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  ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ The next man was seated sideways on, looking at nobody in particular, his mouth pursed tight. His name was Marcus Kempner, and he was the State Department’s representative. He had good reason to look uncomfortable; this was his first time in the rarefied atmosphere of the CIA Operations Suite and he was carrying a lot of the responsibility for what was currently unfolding with Edwin Travis. He wore a slightly patrician air that many found irritating, and liked to talk of his interest in arts and culture to hide a lack of social ease.

  ‘Pardon me?’ Callahan looked surprised by the comment.

  ‘This was a high-risk but extremely worthy venture – but we had to try. We can’t have anything coming out of the woodwork that might suggest that it was actually some sort of CIA spying mission. There’s more than just one man’s safety at risk here.’

  ‘The Geneva end is not a problem, sir. We’ve used it before. They have a genuine plate on an office along the Rue du Hesse and are absolutely secure. I hope I can say the same about other aspects of this “mission”.

  ‘What are you trying to suggest, Mr Callahan?’ Kempner blinked rapidly. He wasn’t accustomed to being confronted by lowly members of the espionage community, who usually kept their heads down and left it to senior people to do the infighting.

  ‘With respect, sir,’ Callahan continued calmly, ‘you specifically allowed us little to do with Travis’s mission logistics other than providing some background information and suggesting he use the CICC cover. That has stood up as we believed it would.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Jason Sewell raised a placatory hand. ‘Please. We don’t have time.’ He glanced at Kempner and added, ‘I’m sorry, Marcus, but Callahan’s right; your people put this thing together with minimum input from us. Travis was up and off before we could fully evaluate the situation. Now you want our help to get him out of a jam, which we’re happy to provide, of course.’

  Kempner looked as if he were about to protest at this quiet reproof, but changed his mind and sat back in his chair. Making enemies with senior CIA personnel wasn’t a good idea, especially when asking for their help.

  Howard Benson cleared his throat, bringing further discussion to a halt. Dressed in a conservative suit and college tie, he looked exactly what he was: old money and old family. But behind the façade lay the sharp teeth and ambition of a modern-day bureaucrat and political in-fighter. ‘How many people are involved in getting to Travis?’ Benson asked softly.

  ‘One man, sir. As soon as he’s in place we’ll get things moving.’

  ‘One? That’s a hell of a task, even for your Specialized Skills Officers. I’d have thought you’d commit a team, at least.’

  Callahan hesitated. In spite of his elevated clearance level, Benson was pushing into territory that was not his. The SSOs were paramilitary members of the Agency, recruited mostly from former special forces personnel such as Delta and Seal Team 6, and were responsible for security operations in hazardous areas. They were considered the best of the best at what they did. ‘Sir, the situation on the ground is unpredictable. The entire region is falling apart and is under close scrutiny from the media and local intelligence and security agencies. I decided a contractor would be our best and safest option in case of any fall-out.’

  Benson frowned. ‘You’re using an outsider?’ The words were icy in tone, reminding everyone of the senator’s oft-quoted opposition to private military contractors and security groups. He had shown no hesitation for several years now in condemning their use, especially in connection with ‘black flight’ exercises, or rendition, as it was popularly known, and the rumoured torture of insurgents and suspected terrorists.

  Callahan took a breath and glanced at Assistant Director Sewell, who merely nodded to show he would support Callahan’s response. He’d known this was going to happen. The CIA used sub-contractors all the time and always had. But there was still an innate knee-jerk reaction against them, as if it were a criticism of CIA ability. And for a sceptic like Benson, any stick with which to beat the Agency would do.

  ‘I considered it prudent, sir. We needed a clean pair of hands so that there are no links back to us. However, the main reason I chose him was because he has an unparalleled record and this work is what he does best.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘His code name is Watchman.’

  ‘His real name.’

  ‘That’s something I’d prefer not to go into.’ He felt the air crackle with tension the moment the words came out. He’d just as good as told a man with the highest degree of security clearance possible to mind his own business. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t mean to be impertinent.’

