Close Quarters

TWENTY-SEVEN

Senator Howard J. Benson sat in his office and studied a list of scribbles in his notebook. It wasn’t as complete as he would have liked, and possibly not entirely accurate. But he’d only had a few seconds to look at the original, which was in an open mission file on Assistant Director Sewell’s desk. He’d managed to take a quick look when Sewell had excused himself to take an incoming call. Fortunately, Benson had been blessed with a politician’s memory. He’d made the notes after excusing himself to go to the washroom.

He now had something he could use to put a stop to Callahan’s private gun-for-hire.

A call came in. The number was unlisted. It was the man he knew as Two-One.

‘What have you got?’

‘You were right about Brian Callahan.’

‘How so?’

‘He rarely moves far from the Langley bubble. But six days ago he travelled to New York City. He checked in to a CIA front office at ten-fifteen New York time and thirty minutes later he was joined in a secure room by a civilian. They spent forty minutes together, which went unrecorded, then went their separate ways. That was Callahan’s only trip out of Langley other than family business.’

‘Did you get a name for this civilian?’

‘Yes, sir. He booked in as Marc Stuart Portman, a resident of New York. I got a photo from the security camera which I’ve just sent over. A passport check makes him a holder of dual US — British nationalities. I checked with a few places and he has almost no profile, which takes some doing. This guy’s a pro.’

‘That much I gathered. So what exactly do you have on him?’

‘He’s a contractor, obviously. Moves around, is known to have used at least one cover name, with addresses in New York, London and Paris. He has had contact with various agencies here and possibly overseas, but I can’t prove that for sure without further digging.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘It could take time and cause ripples. Are you ready for that?’

‘Make it as fast as you can but don’t trip any alarms. What else?’

‘The rest is supposition. He’s ex-military; he has to be.’

‘Official records?’

‘I tried that but I haven’t found a link yet. He may have been enlisted for only a brief period and got busted or discharged, so there’s nothing of significance to show up.’

‘This is not helpful. The man can’t be a ghost.’

‘Actually, that’s not strictly true.’

‘What does that mean?’ Benson’s voice was a snap. He was fast becoming frustrated at the lack of detail. He knew the extent and depth of modern military records, and knew that very little managed to sink without trace. There had to be something somewhere that would give him some leverage on this mystery Watchman; leverage that could help him undermine Callahan’s faith and reliance in the one man he believed could get Travis out safely.

‘Well, I found one hint on a file, no more than that, that he might be former French Foreign Legion. But that’s unconfirmed.’

‘Can’t you find out from the French?’

‘No. They’re not in the habit of disclosing information about former personnel — to anybody. Portman isn’t like most of the contractors out there, I can tell you that. He keeps his head down and doesn’t mix with any of the regular guys I spoke with, doesn’t go to any of the usual hangouts to trade war stories. In fact, none of them had heard of him save for one former SEAL who said he’d done a job in Peru with a guy named Portman once and he said he was right up there.’

‘I take it that’s some kind of sub-level alpha-male compliment?’

‘I would say so. Coming from a SEAL, it means Portman’s something special.’

‘Christ, you sound as if you admire the man.’

‘I know the type, that’s all. It comes back to the ghost thing.’

‘How?’

‘If he’s as good as he seems to be, and he’s worked for the CIA or other agencies before, my guess is his records could have been blanked out.’

‘How do we confirm that?’

‘We don’t. I’ve tried before. If agencies want a former member of the military to disappear, that’s what happens — they disappear.’

‘You mean their specialists?’

‘Those and others they use on a freelance basis, yes. The kind of people they want with no footprint.’

‘So he is a ghost.’

‘As good as.’

‘Let me know as soon as you have something. Anything.’

Benson cut the call. This was a waste of time. It was yet more evidence of the CIA’s cavalier attitude and their willingness to impose their own rules on established procedures. He had come across mentions before of former special forces personnel ‘disappearing’ from the records on a temporary basis, presumably allowing them to be used thereafter as unattached personnel to prevent any trail coming back to the US government. He had even been persuaded against his instincts of the usefulness of such ploys, but now saw it as further proof that the CIA was capable of almost anything in the furtherance of their ‘missions’, adding to the established stories of extraordinary rendition and so-called torture flights.

His incoming mail beeped. He found a file containing a single photo. It was a black and white face-on shot and showed a slim man with short dark hair and dark eyes. He was entering the CIA front office in New York. Dressed in a sport jacket and plain pants, he could have been anybody off the street. He looked about medium height and might have been of Spanish or Italian stock, but it was hard to tell. He had the compact appearance of a man who kept himself fit, the type Benson had seen many times over the years connected to the CIA and other agencies.

Benson had an uncomfortable feeling taking hold deep in his gut. The fact that this Watchman a.k.a. Portman was a professional was bad enough; but having dual nationality and addresses in other countries put him way beyond the normal level of contractors and second-hand soldiers for hire. With what Benson and the Dupont Circle Group were hoping for as an outcome with Edwin Travis, a pro with a Navy SEAL’s mark of approval could pose a serious problem if he was successful in his assignment.

Still, he had a plan for that. All it would take was the decisiveness and courage to make another phone call. Only this one was way off the board of acceptability in normal terms, and would be regarded as treachery of the highest order in most quarters if it ever came to light.

He considered the probability of that ever happening, and dismissed it as unlikely. But what would happen if he took no action and allowed Portman to bring Travis home? Good for Travis, of course, and a hero’s return for Portman if his name ever got into the spotlight. But after patting themselves on the back and thanking their lucky stars that they had retrieved the situation, the idiots in the State Department and the White House would go back to watching and waiting while other countries stepped in and took the initiative. And the spoils.

No. What he was planning would see the budgets and power return to the US Intelligence Community where it belonged, although not necessarily the CIA, not after he’d finished with them. It would cement in the eyes of the outside world at least, his reputation as an impartial advocate for the protection of the country, while being a hard-hitting monitor of illegal activities carried out in the name of the state. On the back of that, there would be an inevitable pressure on Congress and the Department of Energy to ease exports of energy to the European market.

Which would play right into the hands of the Dupont Group.

He took another cell phone from his desk. This was a disposable device and one he used very rarely. He dialled a Washington number and waited for it to answer. He could picture the room where it would be ringing, see the man sitting behind the ornate desk. A man with all the appearance and trappings of Washington affluence, an East Coast accent and great teeth, but with his heart and soul, along with a host of useful contacts, directly inside the Russian intelligence network.

While waiting, he studied the photo of the contractor named Portman, trying to read into his soul. He wondered what made such a person tick. Was it money? Patriotism? Honour? Kicks? A death wish?

He hoped it was the last one. Give it a few hours and Portman would have his wish granted in spades.