’ He was silent for a while and I let him be, allowing the rumble of the engine and the tyres on the road do their stuff. It was soothing, being out there in the middle of the dark, especially after what we’d been through. There was no intrusion from outside, no phones, no traffic, no lights.

  ‘That helicopter back there,’ he said eventually. ‘That was pretty random, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Actually, that was fairly predictable because we knew it was coming. But the helicopter crew, now they’d have said the fighter was random.’

  He chuckled, which was a good sign. ‘You think you’ll hit your wall one day, Portman?’

  ‘I guess I will. Until then I’m doing a job. Like you.’

  ‘You’re nothing like me.’ He stopped. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean that to be offensive. We’re just very different people, you and I.’

  ‘You’re right. And that’s a good thing.’

  He didn’t say anything after that, but his words left me thinking about my own life and how long it could go on. We all make choices and I’d never seen mine as any different to a thousand others. I knew other guys in the same line of work, most of them on the surface no different to Travis; they had family and hobbies and ambitions, they played ball with their kids and to everyone else they looked normal on the outside. Then one day they hit the wall. It could be brought on by seeing too much bad stuff happen and having too many near misses. Who knows? Some deliberately shrugged it off, but others decided to do something else with the time they had left.

  I wasn’t shrugging off anything; I just hadn’t yet reached that point.

  Two hours later, as a thin dawn began to push back the night, I discovered we had a more immediate problem than fate to deal with. A vehicle was coming up fast from the rear. It was the first one I’d seen since last night. It approached to within half a mile or so behind us, then held station for a while before dropping back and disappearing. The light wasn’t good enough to make out the type of car, but it looked to me like the profile of a sedan. It might have been a fellow traveller looking for some morale-boosting company on a lonely road, before having a change of heart.

  But I had my doubts.

  FORTY-NINE

  After a lifetime of almost unqualified success and achievement, where the tang of anything approaching disappointment had been limited to political ups and downs, Senator Howard Benson was undergoing an emotion he had not experienced before: a feeling of dread. Twenty minutes ago he’d had a call from the number calling himself Two-One. The news was about as bad as it could get.

  Walter Conkley had turned into considerably more than just a minor irritant.

  ‘The subject has had two meetings with a white female identified as Marcella Cready,’ Two-One informed him, his voice flat with the tone of a minor news briefing. ‘She’s a well-known investigative hack around town.’

  ‘I know damn well who she is,’ Benson growled. He’d crossed swords with Cready on more than one occasion. She had twice tried to tie his name to unauthorized payments made to opposition campaign staff in what was effectively vote-rigging, and had mentioned him in connection with the suppression of secret transcripts related to extraordinary rendition flights out of Iraq and Afghanistan. ‘You said two meetings?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me after the first one? This is disastrous.’

  ‘Because the first one was a sniffing exercise; each was seeing what the other had before they committed. I knew pretty quickly that they were lining up for another so I figured it would be better to wait until I had something more concrete to tell you.’

  Benson bit down on his anger, knowing the other man would see it as fear. He took a deep breath to calm his voice. ‘What were they talking about?’

  ‘You. And the Dupont Circle Group. Names, dates and details – and some digital media. Cell phone recordings.’

  ‘What?’ Benson swore long and loud. The little bastard had been recording them?

  ‘I’m pretty certain you don’t want me to read them out here and now,’ Two-One continued, ‘so I’m sending the material across to you by special messenger. Should be with you any minute.’

  That had been twenty minutes ago, and now Benson had heard the first ten minutes of the second meeting his gut was killing him. The sound quality of the recording was too clear to leave any misunderstanding, and he could picture Cready in living detail as she gently prised the story out of Conkley with all the expertise of the interrogator that she was. She was good. Very good.

  And the biggest danger was that everybody knew it and fed on it. Such was her record in exposing the underbelly of administrative failure and corruption, when she turned her attention on something – or more often than not, someone – the associated target was already deemed by news watchers as probably guilty anyway, otherwise why else would Cready bother looking?

  All the eager readers had to do was simply wait for her to bring the story home and prove it in her usual way – with pictures, transcripts, witness evidence and, more often than not, sworn affidavits to back up her claims.

  The recording was painful listening. According to Two-One’s surveillance notes, the weasel Conkley had met with her twice in a six-hour period; once at a bar on 7th Street, the second time at an apartment she leased as a place of work while in Washington. Two-One had made a notation with the recording that he had been able to get inside and place a recording device when he’d heard her giving Conkley the address and arranging the time of the second meeting.

