A Hostile State Page 10

  After we’d finished eating Isobel held up her phone and announced it was time to contact her controller for information. I had to do the same, and after checking our location, texted the three-word locator to Callahan and signed off. If he wanted to talk he would get back to me, but there was no reason to waste air time unless it was important.

  With that done I made my way further up the slope for a hundred yards or so and sat on the ground in the lee of a large boulder, from where I could watch the area towards the track and beyond. I was looking for a hint of dust; even in poor light it carried a faint luminescence and would be the first sign in this kind of landscape of anyone approaching. But aside from the faintest sighing of a breeze sweeping the area and a couple of birds passing overhead, I was alone.

  I hadn’t asked Isobel how exactly we were going to exit the area, but I guess I’d know soon enough once she received confirmation from whoever was running this op. If Callahan was in on the strategy I figured he’d have a close eye on things, but I had no doubts that SIS’s involvement would run smoothly enough. They had years of experience running personnel around the Middle East, and they’d know all the wrinkles. For now it was sit and wait and watch the horizon.

  After a while I began to pick up a distant droning sound off to the east. Was that a helicopter or a ground-based vehicle? It was too faint to tell. I couldn’t see any lights but there was a lot of dead ground out there with hills to blank them out. If trouble was coming it could be ten miles off or just over the next piece of mountainside. Night-time plays havoc with sound, spreading it like jam on bread. You know a sound is there but precision is not an option until the source gets closer and identifiable.

  Leave it too late and it could be right on top of you before you know it.

  I heard another noise, this one much closer among the trees. Somebody was moving, the soft scrape of a careless footfall, a foot nudging a rock, a shuffling sound cut off suddenly by a hiss. I eased off the safety and waited. If the person knew we were here they had an advantage. The question was, how many were out there and were we already surrounded?

  Then a figure appeared out of the blackness walking across my front about eighty yards off but not looking my way. I had the gun up ready to squeeze off a couple of shots when I hesitated. Whoever it was had come dressed in sombre clothing, the detail almost swallowed up by the night, yet pale enough to show a vague outline.

  Not military, that was all I could tell. But not every military force in this area dressed the part. The man was carrying something out in front of him – was that a rifle, pointing at the ground? I lifted the gun again, ready to take him out if he turned my way. But he didn’t. He just continued moving, something about his gait telling me it was a man, tall and rangy, floating steadily across the ground as if he were on wheels, but careful of where he was treading.

  Then I realized the rifle was actually a heavy stick, and he was probing the path in front of him, testing for holes and obstacles. He was followed closely by another figure and another, a line of similar shapes, all treading in his footsteps. But these later ones moved differently, and I realized they were mostly women, some with smaller ones that had to be children.

  Nobody spoke, nobody looked our way. Some of the female shapes carried small bundles slung across their fronts and I guessed these were babies. But they made no sound, either, silenced by some deep-seated instinct for survival. It was like watching a silent tableaux of spirits walking by, there but somehow disconnected from the world Isobel and I were in; the living passing from one world into the next.

  They moved on what was plainly a predetermined path, treading with care as if stepping through a minefield, yet unable to alter course because they’d consigned their fate to whichever god they favoured and the man out front.

  The line finally began to thin out and ended with a short gap and an elderly figure scurrying along to keep up, turning occasionally to look behind, the nominated back-marker with the unenviable task of making sure he spotted trouble before it came rampaging out of the gloom to engulf them.

  ‘You’ve not seen this before?’ Isobel had moved silently up the hill to join me, wary of spooking the people in the trees.

  ‘Plenty. But not like this, at night.’

  ‘They’re Syrians. They’ll have crossed the border just east of here, guided by smugglers. The man in the lead will take them only so far, then tell them to keep going west before ducking out and leaving them to their own devices. We should get back to the car in case they’re spotted by the border patrols. That many people will be leaving a big heat signature.’

  We slipped away and moved back down the slope to the car, and sat down to wait for daylight and keep our eyes and ears open.

  SIXTEEN

  We were woken before first light by the roar of large engines passing close overhead. It had grown too cold to stay outside during the night so we’d climbed into the jeep and settled down for a restless sleep on the Suzuki’s utilitarian seats. It wasn’t the best place from which to keep watch, but we hadn’t got much choice.

  The helicopter was moving slightly north of our position, its downdraft fanning the foliage of the olive trees and kicking up a swirl of dust and dried leaves from the ground. I figured it was down to a couple of hundred feet, but not quite close enough to leave us exposed. But that could change in an instant if he took a chance on coming any lower.

  I peered up and for a moment saw the vague silhouette of what looked like an Agusta against the sky. I didn’t like the look of that; the local forces had Agusta machines along with a few other models, and a beast that size wasn’t something you hired by the day if you were on a private hunting trip.

  As it moved towards the upper slopes I wondered if it was carrying border guards searching for the group of ghostly individuals who’d passed us during the night. If so I felt sorry for them; they’d come so far and were now about to be corralled and herded into a camp somewhere before being processed, their journey cut short and their future even more uncertain.

