Close Quarters

by Adrian Magson

  I pulled to a halt. We were less than a thousand yards from the border. From safety. Three hundred from the Mercedes.

  I opened my door, motioning for Travis to do the same. ‘When you get out, leave the door open.’ If we needed to get back in it would have to be fast. I picked up the Grach.

  ‘Watchman, we have you on screen. Why have you stopped?’

  ‘We’ve got company and they’re in the way.’ The Mercedes looked like a G-Class 4WD, big and boxy and new. A big man’s status symbol. A gangster ride.

  A short silence, then: ‘Copy that. Your lift is inbound on the other side, but they cannot cross. Will you be able to proceed?’

  ‘I’ll let you know. Stand by.’

  I checked the map in case there was an alternative route. There wasn’t. A river formed part of the boundary between Ukraine and Moldova for about two miles, after which lay a small town, no doubt with official patrols and customs posts. If we didn’t cross here, we’d be forced to go back, and that simply wasn’t an option. What we needed now was another Su-27 fighter and a pilot with some attitude.

  I used the binoculars and took a look at the man with the rifle. There was something familiar about the bulky figure and I think I’d known who it was from the first sighting.

  Ivkanoy.

  I swung left a fraction and checked out the person on the other side. Smaller, neater, leaning against the side of the Mercedes. The splash of white was a plaster cast on one ankle.

  Olena Prokyeva. The woman sniper.

  She was sporting two black eyes and the swelling across her nose must have made breathing difficult. But she was clearly mobile and still with Ivkanoy, although she didn’t appear to be armed. Maybe he’d brought her along to show her how killing me should be done.

  Ivkanoy shouted something towards us but his words were carried away on the breeze. I doubted it was a warm welcome. In fact he looked mad enough to spit and threw the rifle up to his shoulder.

  ‘Out, now!’ I said, and we both jumped out and moved to the rear of the Land Cruiser.

  If the birds had been singing before, they’d now gone very quiet.

  Ivkanoy’s first shot went wide. The second ploughed into the ground thirty feet in front of the Land Cruiser. The third went over our heads by several feet. He followed them up with several more shots and a lot of animated yelling in between.

  You really shouldn’t try sharp-shooting when you’re crazy mad with the target.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Travis asked. He was crouched behind the Land Cruiser, now wide awake and jittery, and I wasn’t surprised. The threat of shooting is one thing; facing live incoming rounds is something else altogether.

  ‘We fight back,’ I said, and leaned into the rear of the car. I pulled out the OSV-96 and checked the scope for dust, then made sure the magazine was good to go. I didn’t want to start a shooting war right here so close to the border, but Ivkanoy didn’t look like he was giving up. In fact, he’d only just got started. There was a sudden burst of automatic fire and the snap-snap of rounds going by were too close for comfort.

  When I looked round the side of the Land Cruiser I saw where the automatic fire had come from. Ivkanoy had been joined by another man. This one was holding what looked like an AK-47. He raised it and fired two short bursts, and the Land Cruiser jumped as it took several hits.

  This guy knew what he was doing.

  Fortunately, his boss was an idiot. He walked over and snatched the AK away and tried to hose us down gangland-style. But he’d only got a few rounds left and they disappeared into the trees around us. He swore and shouted at his colleague, who handed him another magazine.

  ‘Get down,’ I warned Travis, and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into dead ground at the side of the track. Even Ivkanoy couldn’t miss every time with a thirty-round magazine. As we stopped rolling, the best part of the load came whipping by overhead and snapping into the foliage on the far side of the track.

  This was getting silly. As lousy a shot as Ivkanoy was, he’d got us pinned down and unable to move. If we stayed right here he’d eventually come down the track to get us. If we tried to run past him, he’d have open season on us – him and his pal. Travis evidently thought so, too.