  ‘I’ll take that as read. So why bring him on board?’

  ‘Because from what Mr Kempner’s State Department colleagues outlined in the briefing for this mission, and knowing what we now know about Travis’s situation, I believe there’s a real and credible risk to him and the outcome of this venture. I have to do whatever I can to protect both.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Kempner stirred reluctantly. ‘This mission is not some half-hearted fool’s errand hoping to get lucky. We went into it knowing the risks. What’s going on in Eastern Europe right now is not a whole lot different to the Arab Spring of a few years ago. It’s about power and influence and we can’t sit idly by and hope for the best. But getting the embassy involved is not an option.’

  ‘I agree. But don’t you have a “friend” in the new president? Couldn’t he help?’

  ‘That rumour is without foundation, Senator. President Poroshenko has never been an agent of the State Department, whatever WikiLeaks might say to the contrary. In any case, we wanted to engage with all parties. If Putin continues on what we believe is his intended course, he’s going to destabilize more and more of the previously Soviet states and grab more control in the region. If we can make contact with those independents early and keep them on-side, we might make his work a little harder.’ He winced. ‘That appears to have gone a little sour. But getting Travis out and back in one piece will go a long way to showing we won’t be messed with.’

  It was an uncommonly long speech for anyone in this room, where orders were issued, information relayed and results passed on in usually quiet, measured tones that rarely lasted longer than a few words. But it was a measure of the speaker’s status that nobody ventured to disagree or haul him in.

  ‘It’s a mess, alright,’ said Assistant Director Sewell. He was studying a large map of central Europe and the Middle East on one wall.

  ‘To be honest, it’s a little late for Ukraine.’ Kempner followed his look. ‘That scenario was becoming divided before we were aware of it. We’re hoping not to have the same thing happen with the others, which is why we decided to engage with them.’

  Sewell looked at him, and it was clear he was trying to identify if there was any subtle criticism in the statement. ‘We assessed the situation in Ukraine as best we could but the picture was clouded.’ His jaw was tense and he looked ready for a fight.

  ‘We know that, Jason.’ This time it was Benson’s turn to smooth ruffled feathers. ‘Nobody’s disputing it. As I understand it, the point of this exercise with Travis was to get inside the region and make contacts, yes?’ He looked at Kempner, who nodded. ‘Then it’s a lesson learned for future exercises, I think we all agree.’ He shifted in his chair and looked at Callahan. ‘How does this man of yours get in touch with Travis?’

  ‘He doesn’t, not directly. If things go right Travis exits the hotel where he’s being held and he’ll be picked up and passed along a line of cut-outs until he’s home and clear. He won’t even know about Watchman’s involvement. That’s Watchman’s specialty; he works at a distance and clears the way. If any danger arises he deals with it.’

  ‘He’s done this kind of work before, you say?’ There was a slight hesitation on the word ‘work’, as if Benson had difficulty getting it out without spitting.

  ‘Correct.’
>
  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For us, the DEA, the Defence Intelligence Agency, and the UK’s MI6. I can’t go into details but he was also responsible for pulling an important CIA asset out of Tehran just a few days ago. He did that from right under the noses of their Ministry of Intelligence and National Security. The asset had gone in to secure details of new weapons development by the Iranians.’

  ‘And how did that go?’

  ‘It didn’t,’ Sewell replied. ‘The asset was blown by a friend. But at least we got him out alive.’

  ‘What’s this Watchman’s background? How much money are we throwing at him?’

  ‘I can’t go into that, sir. Sorry.’

  Benson threw Sewell a look loaded with meaning. ‘You see, that’s what I don’t like about these operations. But we’ll discuss that later. When does Watchma— Who the hell thinks of these names?’ He puffed his lips with a tinge of exasperation. ‘When does he report in?’

  ‘When he’s ready and it’s safe to do so,’ Callahan replied. ‘It’s the way he works.’

