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?’
FIFTY-EIGHT
The track led into a stretch of trees ahead of us, the tops curving inwards to form an arch, lending the area a soft atmosphere. I couldn’t hear them but I was betting that birds were singing. At any other time and place it would have been scenic, serene, a place of tranquillity.
But not now.
A Mercedes four-wheel drive was standing in our way.
Two figures were next to it, one carrying a rifle. The other had a splash of white on one leg. They looked as if they’d known we were coming.
I pulled to a halt. We were less than a thousand yards from the border. From safety. Three hundred from the Mercedes.
I opened my door, motioning for Travis to do the same. ‘When you get out, leave the door open.’ If we needed to get back in it would have to be fast. I picked up the Grach.
‘Watchman, we have you on screen. Why have you stopped?’
‘We’ve got company and they’re in the way.’ The Mercedes looked like a G-Class 4WD, big and boxy and new. A big man’s status symbol. A gangster ride.
A short silence, then: ‘Copy that. Your lift is inbound on the other side, but they cannot cross. Will you be able to proceed?’
‘I’ll let you know. Stand by.’
I checked the map in case there was an alternative route. There wasn’t. A river formed part of the boundary between Ukraine and Moldova for about two miles, after which lay a small town, no doubt with official patrols and customs posts. If we didn’t cross here, we’d be forced to go back, and that simply wasn’t an option. What we needed now was another Su-27 fighter and a pilot with some attitude.
I used the binoculars and took a look at the man with the rifle. There was something familiar about the bulky figure and I think I’d known who it was from the first sighting.
Ivkanoy.
I swung left a fraction and checked out the person on the other side. Smaller, neater, leaning against the side of the Mercedes. The splash of white was a plaster cast on one ankle.
Olena Prokyeva. The woman sniper.
She was sporting two black eyes and the swelling across her nose must have made breathing difficult. But she was clearly mobile and still with Ivkanoy, although she didn’t appear to be armed. Maybe he’d brought her along to show her how killing me should be done.
Ivkanoy shouted something towards us but his words were carried away on the breeze. I doubted it was a warm welcome. In fact he looked mad enough to spit and threw the rifle up to his shoulder.
‘Out, now!’ I said, and we both jumped out and moved to the rear of the Land Cruiser.
If the birds had been singing before, they’d now gone very quiet.
Ivkanoy’s first shot went wide. The second ploughed into the ground thirty feet in front of the Land Cruiser. The third went over our heads by several feet. He followed them up with several more shots and a lot of animated yelling in between.
You really shouldn’t try sharp-shooting when you’re crazy mad with the target.
‘What do we do now?’ Travis asked. He was crouched behind the Land Cruiser, now wide awake and jittery, and I wasn’t surprised. The threat of shooting is one thing; facing live incoming rounds is something else altogether.
‘We fight back,’ I said, and leaned into the rear of the car. I pulled out the OSV-96 and checked the scope for dust, then made sure the magazine was good to go. I didn’t want to start a shooting war right here so close to the border, but Ivkanoy didn’t look like he was giving up. In fact, he’d only just got started. There was a sudden burst of automatic fire and the snap-snap of rounds going by were too close for comfort.
When I looked round the side of the Land Cruiser I saw where the automatic fire had come from. Ivkanoy had been joined by another man. This one was holding what looked like an AK-47. He raised it and fired two short bursts, and the Land Cruiser jumped as it took several hits.
This guy knew what he was doing.
Fortunately, his boss was an idiot. He walked over and snatched the AK away and tried to hose us down gangland-style. But he’d only got a few rounds left and they disappeared into the trees around us. He swore and shouted at his colleague, who handed him another magazine.
‘Get down,’ I warned Travis, and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into dead ground at the side of the track. Even Ivkanoy couldn’t miss every time with a thirty-round magazine. As we stopped rolling, the best part of the load came whipping by overhead and snapping into the foliage on the far side of the track.
This was getting silly. As lousy a shot as Ivkanoy was, he’d got us pinned down and unable to move. If we stayed right here he’d eventually come down the track to get us. If we tried to run past him, he’d have open season on us — him and his pal. Travis evidently thought so, too.
‘Can’t you shoot the crazy bastard?’ he yelled. He looked almost guilty as the words came out, and looked away.
‘You’re the boss,’ I said, and rolled out from cover and positioned myself alongside the Land Cruiser. I hugged the OSV into my shoulder and got comfortable. It was a heavy weapon but nicely balanced. I got Ivkanoy in the cross hairs. He was struggling with the AK’s magazine, and I guessed it must have jammed through over-heating.