‘Good. So, no need to mention our little chat, then.’ With that he turned and walked out just as Brian Callahan appeared, looking puzzled.
‘Is there a problem?’ he queried, before Lindsay could turn away. ‘What was he doing here?’
‘No problem, sir.’ She hesitated, aware that he must have noticed something in her face. She felt sickened at the realization that she had just been bullied and threatened by a US senator, and wasn’t sure what to do or say. ‘Sorry — his cologne … it was a little too much in this room and made me feel queasy.’
‘Oh. OK. If that’s all.’ He looked at the darkened monitors. ‘He shouldn’t have been here alone, anyway. Looks like you switched everything off, though, so well done.’
‘Thank you. He was … he was asking about Watchman.’
Callahan lifted an eyebrow and looked mildly annoyed. He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I bet he was. Any news from our man?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
TEN
Senator Benson waited until he was well away from the encompassing aura of Langley before checking the courtesy window between himself and the driver was closed and dialling a number from memory. It rang three times before being answered in a clipped voice.
‘Two-One. Go ahead.’
‘I want a trace on a CIA Staff Ops Officer named Brian Callahan. Get me his movements over the past three weeks. Where he went, who he saw — everything.’
‘Will do. Anything specific I should look for?’
‘Yes. Sometime over the past few days he met with a non-agency asset — a freelance gun. Callahan’s Langley-based, so he must have travelled outside to find him. This wouldn’t have been done on the phone. I want anything you can get on the people he met.’
‘Sure. Shouldn’t take too long.’ The man sounded assured and relaxed. Professional. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes.’ Benson was thinking about the young woman trainee assigned to be Watchman’s comms support. She might prove a weak link he could exploit if necessary. He had no hesitation about ruining a promising career if the situation demanded, and if she complained, it would be her word against his, no contest. ‘Build me a file on a Lindsay Citera. That’s C–I-T-E-R-A. She’s on the trainee program at Langley and comes from North Carolina. If there’s dirt, I want it.’
He disconnected and made another brief call. This time he left a voicemail message on a multi-user subscriber number which initiated an automatic alert to everyone on the group list. ‘The State Department has asked Langley to mount a rescue operation on their man Travis. I believe this could be a situation we can use. We need to meet right away.’
He switched off his cellphone and told his driver where to go, and sat back to think about what to do next. Howard J. Benson had two interests in his life. The first was to be seen to grow and protect the involvement and budgets of the US intelligence agencies in the ever-increasing threats to the country from terrorism and the twin evils of Moscow and Beijing. That interest did not necessarily include the CIA, for which he harboured a deep loathing for its cavalier and blatant disregard of conventions. To his mind they were a bunch of modern-day pirates who had done whatever the hell they liked in the name of America for far too long. News of this latest jaunt to recruit a freelancer to rescue a man in the field did nothing to change that viewpoint and he was already mentally composing his next report which would be severely critical of the Agency’s actions.
However, his reason for calling this latest meeting via the subscriber service was entirely different and served his other main interest, which was neither benign nor patriotic. It was to ensure that he and a small group of friends prospered from whatever was about to blow up in Eastern Europe.
All he had to figure out was the best way to go about accomplishing both aims.
ELEVEN
Callahan’s briefing update just before I left for Donetsk had told me that Travis had been moved out of a hotel in the city centre to one at the airport. He had no information on why, but the general guesswork was that it was for his safety while the group holding him figured out what to do with him. His new location had a history of being used as a transit hub for officials and military officers coming in and out of the region, but was now thought to have few if any genuine paying guests.
I arrived back at the airport and located the building. It was situated a few minutes from the main visitor and transit areas, along a side road linked to the main approach road. It easily fitted the picture of being government-run, as it lacked the glitz and glitter of most commercial hotels and wore a slightly tired air. It hadn’t been painted anytime recently, and a large chain looped across the entrance to the car park made it clear that the place was not open for business. Most of the rooms were in darkness, so I figured Callahan’s information had been correct.
The roads in the area were busy, with a heavy presence of uniforms and military vehicles. But if there was any coordination of movement going on, it didn’t look obvious. Every man was armed and looked alert and it didn’t take much imagination to see that they were a hair trigger away from going on the offensive if they saw something they didn’t like.
I left the Toyota in a nearby cargo lot and walked back to the hotel where Travis was being held. I had my bag in my hand as cover; if I got stopped and searched, I was looking for somewhere to put my head down before heading into the city.
I saw the first of the guards as I walked past the entrance. He was standing beneath a large wooden panel bearing a schematic of the hotel’s facilities and topped by a line of weather-worn international flags. He was dressed in a combat jacket and jeans and had an AK-74 assault rifle looped over one shoulder. He looked bored and cold, and I kept my head down and avoided eye contact. Even in the reflected light from the street lamps I was close enough to see that the rifle looked clean and well cared-for. I spotted another man fifty yards further on, similarly dressed and tucked into a line of bushes by the side of the building. He was holding a Bison-2 submachine gun and, like his colleague, although not dressed in full uniform, had the air of a more professional soldier than some of the others I’d seen.
I circled the block and counted four other guards. They were in a variety of pseudo combat uniforms, but all were holding clean weapons and looked ready for war. A UAZ Russian military jeep was in the rear car park, a clear signal to anyone who cared to look that this situation was far from ordinary and casual visitors would not be welcome.
I left them to it. There was nothing I could do now until I got word to Callahan and the ball was set in motion for Travis to take a walk. Once that happened I wasn’t going to get much sleep. I retrieved the Toyota and drove away from the airport, threading my way carefully through a choke-point of military vehicles and troops, all waiting for something to break out.
I was mentally composing my call to Langley when I saw a line of lights ahead and several vehicles surrounded by armed men.
Roadblock.
It was too late to turn back and there were no side turnings I could use. On each side of this stretch of blacktop was open land dotted with clumps of darkness which I took to be trees. Beyond that — way beyond it — I could see the flicker of lights from streets and buildings. If all else failed I could abandon the car and hope none of the troops felt like chasing after me in the dark. But I had no way of telling if the space in between would give me a clear run or I’d find my way blocked by a river, canal or rail line.