  ‘Bitch,’ Benson swore. He didn’t ask Two-One how he’d managed to record Cready, nor did he want to know. The man was an expert in surveillance and covert operations, and had clearly been trained by the best. He’d been using his services for some time now and the man had never failed him yet. The fact that Benson still didn’t know his true identity was a matter of choice; it was better to keep his distance and his hands clean where this kind of dirty work was involved.

  He stared out of his office window, the famous landmarks of Washington glinting in the sun as he chewed over the bitter facts. He should have foreseen Conkley going to a hack like Marcella Cready; she’d have gone on heat the moment she’d been approached by him. Known White House staffers like Conkley did not talk to gutter journalists like her unless they had something official they wanted broadcast … or they wanted to speak strictly off the record. Either way it would have told her that there was a story in the air – a possible scoop. She had clearly decided against meeting with Conkley where she might be known, especially by other journalists. Opportunities like Conkley didn’t come along every day and she wasn’t going to share him with anyone else or allow herself to be outbid by a rival hack.

  His gut churned at the thought that even as he was sitting here she would be verifying facts and details, timings and dates, prior to writing a summar
y proposal for an anxious editor.

  The shit, Benson decided, was going to hit the fan long and loud, and there was only one thing to do about it. He swore again. From that first moment when Teller had exposed his venal nature at the possibilities coming from the social upheavals in Eastern Europe, he’d sensed Conkley was a problem. Benson had gone against his own instincts and allowed the matter to drop, trusting in Conkley’s greed and his instincts for self-preservation in the face of exposure to keep him from talking. But it hadn’t been enough.

  Now the situation had undergone a seismic change and he had to do something about it. He took out his cell phone and dialled a number. It rang twice.

  ‘Two-One.’

  ‘Thank you for the material. It’s good work. Very good.’

  ‘Thank you. Anything else?’

  Benson had been chewing over what he knew he had to do. He’d known it would come to this, but had been putting it off in the hope it would simply go away. Now that hope was right off the board.

  ‘Yes. I want you to arrange an accident. Effective immediately.’

  ‘As you wish. It will cost you.’

  ‘Of course. Just do it.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Wait.’ Benson hadn’t finished. His mind was leaping ahead, contemplating the enormity of what he’d just arranged … and thinking that maybe, just maybe it wouldn’t be enough. After all, there would still be another source of information out there. ‘Make it two.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Are you serious?’ The voice was utterly calm, simply posing a question. But the words and tone carried a hint of censure, even of faint disbelief.

  And if there was anything Benson hated more it was censure of any kind, especially of his own actions or decisions.

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ he snarled. ‘Or should I go elsewhere?’

  ‘No. But it increases the element of risk.’

  ‘Christ. OK – how much?’

  Two-One gave him a figure, and Benson’s instinct was to refuse. But he realized that the fee for getting rid of both people would be chicken feed compared with what he and the others would make on the energy markets if everything worked out and their plans weren’t ruined at the last minute.

  ‘Very well.’ He closed his eyes and felt a moment of almost sexual excitement go through him. His instinct had been to deal with Conkley, to stop him talking further and to teach the gutless little creep a lesson. But there was a survival aspect to this, too. Take out the disaffected and treacherous civil servant and there would be no case, no matter how persuasive Cready might be. Allegations were just that and without living proof the story would wither and die. But there would always be lingering suspicions in the minds of some in this city, where seeking advantage through rumour was almost an Olympic sport. And he had too much to lose to risk coming under the microscope that was insider talk.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Two-One’s voice again, probing and soft, wanting confirmation.

  ‘I’m certain.’ And indeed he was. Why not wipe the board completely clean? Dealing with Marcella Cready would be payback for all the grief she had caused him and others in the past by her allegations and suggestions. More than one person in the administration had dismissed her at their cost, and he knew her passing would be met with quiet smiles and raised glasses all over town. Elegant. Clinical. Final.

  ‘Both,’ he confirmed. ‘And wipe out any records.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be in touch. Keep your eye on Fox News.’

  FIFTY

  ‘Watchman, you have two unidentified vehicles just over seven miles to your rear and moving up fast. We suspect militia.’

  I could guess who it might be but I needed confirmation. I hit the amplify button. ‘Copy that. Can you describe?’

  ‘One is a Mitsubishi Lancer sedan. No visible markings but it looks like it has a strobe roof light. The other is a light utility vehicle thought to be a UAZ model 469, colour green.’

  Damn. Grey Suit. It had to be. And the Lancer could be the sedan that had showed up a while back before dropping out again.

  The same two cars that had turned up at the Hotel Tipol.

  I had no way of knowing who Grey Suit was working for, but it really didn’t matter right now. He was probably employed by the Ukrainian Ministry of Internal Affairs, but since that organization was thought to have been infiltrated by officers affiliated to the Russian GRU or FSB, his real bosses were most likely sitting in Moscow.

