A Hostile State Page 4

  The RV point on the digital map was the grandly-named Mansion Café & Restaurant close to the centre of town on the Laboueh Road. I had to be there by eleven a.m. the next day, where I would be approached by the nominated local contact, Hunt, whoever he was.

  As I drove off, I hoped there was no significance in the fact that a point shown close to the RV on my map appeared to be the local cemetery.

  SIX

  After many years in the CIA, first as a field officer and latterly as a controller running officers and agents, Brian Callahan recognized a serious problem when he saw one. Having an asset under fire wasn’t exactly new; it went with the job, although thankfully, it didn’t happen as often as some people thought. But place a man or woman in a hostile territory and there was always a possibility of them running into trouble.

  Yet this was different. Marc Portman was different. He’d had his share of hot contacts, although he’d always managed to deal with them and come out relatively unscathed. What was unusual was that he’d run into a problem not long after arriving in-country, and worse, in a location where trouble should not have been waiting. Furthermore, if Portman was correct and the shooters were Russian, that brought in a whole new dimension of trouble.

  He reached for the phone and set about following protocol, which meant informing the tight circle of people who needed to know what had happened, and the action to be taken. Top of the list was Senior Assistant Director, Jason Sewell. Experienced in the field of espionage and high-risk operations, Sewell had been a popular choice for the post among field officers and support workers alike, and liked to cut through the interdepartmental bullshit that often got in the way of operational expediency.

  Following Sewell’s advice he contacted a handful of others, who all set about doing their bit to plan for recovering the situation in Lebanon and getting Portman out from the country as quickly and as smoothly as possible.

  Last on the list was Lindsay Citera, one of his communications support staff. She had worked with Portman on some high-risk assignments and they had proved to be an effective team. She hadn’t been available for his current job in Lebanon, but that would have to change; if there was a problem getting Portman to safety and working out what had happened, he’d need a comms officer he knew and trusted.

  Citera arrived a couple of minutes later, and sat down in front of him. She was slim, neat, with honey-blonde hair cut in a bob, and the direct gaze of someone with great inner confidence. She’d fitted in amazingly well to the often claustrophobic and intense atmosphere of mission-led comms, proving herself adept at soaking up a high degree of concentrated effort dealing with the complexities of video, wire and screen while absorbing report details and feeding background research to officers and assets on the move.

  ‘This is just a briefing at this stage,’ he told her. ‘I know you’ve been tied up recently on other work, but I want you to be ready in case you’re needed at short notice.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  He explained in outline about Portman’s latest mission and the problem he faced. He kept it simple, the specific details of what had happened unnecessary at this stage. The fact that Portman had to leave the area with his mission aborted was sufficient for now. Painting a lurid picture with all the details of the attack would only serve to cloud the issue and wouldn’t help accomplish what was uppermost in his mind: getting their man out to an area of safety.

  ‘What can I do to help, sir?’ she asked when he stopped speaking.

  He smiled. As he’d expected, there were no unnecessary questions at this stage, no fuss or panic; she was ready to go, just as he’d suspected she would be. The realization gave him some comfort. In the next few hours or days he was likely to be stretched more than usual, especially getting Portman out of the country as well as dealing with the who and why of what had happened and who was responsible.

  At least having someone like Lindsay involved, possessed of a clear mind and a strong desire to succeed, would be key to getting it done well and done fast.

  Lindsay listened carefully. She was experienced enough to know that mission-fail was always a possibility. Whether by accident of location or events, by design on the part of the opposition, or simply bad luck, it was an ever-present shadow over the seemingly simplest of assignments. If the worst happened, it required maximum effort to rescue the agent in danger.

  In doing so they had to cover the agent’s tracks out to prevent the opposition following a lead back up the line and rolling up handlers, controllers and any other assets or sources that might have been involved in the operation. She, like any others involved in this, would have to be on top of her game if called on.

  But having Marc Portman at the centre of the problem added another dimension. She had worked with him before, always remotely but in a way that had brought a closeness unlike any other. Directing movements to someone in the field, especially someone in danger, couldn’t always be done with complete detachment. Every word, every comment focussed down the line carried an element that was intensely close, as if sharing every footstep, every move and every threat.

  But snipers? The word kept coming back to her with a chilling feel that made her neck itch. Theirs was not an either-or situation, she knew that much; they weren’t sent out to take prisoners or ask questions; they did not move in the open, in suits and shirts; they worked in isolation, stalking their targets. They had a simple task with no second-guessing.

  Snipers killed people; it was what they were trained for.

  SEVEN

  Isobel Hunt was feeling queasy. A mixture of heavy traffic fumes, choking dust, a nearby open sewer threatening to bubble over into the street with horrific consequences, all presented a perfect storm of horror; and that was without the pain in her leg following a one-sided kicking match with a frenzied male camel three days ago. She was heavily sedated with painkillers but they hadn’t been created with the backstreets of Aarsal, in northern Lebanon, in mind, nor the demands of her employers, who had insisted she get up and out no matter what the cost in discomfort.

