She opened the door and a man she’d never met before stepped into view. He was smartly dressed, young and even handsome if you liked men with Clark Kent glasses and wide, brown eyes. A mid-level government employee, perhaps, or a corporate middle-manager on the way up the ladder.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, and leaned forward to look past him, expecting to see Walter Conkley lurking in the background. ‘You shouldn’t be up—’
The man stepped towards her before she could move away, and she felt his breath on her cheek. At the same moment she felt a sharp pain in her side, shocking and icy-cold. Just for a brief moment she was overcome by a sense of weightlessness, and felt the whisky glass being taken out of her hand. Then her legs gave way and she began to fall down a long, darkening tunnel.
FIFTY-FIVE
‘It’s done.’
Benson heard the words on his cell phone as he drove through the Washington DC suburbs, and experienced a mixture of relief and apprehension. Relief because he’d had no other choice but to take care of Conkley for good. The little man was a cancer that had to be excised. As for Cready, that was different; that was payback and worth every cent of the fee demanded.
The apprehension was something else. Drastic action always carried risk, no matter how cautious you tried to be. He had no reason to distrust the man he knew as Two-One, the one he’d ordered to arrange the hit on Conkley and Cready. He knew enough about him — not everything, but enough — to ensure his silence on the matter. But as he’d learned in over forty years in politics, nothing was ever one-hundred-per-cent certain. And people had a way of surprising you all the time.
He shook off the doubts and dismissed the subject as closed. ‘Good. Thank you.’
‘I’ll look forward to payment as usual.’
‘You’ll get it, don’t worry.’
Benson disconnected the call. But the apprehension stayed with him. Even after he’d arranged another meeting of the Dupont Group, there was a niggle that simply wouldn’t go away.
He wondered if it was the way Two-One had asked for his payment that had got to him. The man usually did the jobs he was asked to do, no questions asked. And Benson arranged payment within twenty-four hours of completion. It was the way they worked, each dependant on the other, a disconnected but satisfactory arrangement.
He wondered if it was time to review his arrangement with Two-One. Perhaps the man was getting greedy. Greed, as he knew well, had a way of cutting ties and breaching any feelings of loyalty. If that were the case, so be it — in this city there was always somebody else who could handle the same kind of work.
He rang Jason Sewell for an update on the Watchman situation. Having kept a close eye on it thus far, it might seem odd if he were to suddenly lose interest.
‘I’m sorry, Senator, but I’m not able to discuss the matter.’ The unmistakeable tone of finality to Sewell’s response came as a surprise. He was accustomed to having his questions answered instantly and saw this as a personal affront.
‘What do you mean, you can’t discuss it? Do I need to remind you that bringing down the shutters on this operation might be perceived in some quarters as a form of stonewalling? You of all people should be aware that there has already been quite enough of that in Langley.’
‘I’m aware of the views expressed about us, Senator. But we have our procedures. Part of our mandate is to ensure that live operations are not compromised in any way. There are times when circumstances mean we have to raise our security level, and this is one of them. The section of our facility dealing with the Watchman operation is now closed to non-essential personnel.’
‘What the hell are you saying, Sewell?’ Benson snarled, momentarily forgetting himself. ‘I’m not some two-bit politician in town on a social junket, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of my position in the Intelligence Community in relation to the approval of special activities, especially of your organization.’
‘I’m mindful of that, Senator.’ For a man who had always shown appropriate deference, Sewell sounded surprisingly unperturbed by Benson’s bluster. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to brief the White House.’
There was a click and he was gone.
FIFTY-SIX
‘I hear Walter Conkley got hit by a car.’ Chapin was staring at the library ceiling, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t seem too distressed by the news, but was clearly intent on making a point. ‘Did you hear that, Howard?’
‘I heard something about it.’ Benson was checking his phone messages, stabbing at the buttons and scowling at the lack of response. ‘A pity. He was useful to us. That’s the trouble with traffic in this town; it’s getting so out of hand now it’s not even safe to cross the darned streets anymore.’
‘I didn’t say he was crossing a street.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Benson put down his cell phone and gave a cool smile. ‘But my source in the White House did. They got a call the moment the police saw Conkley’s ID.’
Teller and Cassler, seemingly unaware of any hidden messages passing between the two men, expressed shock and regret at Conkley’s passing. But their comments lacked real depth; Conkley had never quite been one of them, and they soon moved on to other more pressing matters, such as discussing the current European and world market movements. In particular they talked about matters surrounding the potential energy supply problems via the Ukraine pipelines.
‘We’re getting closer,’ Benson told them. ‘It’s slow progress but events over the past couple of days have helped to focus a few minds.’
‘Such as?’ asked Teller.
‘Such as Travis being in jeopardy and CIA assets being arrested or killed while trying to help him. Moscow has finally started complaining about US interference and sending in a negotiator to talk to what they call “disparate groups”, but that’s their shorthand for pro-Russian rebels and how we should mind our own business because they’re minding theirs.’ He grunted. ‘As you may recall, I suggested this might happen when the CIA took it upon themselves to send in a contractor to get him out.’
‘Yes, and you were perfectly correct, Howard,’ Chapin congratulated him. His tone carried a faint air of condescension. ‘What’s the situation there? You haven’t said much about it.’
Benson shifted in his chair. Chapin was showing signs of becoming difficult, and he wondered if it was a result of his health issues. Not that he cared one way or another, as long as the old man stayed onside.
Privately he was still furious at finding that he’d been shut out of the loop at Langley, and questions from Chapin only served to remind him of his sudden inability to exert some pressure where it could count. The operations support room responsible for helping Watchman was now under red light rules, effectively prohibiting entry to all but immediate and senior personnel. He’d tried pushing Jason Sewell further on the issue, and even approached the director himself. But the answer had been the same: the facility was now closed to all non-essential staff, including himself. Not that he was about to tell these men, as he regarded it as a point of pride that he could go almost anywhere without let or hindrance.
‘It’s gone beyond any control I might have had,’ he muttered vaguely. ‘In any case, whatever happens now won’t affect our plans for the future. President Putin has seen to that.’
‘What’s his latest word on the situation?’
‘Not much. He’s continuing to deny any Russian involvement and suggesting any “foreign” fighters assisting the rebels are “patriots”.’