Close Quarters

FIFTY-SIX

‘I hear Walter Conkley got hit by a car.’ Chapin was staring at the library ceiling, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t seem too distressed by the news, but was clearly intent on making a point. ‘Did you hear that, Howard?’

‘I heard something about it.’ Benson was checking his phone messages, stabbing at the buttons and scowling at the lack of response. ‘A pity. He was useful to us. That’s the trouble with traffic in this town; it’s getting so out of hand now it’s not even safe to cross the darned streets anymore.’

‘I didn’t say he was crossing a street.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Benson put down his cell phone and gave a cool smile. ‘But my source in the White House did. They got a call the moment the police saw Conkley’s ID.’

Teller and Cassler, seemingly unaware of any hidden messages passing between the two men, expressed shock and regret at Conkley’s passing. But their comments lacked real depth; Conkley had never quite been one of them, and they soon moved on to other more pressing matters, such as discussing the current European and world market movements. In particular they talked about matters surrounding the potential energy supply problems via the Ukraine pipelines.

‘We’re getting closer,’ Benson told them. ‘It’s slow progress but events over the past couple of days have helped to focus a few minds.’

‘Such as?’ asked Teller.

‘Such as Travis being in jeopardy and CIA assets being arrested or killed while trying to help him. Moscow has finally started complaining about US interference and sending in a negotiator to talk to what they call “disparate groups”, but that’s their shorthand for pro-Russian rebels and how we should mind our own business because they’re minding theirs.’ He grunted. ‘As you may recall, I suggested this might happen when the CIA took it upon themselves to send in a contractor to get him out.’

‘Yes, and you were perfectly correct, Howard,’ Chapin congratulated him. His tone carried a faint air of condescension. ‘What’s the situation there? You haven’t said much about it.’

Benson shifted in his chair. Chapin was showing signs of becoming difficult, and he wondered if it was a result of his health issues. Not that he cared one way or another, as long as the old man stayed onside.

Privately he was still furious at finding that he’d been shut out of the loop at Langley, and questions from Chapin only served to remind him of his sudden inability to exert some pressure where it could count. The operations support room responsible for helping Watchman was now under red light rules, effectively prohibiting entry to all but immediate and senior personnel. He’d tried pushing Jason Sewell further on the issue, and even approached the director himself. But the answer had been the same: the facility was now closed to all non-essential staff, including himself. Not that he was about to tell these men, as he regarded it as a point of pride that he could go almost anywhere without let or hindrance.

‘It’s gone beyond any control I might have had,’ he muttered vaguely. ‘In any case, whatever happens now won’t affect our plans for the future. President Putin has seen to that.’

‘What’s his latest word on the situation?’

‘Not much. He’s continuing to deny any Russian involvement and suggesting any “foreign” fighters assisting the rebels are “patriots”.’

‘Good.’ Chapin stood up and looked at Teller and Cassler. ‘Let’s meet again when something develops. Keep checking the voicemail box for messages.’

As the men filed out of the room, Chapin touched Benson’s sleeve. The senior lawyer waited for the others to move ahead along the corridor before saying softly, ‘I think there have been enough accidents, Howard, don’t you? I’m not sure how far you think you can take this, but I should hate for it to spread further.’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ Benson did his best to look innocent, but the glint of devilment lurking in his eyes was unconvincing. In spite of the momentary setback with his access to Langley, he was enjoying the secret power he was wielding elsewhere far too much, and exerting a terminal control over Conkley and Cready had been like a shot in the arm.

The senior lawyer was too experienced to have missed it. He had seen similar expressions in the eyes of other men over the years; mostly people like Benson, who liked giving orders but rarely if ever had to carry out the deed. Over time he had come to the conclusion that for them it was a need, something primeval long hidden by circumstance and lifestyle, but which eventually found its way to the surface. He studied the senator’s face for a few moments and wondered what they had created between them. Or whether it had always been there, waiting to surface. Had Benson been hiding another persona all these years, and their current situation was now allowing him an excuse to vent some secret desires?

If so, it was time to rein him in before he went too far and ruined them all.

His grip intensified on Benson’s arm. Although he clearly wasn’t well to those who knew him, the lawyer still had strong hands. ‘I’m not a fool, Howard. I know what it’s like to have the power to make life and death decisions. I had to use it more than once in my time. But I never got used to it, not like some. Not like you.’

Benson tried to shake him off, but failed. ‘What are you saying, old man?’

Chapin leaned closer as an intern walked past and disappeared down the corridor. ‘I’m saying, just in case you consider that any of us closer to home might become — what was it you called them once — “casualties of war”? — you might take note that I have a great deal of information that might prove … damaging, if I should meet with a fate similar to Conkley. Or Marcella Cready.’

Benson shook his head and jerked his arm free, his mouth dropping open. ‘What the hell are you—’

‘I just heard the news, Howard.’ Chapin held up his smart phone. ‘The wonders of modern technology and rolling reports, you see. Something we could have done with in my day, I have to say. I didn’t want to air this in front of the others because I doubt they would have understood the significance. They’re simple money men, not versed in the dark arts of intelligence work. But I might tell them yet, if the need arises. Cassler probably wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought; he’s too wrapped up in his portfolios and making the next million. But Teller? He might care. A lot. He was once very close to Marcella Cready, did you know that?’ The lawyer noted the flash of concern that appeared briefly in Benson’s eyes. Then it was gone, to be replaced by an amused frown.

‘I said before, Vernon, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Truly. Are you sure your illness isn’t having an adverse effect on your judgement? I’d hate to think you might consider talking outside this building. In any case, what’s this “information” you say you have? Haven’t you noticed how careful I’ve been in the past not to put anything in writing?’

Chapin smiled. ‘Who said writing, Howard?’ He raised a finger, making a circular movement which took in their opulent surroundings and the very fabric of the building. ‘You should bear in mind that old wartime saying: walls have ears. Walls have ears.’