  Still, it could have been worse; the fucking camel might easily have broken her leg or bitten her which, according to the local doctor who had treated her, could have caused a maxillofacial injury, whatever the hell that was, leading to a fatal infection if not treated. She hadn’t wanted to know the grim details; her leg was so painful she couldn’t focus for more than a few seconds without feeling nauseous and just wanted to get out of there.

  ‘It is quite common,’ he’d continued gravely, his dark eyes serious, ‘especially during the mating season. The wise thing to do is stay away from them and leave them to the tourists.’ His gaze was steady. ‘You, however, are not a tourist, I think.’ The almost-question was one she’d heard before; it could be interpreted as anything from suspicion to plain curiosity.

  She was careful about her answer. Most doctors were keen to tread the middle line in political and religious matters, but she was aware that some leaned more towards the ruling groups than others, if only to avoid being dragged into anything that might threaten their livelihoods.

  ‘No,’ she’d agreed, and left it at that. ‘I’m not.’

  She was, in fact an employee of Her Majesty’s Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office in London, although she didn’t tell him that. Beneath that overriding official umbrella, she worked for MI6 as a field operative, using the cover of a worker for various aid agencies in the region. The position allowed her to move around gathering information on local politicians, police, military and tribal factions, while also offering logistical support for colleagues whenever needed. Any information she picked up was passed back to her employers in London, but thus far there had been no demand for logistical support.

  But evidently all that had changed a few minutes ago with the receipt of a text message couched in innocuous terms about her Uncle William’s need for an urgent visit. Decoded into plain language it was direct and unmistakable.

  Get out. Now.<
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  She made a brief phone call, then took a last look around the small office which had been her base for the past six months. She wondered what lucky soul would be the next occupant. It contained a desk, a bookcase, a little-used filing cabinet and a desktop computer holding a raft of harmless information and emails about aid budgets, storage depots, refugee numbers and various proposals and requests for food, medical supplies and emergency facilities. The factual information was real, but most of the communications were fictitious, composed and regularly updated by Isobel and her handlers back in London just on the off-chance the office might one day be raided.

  Placing a brown paper bag in her rucksack, she locked the door, hoping that whoever came to clear out the few personal effects she’d left behind would send them on quickly, if they bothered at all. She brushed a hand over the plastic sign on the outside wall. It indicated to the casual gaze that the building housed the regional representative for Accor, short for Action Coordination International, a non-governmental agency working on behalf of numerous charitable and non-governmental organizations through the continent.

  In reality Isobel was the sole employee and anyone contacting the listed telephone or email address would find themselves communicating with a cheerfully helpful operator whose job it was to promise help while offering nothing immediately save a call from their local representative. It was a useful circular kiss-chase system but was usually enough to put them off taking their enquiries any further.

  Combined with the orders to leave with all haste, she had received an immediate follow-up instruction to scoop up an asset in difficulty – AID in insider-speak – and get them both to a safe-house ready for onward extraction. The fact that the asset was an American called Watchman was beside the point. These days nationality was no barrier to working for MI6, and her duty was to obey. In any case, after the camel incident she had become disenchanted with this posting so she wasn’t about to argue.

  She knew nothing about Watchman nor what he was doing here, and it wasn’t her place to ask. That he’d probably got what his countrymen referred to as his ass in a sling was a risk they all took. All she had to do was meet him – she guessed the code name denoted his gender although these days that point was fairly moot – and get them both on the fast road out of town.

  Not for the first time she reminded herself that she should have been more careful about what she wished for. Meeting up with clandestine operators, which she guessed Watchman must be, was always akin to playing with fire. She could hardly blame anyone but herself, as she had known full well what she was signing up for when she took this posting.

  Three years ago she had been swept up in a personnel cull deemed ‘surplus to requirements’ and forced to leave her research and support role in MI6, where the most dangerous task each day was replacing the paper and toner cartridges in the office printers.

  With no family, pets or interest in growing old gracefully, she had soon become bored to death and in need of some outside stimulus. Having said as much to a former Service colleague in a catch-up lunch, she had been surprised to be called in for an interview, then accepted and sent on a number of short but intensive training courses. Her age and appearance, it seemed, had suddenly been seen as an advantage by controllers in the Service.

  ‘It has to be said, you don’t fit the usual profile of a clandestine operative,’ one of the field controllers who’d interviewed her had said, lifting a hand to count off points on his fingers. He had the lined, leathered face of someone who had spent too much time in the tropics or had worked in too many stressful situations over the years. But he had a nice voice and sounded kind. ‘You’re of mature years, you look like someone’s favourite granny and you don’t look as if you’ve ever seen a weapon or a covert camera, let along handled one.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ She’d taken it as a compliment while wondering when the signal to end the interview would come. Suddenly, faced with this warrior lookalike, the thought of going back to an uneventful life seemed an even worse option.

