Close Quarters

THIRTY-THREE

Benson, Chapin, Cassler and Teller were once more in the secure library at Chapin, Wilde & Langstone. The atmosphere was brooding, following the news of growing tensions in Eastern Europe. This time they were served glasses of whisky with soda and spring water on the side. But none of them had added anything to the fine malt.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Benson, opening the meeting, ‘that it would help us if the wheels were to come off this particular wagon.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Cassler was staring into the screen of a tablet showing a summary of the latest trading figures. To judge by his expression, the wheels had already come off his particular transport. As they all knew, the European markets had changed overnight and he’d lost heavily before he could take action. He looked far from pleased at the results and a bead of sweat was visible on his mottled skin. If there was one thing they all knew Cassler hated, it was losing money. Of all of them, he was probably the most exposed financially.

‘It means this whole thing is moving too slowly and we have to force the issue.’

‘Enlighten us, then.’ Cassler looked irritated, as if his personal pain was being ignored.

‘For our plans to work,’ Benson announced, ‘we need Congress and the White House to harden their stance on Travis’s situation. The State Department’s jumping up and down but Travis is just one man who happens to have his ass caught in a sling. As far as the White House is concerned, he’ll be fine as long as everybody keeps talking.’

Chapin looked interested but wary. He hadn’t touched his whisky and seemed tired, as if his reserves of energy had washed out of his system leaving him drawn and pale. ‘What about the planned rescue operation? I thought that was under control.’

‘I’m keeping close tabs on it. Travis was moved from his hotel, and the contractor managed to get him away from his escort. I don’t know the details, but I gather he used force. Travis is now in a pipeline heading west, but I understand the contractor has run into some problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’ Chapin leaned forward. As a former intelligence officer, he knew what it was like to hear that an asset had been blown and was being hunted down. It was the kind of news that had haunted agent runners down the decades.

‘His continued freedom is in doubt. In fact, if certain factions over there knew where he was right now, they’d pick him up and put him on display. Which would be a shame.’ Benson gave a ghost of a smile that betrayed the sentiment for what it was. ‘But that’s a consequence of the games the CIA thinks it can indulge in.’

‘A real shame,’ said Chapin. ‘Still, good plans fail all the time. But what will that mean to Travis? He’s in this pipeline, isn’t he?’

Benson hesitated. He’d been wondering how to broach the subject ever since making the phone call that had set things in motion. He still wasn’t sure how the others would take it. He felt they weren’t quite as … committed as him.

It came down to acceptable losses. Losing an unknown contractor was hardly a tragedy; it happened all the time in Afghanistan, Iraq and other places. But losing a member of the State Department was much closer to home. The ripples would be felt throughout Washington and would have even the most enthusiastic of apologists for Russian foreign policy demanding action against them and their agents. He wasn’t sure how it would be received here among this small group of self-interested individuals, but he couldn’t hold off for ever; time was getting short and he’d already set things in motion. It was now or never.

‘He’s in the pipeline, yes. But pipelines are fragile structures. They get breached from time to time. Sometimes with serious consequences.’

‘What are you saying,’ Teller queried. ‘Pipelines? Breached?’

Benson threw him an angry look. He still hadn’t forgiven Teller his lack of tact in front of Conkley. ‘I’m saying we need a catalyst. A human one. Something that will harden attitudes.’

‘Like?’ Cassler prompted.

‘What I’m thinking of would be a tragedy for Travis’s family,’ he said carefully, ‘but every conflict has its casualties. The knowledge that a member of the US State Department was running around the country in the hands of people with questionable loyalties would raise questions all the way back to Moscow, I feel sure. They’d want to do something about it. Something that would give us an edge.’ He sat back and waited. There. He’d got as far as he dared to voicing the unsayable.

Edwin Travis had to meet with an accident.

There was a long silence while they digested the full meaning of what he was suggesting. Even Cassler put down his tablet and looked around at the others. His expression was close to incredulity. But that might have been the onset of reality hitting home.

Benson caught the look and cursed beneath his breath. He’d been counting on the moneyman to seize any opportunity going to lead the financial charge. Once he was on board, he was certain the others would follow.

‘What are you saying would happen,’ Ambrose Teller asked in his convoluted way, ‘if such a tragedy came about? Would Moscow really be so upset at finding he was on Ukrainian soil that they would use it? I assumed they must already know he’s over there holding talks, as have many others.’

‘Of course they know.’ Benson bit back on his impatience. They were starting to get cold feet. ‘But that’s politics; better to have an appearance of openness than not. Even Putin recognizes that — up to a point. In any case, I’m sure Travis was being watched to make sure he didn’t cause too much trouble. The Russians are clever; allowing a measure of foreign “discussion” is good for their image. Not that they’re officially involved, anyway. Remember, they disclaim any control over these so-called separatists, so their hands are clean. They can stand by and watch it all without being tied to any nastiness that might happen. But given the chance, they’ll make capital out of it just to deflect international disapproval from their own involvement.’

‘Interesting scenario.’ Chapin spoke softly, but there was uncertainty in his voice. He threw Benson a cool look. ‘But you’re talking about two men being wasted, Howard.’

‘I’m suggesting what could happen.’

Chapin snorted at the other’s careful choice of words. ‘Jesus Christ, I always knew you were a ruthless bastard. I just never realized how far you were prepared to go. Are you serious?’

‘I’ll do what’s necessary, Vernon — you know that.’ The senator’s voice was unemotional, his face calm. He looked at the three of them in turn. ‘Are we agreed or not?’