  ‘So that’s it? We sit and wait on the convenience of a hired gun?’

  ‘We have to. Where he’s going there won’t be one-hundred per cent reliable cell coverage due to extensive electronic disruption. In between that, outgoing signals are easy to pick up by Russian monitoring stations. He will call.’

  ‘Let’s hope he does.’ Benson glanced at Sewell before getting to his feet. ‘I have to say, I don’t like the sound of this operation. But since it’s already up and running, there’s not much I can do about it. As soon as the ball is rolling I’d like a tour of the facility to see the nuts and bolts of how you’re going to work with this man.’ He didn’t wait for assent, but looked hard at Callahan. ‘It had better be good, because if your contractor gets picked up and blown, believe me, your career path will follow very close behind.’

  If it was meant as a joke, nobody was laughing.

  SEVEN

  Entering a potentially hostile country can be accomplished in a number of ways. You can go in under the badge of an official or accredited body, such as government, trade mission, approved NGO – a non-governmental organization – or, if allowed, a member of the media. Or you can use whatever independent routes or means might be available that require a visa and a business plan. Since Callahan had told me an official badge was out of the question, and media personnel were already getting the run-around because of the deteriorating political situation, I was having to be inventive.

  I’d flown in to Ukraine’s Sergey Prokofiev International Airport at Donetsk late in the afternoon on papers supplied by Callahan. I was of mixed Polish/German parentage from a small German town near Cottbus on the border, and was looking for building work and possibly setting up a small business. Although I wasn’t planning on going to any meetings, I’d had Callahan’s people make a couple of appointments beforehand with the local department of trade and chamber of commerce. With everything else going on in the country, I figured they would soon forget all about me, and by the time someone realized I hadn’t shown up, I fully expected to be on my way out of the country.

  The atmosphere in the airport terminal was tense, with a heavy presence of soldiers and cops around, all heavily armed and looking jumpy. There was a variety of uniforms, some complete and reasonably smart, others with men wearing a combination of combat jackets, jeans and trainers. Anywhere else and they could have been special forces, but these guys had the rumpled look of militia rather than highly trained specialists.

  Given the situation, I wasn’t the only optimistic business traveller entering the country. There was a mix of German and French convention delegates, with a sprinkling of Koreans, and their numbers gave me useful cover until I was certain I hadn’t attracted any official attention. As soon as I could, I broke off and headed for an anonymous hotel close to the airport where I’d made a reservation. I was already dressed for the part, in a dark leather jacket, pants and heavy shoes. I’d sourced them from a German chain store specializing in work casuals, and looked about as invisible as it was possible to get in this part of the world. Just another working stiff edging his way through life.

  Ed Travis was being held at a large hotel half a mile away, within the airport boundary. I’d tried to get a room there, but had been told there were no vacancies ‘for the foreseeable future’. It sounded as if whoever was preventing him leaving had taken over the whole building. Travis was waiting to receive the ‘go’ message as soon as I got myself organized and called in to Langley. At that point the local asset would be given the nod and the rabbit would begin to run.

  I didn’t have much time to spare. I needed to get on the ground and busy, ready to locate and check Travis’s surroundings and follow his progress. With all the military activity in the area, that wasn’t going to be easy. I’d have to run the risk of roadblocks and random stops by militia, but I figured I could talk my way through.

  The first priority was to pick up some wheels. I’d automatically ruled out any of the usual rental agencies. If they weren’t already closed through lack of customers and the risk of not getting their cars back, they soon would be. But that wasn’t my only reason for avoiding them. I didn’t want to risk leaving an electronic trail; hiring a car requires a credit card and a passport or driver’s licence, neither of which I wanted to show unless absolutely forced to. The passport I’d used was good, but I didn’t want to risk placing it under intensive scrutiny. Any experienced immigration officer giving it a thorough scan would eventually find holes in it. The fact was, I was now off the grid and that was the way I wanted to stay.