  ‘I like to say it as I see it,’ he’d replied simply. If he’d thought HR might haul him into a retraining session for such a derogatory, sexist and demeaning statement, he didn’t look as if he cared much. Instead he gave Isobel a blank stare before allowing a hint of a smile to touch his lips. ‘You should do fine. I’m told you have a reputation for getting things done and have requested something challenging. Frankly I can’t decide whether the people who decided to use you in this role are geniuses or morons. Let’s hope you’ll prove them the former, shall we?’

  And here she was, re-suited and re-booted, as one of her instructors at the training base on the south coast of England had said, and ready to go forth to her next posting to do whatever was needed in the name of freedom, democracy and the Crown.

  She ignored her small car, parked in the shadow of the building she had just left, and scanned her surroundings before ducking into a narrow alleyway which cut through to the next street. She was pretty sure she wasn’t being followed, but the local security police were not above making random checks just for the hell of it to annoy foreigners, even older individuals like herself, working on behalf of aid organizations in the region.

  What they might think a woman of late middle years with a gammy leg might get up to was anyone’s guess, but you had to give them points for optimism. The poor buggers probably weren’t paid much and liked to enhance their earnings with the occasional bribe. But so far she’d been lucky not to encounter more than the odd tickle for the sake of appearances.

  Waving down a passing cab, a dusty and battered Mercedes, she climbed into the rear and gave the driver directions. Alongside him sat an older woman in black, who might have been his mother, and who talked at him non-stop without acknowledging Isobel’s presence.

  It was hotter than usual in the car, and if the air-con was working it was merely stirring the warm air like invisible soup. She was glad she’d decided to wear light clothes; anything heavier would have been unbearable. She’d had to leave her ordinary travel clothes behind, the bug-out order meaning just that: don’t stop to pack, it will slow you down and they’ll know you’re leaving. Walk out as if you’re going shopping and don’t look back.

  The ‘they’ could only mean the local security police or whoever had put eyes on her. She wasn’t about to argue; she valued her safety more than a few items of personal effects and they could always be replaced.

  After a few minutes the driver pulled up at a pedestrian-infested corner where another elderly woman was waiting with her arm out. Amid an impatient cacophony of horns from other drivers, the woman took her time clambering in alongside Isobel, but instead of a greeting, raised the volume by joining in the conversation up front. Isobel didn’t mind; cab-sharing had been a surprise discovery during her first week here, and something she had got used to, especially when the late joiners managed to hop out leaving the white woman to pay the fare.

  The controllers in London HQ would have regarded this shared space as a potential security breach, but here it proved a useful source of cover during her trips around the city. A single European woman in a cab might attract attention from the authorities; two, even three women of different nationalities and ethnicity were less likely to do so. The local sisterhood system, apparently, was in fine working order.

  She settled back to see out the ride, aware that this was probably the last time she would set eyes on these streets. Bugging out like this hadn’t been on the cards but neither had meeting an unknown American in the coffee shop RV she had nominated when asked by London. It made her wonder why she was also being told to get out, and hoped they were unconnected. Maybe someone higher up the ladder had got the jitters and decided to clear out whatever personnel were in the area as a matter of caution.

  A volley of car horns made her check the street behind. A black car with a whip aerial had forced its way into the line of cars and was holding station three vehicles back. As they slowed to turn a corner past a
mosque she caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the front passenger seat. It was a police sergeant from the local station. Ali something-or-other, a man who seemed to view all foreigners as enemies of the state.

  She turned to face the front, and caught the eye of the cab driver in the mirror. He gave the barest shake of his head, which she took as a clear indication that he’d also spotted the police car and that she should not do anything to arouse their suspicion.

  She asked the driver to drop her off three blocks away from the RV and walked a circular route, eyeing her back-trail and stopping occasionally to pick up small items of shopping. The police car stayed on her for several minutes, before peeling off and disappearing at speed.

  She continued as before, knowing that if she was under surveillance it would help to give off the impression that the last thing she was about to do was to go on the run.

  As a European, even one of a certain age, she knew that she was bound to be on somebody’s watch list simply because that was the way of the world here. Complaining about it or trying to plead discrimination would get her nowhere, even from her overtly friendly local police chief, whom she made sure she bumped into occasionally to brief him on her aid-related work. That revelation alone, while back in London for a briefing session, had drawn a sharp intake of breath from Iain Jacobsen, her young office-based deputy field controller.

  ‘That’s idiotically risky and against all the rules of the game,’ he reminded her sternly, like a headmaster talking to an errant pupil. ‘You do not approach the security authorities under any circumstances because that instantly puts you under the spotlight.’