Close Quarters

FIFTY-SEVEN

‘Watchman, you have two miles to go before you reach a farm building marked as deserted. Just past it is a turning on your left. We’re advised that this is an unmarked access road for forest workers and border patrols, although rarely used. Take this turning and you will be on a thousand-metre track to the border itself.’

‘Copy that. Are there any active patrols in the area?’ We were now so close I was ready to blow through anything that showed itself. But the proximity of freedom is a siren call to the unwary. Border patrols are usually connected by radio with regular checks by their control room to make sure all is well. And in a country where civil and military unrest was compounded by threats from across their borders, they would probably now be at a severe level of awareness. Running into a bunch of armed and touchy troopers under such conditions wasn’t something that would end well.

‘None visible and no marked obstacles that I can see. The track runs through a stretch of woodland to a simple fence. Beyond the fence is Moldovan territory. Your ride will be waiting for you there.’

‘Good to hear. Is Callahan there?’ I had to ask him about the leak; not that there was anything I could do about it right now, but the sense that we’d been betrayed had been digging away at me ever since Voloshyn’s appearance at the Tipol, and I wanted him to know that I wasn’t about to let it go. He could always refuse to discuss it, but I didn’t think he would; he came across to me as a straight kind of guy with a bagful of experience and would go as far as he could to put things right.

Callahan came on. ‘Go ahead, Watchman.’

‘You’ve got a serious leak in the system. You know that?’

There was a long sigh. ‘Yes, I know. I’ve initiated a background check of certain people. I’m sorry, Portman. My hands are tied. I can’t say more.’

He sounded sick with anger, and I figured he knew or suspected who the likely leak had to be. It made me think the suspect must be someone of note, and not a staff member low down in the pecking order. But he wasn’t about to tell me any names, and with good reason; although I was working for the CIA on this job, I wasn’t part of their club, the inner circle of intelligence professionals. Like any organization with a pride in its own integrity, the CIA likes to clean house itself without involving outsiders.

‘You know it’s not Lindsay, though, right?’ I had to make sure of that.

If he was surprised that I knew her name, he didn’t say so. ‘I know. She’s in the clear, don’t worry. I’m afraid it’s a lot higher than that; somebody with top-level access to the facility. Be assured we will deal with it. Hold one moment.’

I heard him talking in the background. Then he came back. ‘I have to go. Before I do there’s something you should know about the man Voloshyn: he’s almost certainly an FSB officer on secondment. His employers, BJ Group, have security contracts with the Russian government, and in turn have connections with Russian organized crime.’

It provided answers to some questions about how Voloshyn might have been able to gain the knowledge that he had. It also ramped up the kind of opposition we were facing. It made me wonder which side of the fence Voloshyn was currently working on — or whether there was even a divide at all. ‘Sounds to me like your mole must have the same connections.’

‘Yes. Uh, Watchman, let me put you back to Lindsay. She’ll help you with anything else you need. Stand by.’

It sounded like Callahan was having problems, and I wondered what was going on inside the bubble that was Langley. Work enough with people in the world of security and intelligence and you learn to pick up on their love of nuance and hidden meanings. It’s almost as if it’s a requirement of their job. But it’s easy to get led into seeing things that aren’t there, understanding things that aren’t actually said. People talk in ways that imply without being clear, and after a while everything has a dual meaning, even when it shouldn’t. However, I had a feeling that Callahan wasn’t simply being elliptical; he’d found a way of sending me some kind of message.

Lindsay looked questioningly at Callahan as he moved away from the console. She had heard every word of the exchange between him and Watchman or, as she now knew from his slip of the tongue — if indeed it was a slip — the man named Portman.

‘Sir?’ she said quietly, her hand over the mouthpiece. She had a feeling she was about to step into unknown territory here and instinct told her she had to be very careful.

Callahan hesitated. He looked conflicted, and she wondered at the huge pressures being exerted on a man at his level. His reference just now to somebody with top-level access clearly referred to Benson; it had to. But she knew he was bound by his position as much as by the rules governing all staff of the CIA into secrecy at all times.

‘I want you to conduct Watchman’s debriefing. You think you can handle that?’

She was surprised, but nodded. ‘Yes, sir. If you think so.’ She knew that debriefings were usually handled by the Staff Ops Officer responsible, in this case Callahan. But if he decided to hand it over to her, how could she argue? In any case, it would be good experience for her.

‘You’ll do fine. Watchman’s not one of ours, so we can’t expect him to jump through post-operational hoops for us and write out a full report. But we need to know what went on over there. We’ll have Travis’s input, anyway.’

‘Right, sir. Do I do it here?’

‘No. I doubt he’ll come here, anyway. Set up a meeting somewhere in town. Can you do that?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She hesitated, feeling a thrill running through her that she couldn’t explain. Was this what it was like to be accepted? ‘What do I tell him, sir?’

‘He knows the background. Fill it in at your discretion. Tell him what went on in this room. You know what I mean.’

‘Yes, sir. And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards? Well, you come back and report to me. If you want it, there’s a job waiting here for you. You’ve earned it.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Lindsay sat for a moment as Callahan walked out, stunned by his words, by his confidence in her abilities. She turned to her desk and checked that Watchman was still on hold. She was surprised to find that she already knew what to say. She spoke into the headset, ‘Watchman?’

‘I hear you. What’s up?’

‘My apologies for keeping you. How well do you know the Washington area?’