  ‘Can’t you shoot the crazy bastard?’ he yelled. He looked almost guilty as the words came out, and looked away.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ I said, and rolled out from cover and positioned myself alongside the Land Cruiser. I hugged the OSV into my shoulder and got comfortable. It was a heavy weapon but nicely balanced. I got Ivkanoy in the cross hairs. He was struggling with the AK’s magazine, and I guessed it must have jammed through over-heating.

  I swung left to check out the other man, focussing on his face. Well, damn me. Wheels within wheels. I didn’t know Ukrainian criminal society was so small.

  It was Voloshyn, the thug from the Tipol hotel. He was now holding a pistol and looked pissed, and I guessed it was because Ivkanoy had used all the ammunition for his rifle and had now screwed up the AK.

  I swung further left and found Olena. She had hopped away from the car and was shaking her head. She knew I could see her and knew what I was holding. She didn’t want anything to do with the damage I could inflict with it. Sensible woman.

  I put my hand over my head and flicked a finger sideways, motioning for her to get into the side of the road. She caught on immediately and dived left. I wasn’t being gallant; she was unarmed and I saw no reason to add a defenceless woman to my score sheet, even one whose trade was death.

  I checked Ivkanoy again. He’d given up fighting with the AK and tossed it back to Voloshyn, who dropped the pistol and snatched the AK out of the air as if it were a twig. In a fluid movement he had the old magazine out and was snapping a fresh one in place and turning ready to fire.

  My first shot sounded like a canon. The round whipped by his leg so close it must have burned. It hit the four-wheel drive, the impact blowing out the windshield and sending a shower of glass fragments, plastic and metal trim high in the air. The next one took out the front tyre, dropping the vehicle like a wounded buffalo. The third round drilled through the rear panel and whatever it hit caused the far side window to explode.

  When I looked at Voloshyn through the scope, he was standing very still. Even from this distance I could see he looked sick. He turned his head and said something to Ivkanoy, whose voice came back sounding snappy.

  They didn’t look a happy crew.

  Ivkanoy walked across and picked up Voloshyn’s pistol. He said something and pointed down the track towards us. Voloshyn shook his head.

  Ivkanoy repeated his instruction, louder and snappier. This time Voloshyn shook his head and walked away. He’d had enough. If Ivkanoy wanted to walk down here into the muzzle of a big gun, he could go ahead.

  Ivkanoy lifted the gun and shot him in the back of the head.

  Then he turned towards Olena, who was backing away with nowhere to go.

  I put a round over his head as a warning. The crack must have made his ears buzz, but there was no reaction. He’d gone beyond reason, beyond instinct or sanity.

  Olena stumbled and went down, and rolled on to her back, kicking with the heel of her good foot to get away. Ivkanoy walked over to her and pointed the gun at her head. It wasn’t a threat; I knew by his stance that he was going to pull the trigger.

  He wouldn’t have heard my next shot; he was dead before he hit the ground.

  I got back in the car and turned the key. In spite of the hits it had taken, the engine started first time. Some build. Go Toyota.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I told Travis, and we rolled forward down the track.

  Olena stood up as we reached the four-wheel drive, hopping to keep her balance and holding her hands out to the sides to show they were empty. The mess of her face wasn’t just because of the damage I’d done to it; she had splashes of blood and other stuff on her and looked about ready to throw up. Tough as she was, she avoided looking at the crumpled m
ess of her late boss. Some things I guess you never get used to close up.

  She raised a hand in mute thanks. I didn’t stop, but gave her a nod. Once I was sure she wasn’t a threat I eased the safety back on the Grach and placed it on the floor. What she did now was up to her. If she had any sense, she’d get in what was left of the Mercedes and get the hell away from here and find a new profession.

  As I drove round the other vehicle and on down the track, I saw in the distance ahead of us the dark silhouette of a helicopter curving towards us on the Moldova side of the border. It was black and carried no markings.

  ‘Watchman, we have you on screen, you have clear access and your lift is waiting. Have a safe journey home.’

