‘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.’
THIRTY-FOUR
Getting out of a hotel at speed without being noticed is no easy task. I had Travis by the arm to stop him falling over and to keep him moving, and I was ready in case Voloshyn had backup waiting. By my calculations we had about two minutes to get out of the building before Grey Suit and his cop friends had the area sealed off tight.
The woman cut-out must have been blown. It was the only logical explanation for the cops coming here like this. I felt sorry for her; she’d been in a no-win situation, and once the authorities had her home address she was done for. Just like 24d — aka Denys.
I urged Travis towards the rear stairs, ignoring the elevator. Elevators are rat-traps; once in, there’s no way out. Forget about trapdoors in the ceiling; cops watch films, too, and know all the moves.
We passed the room maid on the way and I swore at the turn of luck. She’d seen me twice now, once in a room where a dead body was shortly going to be found and now dragging a traumatized and badly beaten man behind me. If she was making for the corridor upstairs, it didn’t matter which room she got to first; the one with the late Denys or the one with the snoring and armed thug, Voloshyn. Either way she’d kick up a screaming fit and have a good fix on our faces.
I put on speed, half-carrying Travis, and we reached the rear lobby where two loaded baggage carts were sitting just inside the swing doors. A tour bus stood outside with a line of men being checked on board by a guy with a clipboard. They were all middle-aged in stiff suits and ties, and looked like a group of union leaders on a day out. It didn’t look like they were having fun. But that soon changed.
In the background the wail of a police siren drifted closer. It caused a few heads in the line to turn, sensing that here at last was a bit of excitement to brighten up a dull morning.
Twenty seconds and counting, was my estimate. But my car was out front and across the road. Right in their line of sight. We’d be like two ducks in a fairground shooting gallery.