  I’d picked up the name of a supplier in Donetsk through a contact in Berlin. Max Hengendorff was a go-between for resources; if you needed a weapon, a car or a couple of enforcers, he was your go-to guy. He had connections with certain people among the criminal elite across Europe and knew everybody worth knowing. ‘Ivkanoy in Donetsk,’ he’d said, when I told him where I was headed. ‘He will get you what you need. He’s rough around the edges but I hear good things about him. I’ll give him a call and let you know when and where.’

  ‘Fine,’ I’d replied. ‘Usual rules apply.’

  He’d laughed. ‘Of course. Don’t they always.’ Usual rules meant no names, no questions and no dud deals.

  I’d heard back within the hour, which was why I was now preparing for a meeting in a bar not far from the main railway station.

  I checked my appearance in the room mirror, used some product to muss my hair, then placed a few things in a folding overnight bag and slipped out the rear of the hotel.

  It was getting dark now, and the glow of lights over the city was throwing shadows across the station buildings and surrounding streets. The traffic was light and I was able to move without attracting attention, keeping to the inside of the sidewalk, just another worker on the way home.

  The Dynamo Bar was a medium-sized place with a mix of manual workers and men in shirts and ties, most of them talking about the football, which was being played out on a large screen behind the bar. If the customers had any opinions about the unrest threatening to tear their country apart, they were staying off the subject and focussing on the game.

  I ordered a beer and looked around for the man named Ivkanoy. Max had described him for me in unflattering terms, and I soon spotted him. He was sitting alone at a corner table, a fat man in a rumpled, greasy suit and tie, with a battered briefcase at his feet and a cell phone clamped to one ear. In what was a pretty crowded room he had managed to retain a wide space around him, which told me something about his reputation locally. He looked me over when I signalled that I’d like to sit down, and finished his phone conversation before nodding at a seat. I noticed a few looks coming my way from other men in the bar, and figured this man was well-known but not exactly popular.

  ‘Ivkanoy?’

  He didn’t say anything. I figured he was playing mean and moody because it suited his self-image and he wanted to keep up a front
for the others in the bar. So I mentioned Max in Berlin and reminded him that I’d come for a car.

  He gave me another cautious look, eyes flicking over the cheap clothes, my bag and day-old stubble. I’d been speaking in German-accented Russian and was hoping he didn’t have anything against the old enemy.

  ‘Max? I don’t know a Max. And I’ve never been to Berlin.’ He looked back down at his phone, his whole bearing uninterested. ‘And if you want a car, try the airport. They have lots of them.’

  ‘I prefer to go private,’ I told him. I was puzzled by his attitude and wondered if there was some kind of needle thing going on between him and Max. Or maybe he was suspicious of a set-up and thought I was an undercover cop trying a sting operation. ‘Look, do you want to do business or not? If not, tell me and I’ll go to somebody who does.’

  The straight talking got to him. He adjusted his tie, which looked as if he’d used it to strangle somebody, and waved his cell phone. ‘Hey, calm down. It’s no problem. I need to make a call,’ he said and glanced at his watch. ‘You asked for an “extra”. You know how much, right?’

  The ‘extra’ was a weapon, a semi-automatic. I was going into some dangerous territory with all kinds of militias and unofficial armed groups roaming the streets, and I didn’t feel much like putting myself at a disadvantage from the get-go. A gun was a last resort, but it might just be necessary to get me and Travis back home again in one piece. ‘Max told me how much.’

  I saw the glint of speculation in his eyes. Now I was here the agreed figure wasn’t going to be enough. He knew what he wanted and was going to hold out for it, figuring I would pay up since I didn’t have time to play games. I added thirty per cent to the figure and he nodded, pleased with his bargaining skills. ‘You wait here and I’ll be back.’ He grabbed his briefcase and ambled away towards the front door, a path clearing for him as if by magic. By the time he hit the street, he was on his cell phone.