  FIFTY-NINE

  Lindsay Citera had chosen a good place to meet. It was a small lunchtime café with a few outside tables just off Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, Virginia. The buzz of downtown Washington was just across the Potomac to the north-east, which made this area just far enough out to make our conversation a private affair.

  As long as she hadn’t got some kind of tail on her, I didn’t mind where we met.

  I watched her take a seat and pick up a menu, order water from the waitress and tap her watch to demonstrate that she was waiting for someone. It was easy, casual and entirely relaxed, and I figured Brian Callahan had made a wise choice; she was a natural, whether she realized it or not.

  Quite what she was feeling right now, though, was another matter. It was probably her first assignment outside of Langley, and she’d be inhuman if she wasn’t feeling some kind of pressure. Covert work is not for the faint-hearted.

  I gave it a couple of minutes, watching pedestrians and cars for signs of surveillance. But I was also watching Lindsay. She was using the menu to scope the men in the area, and I could almost sense her dismissing obvious types by age or appearance. Once or twice she tensed, but relaxed as they walked on by.

  She didn’t know what I looked like.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and walked across the boulevard. I didn’t need it, but seeing her reactions confirmed to me that it hadn’t been her responsible for releasing my photograph to the people employing Greb Voloshyn. If she had she’d have been watching for me.

  She saw me coming and something must have clicked – an instinct. Suddenly she smiled and stood up, and we shook hands, business acquaintances on a lunchtime meeting. Her grip was firm and I saw that I’d been partially correct in my image of her: young, confident, honey-brown hair cut short. And an engaging smile.

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ she said, and sat down. It was quite an opener, seeing what she knew of my journey here.

  ‘The directions were excellent,’ I replied. ‘And you’ve got a lifelong fan in Ed Travis. Not that he knows who you are.’

  She nodded and flicked at her hair self-consciously. ‘Thank you. I’m glad it turned out the way it did for both of you.’

  We ordered a light lunch and I gave her a potted de-briefing. She didn’t write anything down, so I figured she either had a great memory for detail or a recording device hidden inside her coat.

  When I finished, she asked a couple of questions for clarification, the way good de-briefers should, then told me about Senator Howard Benson. She kept it short, sharp and matter-of-fact, and I admired her professionalism.

  ‘But you’re good and clear?’ I asked. I knew Callahan had said it, but I wanted to make sure she knew it, too.

  She hesitated. ‘I am. I think.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Yesterday I found some money in my bank account. A lot of money. And I don’t know where it came from. I’ve reported it to Callahan but he hasn’t got back to me yet. It could be a genuine banking error, I guess.’ The look on her face told me she didn’t believe that, and I knew she was going to do well in this business. She had good instincts and a high moral code, which was more than could be said for guys like Benson.

  ‘Leave it to Callahan,’ I suggested. ‘You did the right thing.’ It didn’t take rocket science to see Benson having something to do with the money deposit; movers and shakers like him see opportunity way ahead of the need, whether attempting to suborn someone in Langley by making a deposit and counting on their silent acceptance of dumb luck, or by destroying their place in the organization out of sheer spite. It was the way they operated.

  She relaxed, and I realized she’d been waiting to tell someone else about the money. Someone other than Callahan or anyone else inside the CIA bubble.

  My phone rang and I hoped it wasn’t another job. At least, not yet. I now had something important to take care of. I excused myself and answered the call.

  ‘Mr Portman.’ It was a man’s voice but not one I recognized. Confident, relaxed. It wasn’t a question. I didn’t answer. Not that many people know my number and there was no caller ID to help me out.

  He gave a brief chuckle. ‘I guess that tells me how you’ve survived so long, Mr Portman. Or may I call you Marc?’

  ‘What do you want?’ I don’t like guessing games, especially when I get a tingle on the back of my neck. I couldn’t be absolutely certain I was being watched and in any case it was pointless looking; there must have been a thousand vantage points within a hundred yard radius of my position where he could be concealed. The thought that I’d been tracked wasn’t comforting, a feeling he confirmed with his next words.

