He looked stricken. ‘I didn’t know that — that she was a woman, I mean.’
‘No reason why you should. At the request of the State Department, Langley activated a secure line of cut-outs to get you out of the country. You wouldn’t have needed to know any of them beforehand, but it looks as if some or all of the addresses got out there. Starting with Denys.’
‘How?’
I didn’t tell him because I didn’t know. I also didn’t want to freak him out with an attack of departmental guilt over the fact that the State Department had sent the data unencrypted. He’d know soon enough when he got back — if he got back — that his bosses had been careless, even negligent, with sensitive data. That would be for him and them to live with. For now we had to focus on the next move.
‘Did they say what they wanted you for?’
‘Who?’
‘The man in the grey suit.’
‘At first he didn’t say anything. He was fairly officious, even aggressive, but I put that down to being on edge with all the guns in the area. I got the impression he was taking me out of the hands of the separatists without their knowledge. Was that possible?’
‘He certainly had the muscle for it.’ I told him about the blanked-out trucks and the soldiers who looked anything but irregulars. ‘I think he was going to ship you back east. If he’d left you with the separatists there’s no saying what would have happened. But you don’t need to feel grateful to him — he would have used you any way he and his bosses thought fit. What else did he say?’
‘On the way to the place where Denys lived, he said he knew I was connected to western spies and traitors and he wanted all their names and addresses. I told him I didn’t know but he wouldn’t listen. He said he knew I’d had help while I was in the country, and if I gave him the names and addresses, he’d negotiate with the authorities and arrange for them to put me on a plane home. After you got me away and Denys took me to Pavlohrad, the other man showed up. I think he’d tracked Denys’s car.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He asked pretty much the same questions, only not so nicely.’ He winced at the memory. ‘Was he Russian?’
‘I believe so. Probably with connections to the separatists and on through to Moscow. I think he was there to take you back to Donetsk. Once back there you’d have been part of another trade. They’re all looking for bargaining tools.’
‘Those photos you were looking at,’ he said after a while. ‘The one of me is a State Department file copy. I recognized it.’
‘If you say so.’
‘How can that be possible? How does a file photo of me get into the hands of a thug like that?’
I didn’t say anything. He was just thinking out loud and hoping against hope. A former member of Military Intelligence would know perfectly well how it was possible for information like that to get into the wrong hands without me having to tell him. The reasons for spying hadn’t changed much over the years, but the various methods of acquisition and delivery had.
‘And the one of you,’ he continued. ‘You know where it was taken, don’t you? I saw it in your face.’
He was smart, in spite of his injuries, and perceptive.
‘I know, yes.’
‘Do you know who took it? Can you work it back from there?’
I knew the where, all right. The photo was a still taken from the security footage at the entrance to the CIA front office in New York where I’d first met Callahan. I could tell by the clothes I’d been wearing.
Who exactly had acquired the still was more of a puzzle. It was simple enough to do; you simply selected the section of footage and clipped the best frame you could find. From there you either copied the frame to a flash drive and walked out with it, or you emailed it from a secure, isolated workstation.
There was a third way, of course. Somebody with the right credentials could have accessed the hard drive remotely and simply taken what they wanted.
Somebody inside the CIA.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Walter Conkley had found himself an ally, albeit a slightly dubious one. Marcella Cready was one of the most feared journalists in Washington, and had long been a painful thorn in the sides of the establishment and the power brokers swirling around the Capitol, with few able to escape her scrutiny when in pursuit of a story. Winner of numerous awards for investigative journalism, Cready had focussed her work on exposing criminal activities in government agencies, the military and even the UN. Although now in her early fifties, she was as sleek as a fashion model and had lost none of her campaigning fight, and had the tenacity of a pit bull when she fastened on a story.
Conkley was well aware of the potential dangers to himself of approaching Cready. She was ruthless when it came to protecting her sources, but even she couldn’t guarantee total secrecy in the city which never ever went off duty. She was too well known in official circles and anyone she met with was immediately considered to be providing her with information … or of being the next person on her hit list.
Surprisingly, she had agreed to an early meeting at a bar on 7th Street, where Conkley had been admitted by a security guard who had patted him down carefully before giving him the nod. Cready obviously carried some weight here, but he wasn’t surprised. They probably owed her for past favours. Put a media hitter like Cready in any evening or lunch-time bar or restaurant with a known staffer close to government and the place would fill quickly with the kind of political observers who relished being in on the early stages of a media hatchet job. And Marcella Cready was known for following only the leads to the biggest of stories.
‘I don’t want every detail at this time,’ she told him, gesturing for him to take a seat at a corner table. The rest of the room was deserted, the doors closed. Conkley sat down and wondered if the table was bugged.
Up close Cready was stunning, with slim legs, glossy hair, a full, curvy figure and flawless skin, save for a tiny hint of laughter lines around the eyes; only Conkley doubted they had anything to do with humour. She wore a suit that had probably cost what Conkley earned in a couple of months, and sat like a queen receiving a subject. But the good looks stopped short at the eyes, Conkley noted; they were almost dead, and ran across him without a flicker, assessing and probably dismissing him.
She made no offer of a drink, but that was fine. It didn’t make him feel good, but he hadn’t come here for a pep talk or a boost to his ego. The situation had gone beyond that.
He was accustomed to briefings, and gave her a summary of what he knew. She said little, occasionally making a brief note, which confirmed to him that there had to be a recording device nearby. The thought gave him a minor anxiety attack; he had never thought about his every word being recorded outside the confines of government before, yet here he was putting on record clear proof that he was involved with a group of men attempting to profit by using classified information that he had provided and been paid for.
When he finished speaking, she nodded once. ‘Very well. It sounds like a possible story, but I’ll have to run my own checks first. As soon as I’ve confirmed the viability of what you’ve told me we’ll have another talk.’
Conkley was alarmed. ‘You won’t go near them, will you? I mean, Benson and the others. They’ll know something’s been said.’
She smiled knowingly, which should have made her look beautiful and helped light up those eyes. But it made her look even colder, as if the façade might crack. ‘You mean everybody else will start asking questions about what I’ve got on such eminent gentlemen?’
‘Something like that.’