Chapin said nothing for a moment. ‘It might work,’ he said finally. ‘It might just work.’ His eyes flicked briefly towards Teller and Cassler, although they all knew he wasn’t really seeking their opinion. As long as it didn’t threaten their investments, they would go with him and agree with whatever he decided was best. He looked back at Benson. ‘Are you saying you can set it up?’

Benson waved a hand to disguise his feeling of relief. ‘Consider it done.’ As it already has been, he wanted to say, but he restrained himself. Time enough for self-congratulation later, when everything was neatly tied up. For now, he had to ensure they didn’t suffer a change of heart.

‘What will happen to him?’ Cassler queried. As someone who had never been on the cold inside of intelligence or espionage work, he had no idea how these things were actioned, nor what the immediate consequences might be.

‘Don’t worry about it, Burman,’ Benson assured him. ‘It won’t come back on you. People over there talk to the security authorities all the time. What’s another call from a local source about a suspect foreigner allegedly travelling without a visa and making lengthy phone calls in the dead of night?’

‘That doesn’t answer my question, does it?’ For a moment, Cassler looked annoyed by the deflection. ‘What will happen?’

‘He’ll disappear, probably. Possibly. Everyone will shake their heads, deny all knowledge … and in time he’ll be quietly forgotten.’

Cassler swallowed hard. ‘And the man sent to get him back?’

‘Forget him. He knew the risks. If it wasn’t there, it would have been some other God-awful place the CIA liked sticking their collective nose.’ It was brutal, but this had gone on long enough. He glanced at his watch. If the man he’d phoned a few hours ago had lived up to his word, Portman and Travis would shortly be scooped up. And the two addresses of the cut-outs he’d supplied would be raided and their residents singing their hearts and lungs out.

Cassler gave a nervous laugh. ‘My God, Howard, you sound as if you’ve done this kind of thing before. Should I be worried?’

Benson didn’t answer directly. Instead he said, ‘I’m sure we’ll all mourn Mr Travis’s sacrifice on behalf of a grateful nation. But we’ll benefit by it.’ He smiled but it lacked warmth and left the other men looking faintly discomforted, as if they had suddenly found themselves party to something not quite palatable.

‘How d’you figure that?’ said Chapin, ever the realist.

‘With Travis taken in and the inevitable media storm to follow, I think we’ll find the White House suddenly revitalized in their energies against Moscow’s heavy-handed approach, and the threat of sanctions should become a reality. And with it the release of export restrictions on energy supplies to Europe.’

Cassler gave a light chuckle and relaxed. It was in sharp contrast to his nervousness moments ago. ‘Hell, in that case, how do I move sufficient stocks quickly enough to buy into the energy market?’

Back in his office, Benson found a voicemail waiting for him. It was from the man he knew as Two-One. He called him back using the secure cell phone.

‘What have you got?’

‘Citera, Lindsay Sofia.’ Two-One sounded robotic, his usual way when delivering information, as if a lack of emotion would make it sound more matter-of-fact, like a military briefing. ‘She has an interesting family background. Parents divorced, brother in the US army garrison in Mannheim, Germany, suspected of shipping in narcotics after a tour of duty in Afghanistan. She has a sister, younger than her, currently unemployed with a couple of misdemeanours for driving while drunk and some serious debt problems.’

‘Is that all?’ Benson was pretending not to be interested. In fact, his brain was already working on how he could use this information to his best advantage. For one, he wondered how Lindsay Citera had managed to clear the intense security vetting required by all CIA applicants with what seemed like such a dysfunctional family background. Surely she was a prime candidate for pressure to be applied by anyone seeking advantage over an officer with such inherent weaknesses. He made a mental note to add that to his list of complaints about the Agency’s lack of oversight when it came to security vetting of employees.

‘It’s all I could find. That’s usually the way with clean slates.’

‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’ Benson had never known this man to be anything less than carefully deferential. But his last remark was bordering on insolence.

‘No. It means what it says: if it can’t be found, could be it ain’t there.’

Benson bit his tongue. For some reason the man was showing an uncharacteristic flippancy bordering on rudeness. He decided to let it ride. For now. ‘Does she have contact with her family?’

‘As far as I can make out, just the sister. But on rare occasions.’

‘Financial?’

‘Three times in the past six months. She made money transfers amounting to a total of three thousand dollars.’

‘I think that will do nicely.’ Benson felt the warm glow of a plan coming to fruition. Take a CIA officer of any level — but especially a trainee — with family members having money problems, and you had a situation ripe for exploitation. Add in another family member currently in prison for drug offences while serving in the US military, and the explanation was complete.

‘I need a payment to be made. No trace-back.’

‘Of course. To Lindsay Citera’s account?’

‘Yes. Can you handle it yourself? This is something I don’t want other parties involved in.’ He suspected that some of the tasks he asked of Two-One were completed by others. Normally that didn’t bother him in the slightest, but when it came to financial and banking irregularities centred on a government employee, which could bring in the focus of the US Secret Service, it was a danger he didn’t wish to court.

‘Of course. How much?’

Benson thought it over. If Citera’s sister was into her for three thousand at the very least — not counting any cash payments, which wouldn’t be traceable but would be perfectly understandable between siblings — then any black payment turning up in her account had to at least match that figure or exceed it substantially. After all, if you were going to sell secret information, you would want to have some extra to put aside, wouldn’t you? He smiled. It had to be a nice round figure, something which investigators would be unable to miss and Citera would find impossible to explain.

‘Make it twenty thousand dollars.’