  ‘Relax, Marc. I’m not a threat. I approve of your choice of lunch venue, by the way. Unexpected, open … careful. Attractive company, too.’

  Damn. He was close. ‘Glad to hear it. Who are you?’

  Lindsay had picked up on something in my voice and was frowning. I signalled her to stay put and she nodded, although her knuckles were white around her coffee cup.

  ‘Who I am doesn’t matter. You don’t know me; we’ve never met and never will. This is a friendly call, and the only time you’ll ever hear from me. We’re sort of in the same line of business, you and me. We both provide security, take care of problems. The only difference is it’s time for me to close shop and take up another occupation. But I’d like to do you a service before I go.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Why?’

  ‘Let’s call it a courtesy, one professional to another. See, I know what you’re planning; what you’ve been planning since coming back from Ukraine. Probably even more so now you’ve met Miss Citera. At least, if I know the kind of man you are, and I think I do, it’s certainly on your list of to-do jobs.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘It involves a certain senator who is, shall we say, less than a real asset to the American way.’

  ‘What about him?’ It’s always safer to play dumb with cold calls. You never know who might be recording them.

  I had already decided that if I was correct about Callahan’s oblique method of sending me a message, he was hoping I might do something about Benson. I wasn’t sure what that might be, but I couldn’t afford to leave any footprints while I was in town, just in case. Meeting with Lindsay had been a risk, but worth it. At least I got to thank her for her help. She was a nice kid and I hoped she did well.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. Benson nearly got you killed, you and Travis. He tried to wreck an intelligence-led operation and he set the Russian dogs on you to discredit the CIA and make a profit into the bargain for himself and some pals called the Dupont Group. Incidentally, I’ve sent some damning information on those people to the FBI, so I think the Dupont Circle area of Washington will be seeing some dawn activity sometime soon. But Benson, he’s something else, am I right? Pretty untouchable, I think you’ll agree.’

  ‘You tell me.’

  He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Cautious all the way. But I can’t blame you. If I were in your shoes I know I’d be planning on doing something to even up things a little. Hell, what am I saying? I am planning it.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘The senator has outlived his position. He’s gotten
dangerous and needs stopping. And I know, I know, there’s not a person in this town who can touch him by legal means. I always figured everyone – and I mean everyone – was reachable in law. But not Benson; he’s as good as Teflon-coated. Oh, he might lose a little gloss here and there when any of this comes out, but it won’t stop him completely. Which leaves only one other way to do it. But that doesn’t mean it has to be you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m saying this is my call. I have the means, the opportunity and most importantly the motive. I have some cleaning to do and he’s right at the top of the list. Hell, he is the list.’

  ‘You worked for him.’ I was guessing but it didn’t take much to know what his motivation was.

  ‘Indirectly, yes. And you’d be right if you said my decision to intervene is out of self-interest. But that’s the way it is.’

  ‘You’ll get caught.’

  ‘No. After this, I’ll be gone where nobody can find me – and I know they will come looking; it’s how Benson plays things. He keeps evidence, leaves markers. I’ve taken care of most of them but I know I haven’t found them all. But disappearing is what I’m really good at.’

  ‘Well, good luck with that.’

  ‘Thanks. You did fine work in Ukraine, Portman. You saved a good man. It would be a shame to spoil your future for no good reason. And they’ll know it was you; it’s the way their devious little minds work and you’ll have no way of ducking it. Doesn’t matter what you did for them in Ukraine, they’ll still send the dogs after you. You know it.’

  He was right. In with one hand, out with the other. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  ‘My advice to you is make sure you have your whereabouts for this afternoon set in stone, with some good witnesses. Miss Citera, for one. Then go home. This is Two-One, over and out.’

  There was a click and the phone went dead. I knew if I tried to call back there would be no answer.

  ‘Problem?’ Lindsay asked.