  Then the Agusta dipped its nose and slowed to a hover, setting up a dust storm further up the slope. There were trees all around and I wondered what they were doing. I soon had my answer: coils of ropes dropped to the ground from the fuselage, followed by black figures rappelling down. Their silhouettes were etched momentarily against the sky along with the assault rifles on their backs, and the speed with which they moved showed this was no first-time thing or a training exercise. The pilot had all along been scouting a clear location where he could drop the men.

  Just to be sure, I said, ‘Did your people say what they were sending to pull us out?’ I had to shout because of the engine noise, but I knew they would never hear me. I was sure Isobel’s people wouldn’t send anything so large or obvious, especially in this region. Exfils or extractions in hostile areas are supposed to be as unobtrusive as you can make them and often carried out at speed and with the ability to drop out of sight if necessary. Sending in what amounted to a gunship was altogether too big a toy to join the party and would eventually draw the attention of someone who was paid to do something about it.

  Isobel shook her head. ‘Nothing that big. A scout, maybe, like a Gazelle. It’s billed as an aid mission flight – and that’s definitely not it.’

  It was all I needed to know. If it wasn’t our ride it had to be Lebanese government forces, Hezbollah … or someone else in the region with some muscle and the freedom to go wherever they pleased and frighten the neighbours.

  ‘Come on – let’s go,’ I said. We grabbed our bags and moved down the slope among the trees. I immediately felt exposed, which was always the case when under the spotlight of an air search, and hoped that the pilot and men who’d rappelled to the ground were looking the other way.

  Whichever. If they were searching for us, how the hell had they got onto our location? And what did they want?

  That thought was made violently redundant as a long volley of gunfire lit up the area behind us like a fi
rework display, adding to the clatter of the helicopter’s engines to further shatter the early dawn. I risked a quick glance back. The flashes of gunfire were coming from all around the area where we had been sitting moments ago. The attackers weren’t taking any chances and were going in full bore, a scorched earth approach to get the job done and dusted.

  The battering of the combined assault seemed to shake the ground and trees and any birds that hadn’t already flown out of their roosts took off and looped frantically away to the south, while rabbits and other ground-based mammals ran frantically from almost under our feet in a desperate attempt to get away.

  Trying to run in half-light among trees with low branches and over rough ground is not easy. Especially with thoughts that those following you might be using night-vision glasses or thermal imaging equipment to pick up heat sources. I had no idea what the helicopter might be equipped with, but instinct told me that if they were using machine guns they probably had some high-tech equipment on board as well. Staying where we were would not end well.

  I ran alongside Isobel, who moved with surprising ease to begin with. But she quickly began to flag after stumbling two or three times over hollows in the ground and half-buried tree roots. I grabbed her bag so she could focus on keeping her balance, and we made good progress down the slope towards where she had indicated we would be picked up.

  Eventually, as I knew we would, we reached the edge of the olive grove and the track we’d followed up here. We were forced to stop. Moving out of here now would be suicidal.

  I turned and looked north. The gunfire had ceased and the helicopter had disappeared from sight behind the trees, reducing the engine to a muffled roar. My guess was they were putting down more men to see the results of the shooting and conduct a ground search if they didn’t like the results.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Isobel gasped, out of breath. She was crouched down on one knee, a hand on her chest as she tried to draw in her breath in great whooping gasps. Eventually she coughed and got back to normal. ‘How did they get here? And who the hell are they?’

  ‘Beats me. Can you get in touch with your controller? If our ride arrives now they’ll be in trouble.’ I didn’t like to think of what would happen, but instinct told me that if the people in the Agusta were happy to drill the local countryside with machine-gun fire, they wouldn’t think twice about taking out anyone they considered a threat, including another helicopter intruding on their party. Shoot first, ask questions later was a common maxim in this part of the world.

  Isobel dialled up and waited, then asked the question, explaining in the briefest terms what our problem was. I didn’t hear the other side of the conversation but it didn’t sound good, and she closed the connection and looked at me.

  ‘We’re too late to stop them,’ she said. ‘Our ride is already on his way in from the west. They’ll try to warn him but radio contact is patchy.’ She pointed down the slope to an area the size of a small football pitch surround by a few olive trees. ‘We need to be down there otherwise he’ll never see us among these trees.’

  And coming up here to find us would be too risky. I hoped the pilot had balls because if he spotted the Agusta or his controller got through to him to let him know the dangers, he’d need them. We couldn’t wait here, that much was obvious. But getting down to the area Isobel had pointed out was across open ground with virtually nil cover, and for us, just as dangerous.

  A muffled explosion came from up the slope behind us. Right where we’d left the Suzuki. It wouldn’t take much searching to reveal that there were no bodies inside or anywhere nearby, and the crew of the Agusta would start spreading their search net much wider.

  It was do or die. ‘Come on,’ I said, slinging Isobel’s rucksack over my shoulder and grabbing her hand. ‘This time we walk, but get ready to drop when I say and lie very still.’ In uncertain light and this terrain our pale clothes might help us blend in against the earth and dried grass.