  It would certainly explain how he was able to bulldoze his way around the country and why he was so determined to get hold of Ed Travis again. If push came to shove, having a US State Department employee in their hands would count as good leverage in any war of words over Moscow’s involvement in Ukraine and the Crimea.

  Seven kilometres. Less than five miles. It wasn’t a big enough gap; the Land Cruiser was solid enough but way past its prime when it came to speed. The Lancer could overhaul us easily within minutes and the UAZ wouldn’t be far behind.

  Travis got the message quickly. ‘It’s them, isn’t it? How did they find us?’ He turned and studied the road behind us but it was clear for maybe half a mile before dropping off the horizon.

  ‘They figured out which way we were headed from Pavlohrad and covered the ground. It’s not as though we had too many options.’ The amount of traffic had dropped dramatically in the past few hours as tension spread across the country, so any vehicles with two men in would have been easy to spot. My guess was the man at the used car lot had been too eager to shift the Isuzu and it had somehow come up on the radar. He wouldn’t have resisted more than two minutes when faced with questions about where he’d got it, and the next stage of the hunt would have been to track down the Land Cruiser we’d taken in exchange.

  I said to Lindsay, ‘I need a way off this road. What have you got?’

  A few moments of static, then, ‘Two miles ahead of your location there’s a small lake with an access track and what looks like dead ground behind it. Apart from that we’re talking maybe fifteen miles of open country and zero cover.’

  ‘Copy that.’ I checked the odometer and noted the figures, then put my foot down. Any way off this road was worth a try. It would give me some control over the situation and was better than staying in their line of sight when they could take us out any time they felt like it.

  ‘Check our firepower’s ready,’ I said to Travis.

  He didn’t need telling twice. He hit the button to throw the seat back down, then slid into the rear and got busy. I heard him ejecting magazines and re-loading, and when he was finished he caught my eye in the mirror. ‘You never said where these came from.’

  ‘You never asked. I did some foraging. I like to improvize.’

  He slid back into the front seat, grunting with pain and clasping his ribs. Now he had nothing to focus on, the discomfort was making itself obvious. I handed him a blister pack of painkillers and told him to take two, and watched while he did it. If things got scary I was going to need him ready for action, not rolling around unable to move.

  The turning came up on the button. It was little more than a break in the grass verge, almost invisible at speed. I was counting on it staying that way to the two cars behind us. We bumped over some ruts before hitting a section of long grass, which made a hoarse swishing noise as we went down a long slope. At the bottom lay a lake, mirror-still and dark as night, surrounded by reeds and some scrappy bushes. I was praying nobody had decided to come fishing today; they’d be in for a surprise.

  I drove round the other side and up a short slope to higher ground. After four hundred yards the ground dipped again past a granite outcrop. It was a dead end. I pulled to a stop and jumped out.

  We were in a good position for now, screened from the road, and all we could do was wait it out. I walked back to the brow of the slope and lay down with the binoculars, where I had a good view of the road going back at least a mile, maybe more. It was empty.

>   ‘Are we safe here? Those marks in the grass look pretty obvious.’

  He was right. I checked the ground where we’d come off the road. The verge looked fine, where the grass was scrubby and compacted. But where we’d hit the longer growth it was easy to see where the wheels had left twin tracks behind, a clear signature to anybody using their eyes. I couldn’t tell if they looked as obvious from the road, but there was only one way to find out.

  I had about fifteen minutes, maybe a little longer. Any more and we’d be in trouble.

  I handed Travis the binoculars. ‘Stay here and keep watch. I’m going back to wipe out the tracks.’

  ‘There’s no time. You heard Lindsay. They’re right behind us.’

  ‘That’s why I need you to stay here. Keep an eye on the road and whistle if you see them coming.’

  I didn’t waste time arguing, but went back to the Land Cruiser and took out the Ero. If I had to risk facing the opposition I’d be better off with some close-up heavy metal.

  I ran back round the lake, scaring up a trio of wild ducks from the reeds. They curved away in perfect formation, protesting loudly, and headed west, which I took as a good omen. At any other time it would have been a nice place to stop for a while and admire the scenery. But right now that was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

  I stopped before heading up the final slope to break off a branch from a bush by the water’s edge, then ran up to the road. My thighs began burning as I reached the top and I reflected that if I hadn’t been getting enough exercise lately, that was probably about to change.

  Nothing in sight. I checked the verge and spotted a couple of marks in the stubby grass where we’d come off the metalled surface, so I brushed them with the branch until the stems sprang more or less upright. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best I could do.

  I worked my way backwards down the slope, stroking the longer grass back into place, and had just reached the bottom when I heard a long warning whistle from Travis.