Close Quarters

FIFTEEN

Ed Travis swung round from the window as the door to his room opened. He was aware of several people in the corridor, and wondered what was going to happen now. He’d become accustomed to the heavy tread of the guard pacing up and down outside, with occasional pauses to talk with a colleague. But other than that the silence within the building was clear evidence that the rest of this floor, maybe even the entire block, was unoccupied. The thought didn’t fill him with confidence. Hotels with vacant floors were not a comforting sign, and those with a predominantly military presence were even more disturbing.

Since being stopped by a group of armed men in the street and told to get back to his hotel in the city centre, he’d had a feeling that his situation was coming unglued. The region around Donetsk was clearly on the edge of chaos, with troops and militia constantly on the move as if dancing around each other in a slow, deadly waltz. He had overheard reports of gunfire and exchanges further east, and had seen palls of smoke and heard the occasional rattle of small arms, and the thumps of heavier weaponry further off. The growing knowledge that there were different groups in the area, nominally with the same pro-Moscow sympathies yet all armed and with their own differing agendas, merely added to the confusion and his own sense of vulnerability.

When another group of men had taken him from his hotel and brought him to the airport, he’d assumed that he was being ordered to leave the country. But that hope had been dashed by the confiscation of his money, passport and cell phone, and the open hostility of his guards, who he guessed by their haphazard dress and the variety of weapons, were not regular forces but militia.

Travis had served in the military, but none of what he had experi-enced or seen had prepared him adequately for this. His had been a peace-time role, somehow avoiding the various conflicts going on around the world in which the USA had seen fit to get involved. Seeing the sounds and fury of conflict up close was somehow more unnerving than he had ever imagined.

The door swung back and an armed man in combat uniform stepped into the room and stood smartly to one side. This one had the appearance of a professional soldier, something Travis recognized immediately. He was followed by a man in a grey suit. He might have been a bureaucrat, but he had about him the aura of something darker. Travis had met security police of various nations in his time, and this newcomer had the same aura. He was over six feet tall, with a thin face and cold eyes, and his expression, the suit and the air of authority confirmed the impression of somebody accustomed to instilling fear and obedience in everyone he met.

‘Why are you holding me here?’ Travis demanded, determined to show anger at being treated like this. ‘This is outrageous and unacceptable.’ His throat was dry and he tried to put some steel in his voice, but the motors wouldn’t work. He’d been warned during his briefing sessions at Langley about the possibility of being questioned at any time. The country was in turmoil and strangers were naturally treated with suspicion. There were various types of security in operation, some official, others less so. And not all were organs of the state — or, at least, the Ukrainian state. On the other hand, this might be some kind of elaborate robbery or con trick. He’d been warned about that, too. But this notion was cast aside when he heard more movement in the corridor and noticed two more men in uniform outside the door.

‘You will come with us.’ The man in the grey suit spoke calmly, ignoring Travis’s protest. There was no threat in the voice, no look of menace, but the implication was clear: you will do what I say.

‘Why?’ Travis worked his tongue around his mouth to loosen the word. His gums tasted stale and acid, not helped by the sparse breakfast of rolls and coarse cheese that he had been served. ‘This is not right. I’m here on official business and you have no right to hold me like this.’ He shut his mouth, aware that he was gabbling and that this man looked as though he didn’t give a damn.

He was right. But what the man said next was even more worrying. ‘You are not here on official business, Mr Travis. You came here under the guise of a foreign non-governmental body with the intention of seeking representations with people opposed to the rule of law. Under Ukraine law that makes you a criminal by association.’ His accent was heavy but he spoke without hesitation, as if his English was regularly used. ‘Or would you prefer it if I accused you of being a spy? Is that what you are — an American spy?’

Travis tried to think, but his brain was sludgy with stress and lack of sleep. Criminal? A spy? What the hell? ‘No! That’s rubbish. I must protest. I want to speak to the American Embassy.’

The man didn’t look impressed. ‘Not possible. You either come downstairs with us,’ he said coolly, ‘or we throw you out of the window.’ He shrugged as if it really didn’t matter to him, and added, ‘Faster but more painful. Your choice.’

The shock of the words was enough to get Travis’s survival instincts kicking in. His fatigue drained away, leaving him at once clear-headed but somehow resigned. There was no point fighting; if these were security police, they would have backup nearby and be quite capable of carrying out their threat if he tried to resist. And who was going to stop them? He’d repeatedly tried the room phone, but that didn’t work, and for all he knew the rest of the building was occupied by men similar to these. Better to go with them and live, than put up a pointless resistance and die with a broken neck.

Yet he was puzzled. He’d seen plenty of regular soldiers and police while he was moving around before being picked up; but he’d seen even more militiamen of one faction or another, and thought he could have identified them on sight. But these men were different; they dressed and moved like well-trained regulars, but the threat had been pure aggression with no obvious point other than to show superiority.

‘What is it you want from me?’

‘No questions. You will find out soon enough.’

‘Where am I going?’

The man walked to the door and made a signal to the soldier to bring Travis. ‘Well, it’s not home, I can assure you of that.’ He gave a ghost of a smile and left the room, leaving the others to follow.

As the soldier took his arm, Travis felt panic setting in. He even eyed the window as if it might offer a solution. An escape. Somehow he had to get a message back home. But how? Without his phone he was beyond reach. In any case, who would he ring? It would be pointless calling the State Department; they’d simply go into a flap and talk a whole bunch before opting to go through official channels. He’d be better getting through to the CIA spook named Callahan, in Langley. This was the State Department’s plan, but Callahan was effectively running the nuts and bolts of the mission and would know what to do without calling a meeting about it first. But what could he do?

For the first time in his life, Ed Travis knew what it felt like to be utterly alone. And helpless.