  We walked quickly, staying low. I kept a weather eye on the area behind us, waiting for the tell-tale roar of the overcharged twin engines getting the Agusta off the ground. I knew we had a little time but the trek to the trees seemed to take way too long.

  Suddenly another shape appeared coming from the west. It was skimming the ground, a giant dragonfly with a splash of early sun flaring off the glass of the cabin. It began drifting our way across the open ground, skirting a clump of trees with almost elegant ease. Then the pilot spotted us and headed our way, dropping to near ground-level. I hoped he’d been warned about the Agusta and that he was going to hold his nerve long enough to get us on board.

  I put on speed, dragging and half-carrying Isobel with me, and we stumbled over the dry grass as the Gazelle skimmed the earth. The moment the skids touched down the side door flipped open and the pilot was gesturing for us to get inside double-quick.

  He gestured to us to put on our seatbelts, then faced forward and hit the gas, lifting off with a gut-wrenching turn back down the slope, hugging the ground all the way and flying through the occasional gap between the olive trees in a way that had Isobel yelling and clutching her seat. Not that I was enjoying it; I’d been in this situation before – and worse – but I was resigned to the fact that being this close to a crash landing was something I’d never get used to.

  The pilot glanced back at me and tapped his flying helmet. I looked round but all I could see was two sets of earphones in a netting pocket. I put on one set and handed the other set to Isobel. She nodded, looking slightly green, and dropped them in her lap.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ the pilot said with amazing calm. He sounded young and British. ‘I’m Max. I normally go through a pre-flight check to welcome people aboard, but I sensed we didn’t have time for that. You two OK?’ I caught him looking back at us and showing some teeth in a grin. Damn, he looked about eighteen and just out of school. If he was wondering what we’d been doing down on the ground he wasn’t asking any questions.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I said. ‘You saw the Agusta?’

  ‘I saw the smoke from a fire. Looked a bit serious. I was told to expect hostiles. Are they local forces?’

  ‘Not sure but I doubt it. Can you outrun them?’

  ‘On paper, yes. There’s not that much in it, but we should be all right – as long as they don’t follow us across country.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I have to make a stop to deliver the meds on the seat or I’ll be in trouble with the local ATC. They get a bit serious if we go off-plan.’

  I looked across from me where a small stack of cardboard boxes was strapped to one of the other seats, and remembered Isobel mentioning that he’d come in under the guise of a humanitarian run to one of the camps in the area. If he was having to make a genuine delivery I couldn’t see what the guise was, but I guess they had to play the game here or pay the consequences.

  ‘You do what you have to,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘No prob. It’s about forty miles north-west of here so I hope we can lose them on the way. If they have an overflight agreement they’ll be able to follow us in. That might be problematic but we’ll see how it goes.’

  Problematic? It was a hell of a word for what could be the end of this trip. If the people in the Agusta were a Lebanese or Hezbollah security group they had already demonstrated a willingness to open fire on a vehicle in poor light without checking first who might be in it. They certainly wouldn’t be too concerned about going on the offensive near a crowd of Syrian refugees.

  For now all they had to do was sit on our tail and keep us in sight, and they’d catch us as we slowed ready to land. I kept my eye on our rear but I couldn’t see any signs of pursuit.

  Max seemed unconcerned. ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride. I’ll let you know if there’s a change of plan.’

  ‘Good point,’ I said. ‘What is the plan?’ I looked at Isobel but she hadn’t put on her earphones and looked about ready to throw up.

  ‘I have ins
tructions to get you to Akrotiri in Cyprus. Beyond that it’s not my place to know.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Another meeting, this one called at short notice, and another round of faces. Brian Callahan took a seat in one of the sub-level rooms in the CIA Langley Headquarters and wondered what was in the wind. He hoped it would be some planned reaction to the attempt on Portman’s life, but somehow he doubted it. There seemed to be a lack of movement on that score, which he couldn’t understand but was hoping this meeting would explain.

  He felt the urge to get up and run back to his desk. Having Portman and Hunt out there and under the hammer from God knew who was making him impatient and jumpy, and a meeting like this was wasting his time and taking his eye off efforts to get things resolved. But orders were orders. He gritted his teeth and checked out the faces in the room.

  Ten or so bodies, some he knew, at least three he did not. He sighed inwardly. It was pointless asking who they were because it was unlikely he’d be told. Some, he was sure, were people who would soon learn about certain activities of the CIA when all good sense suggested they should not. Head of these, he decided, was a man just taking a chair at the end of the table nearest the door.

  Walter M. Broderick, Deputy Assistant Secretary and at least two rungs beneath the current US Secretary of State, was smooth, coiffed and wore his expensive imported suit as if he’d been born in it. Good suits were a common enough cloak of armour in Washington’s political circles, where wealth was on a par with substance and often higher than ability, but this one came across as a little ostentatious in the secretive surroundings of Langley, where affectation was frowned upon as a matter of instinct and training.