Close Quarters Read online

  EIGHT

  Twenty minutes later, as I was beginning to think I’d been duped, Ivkanoy appeared in the doorway. He was still carrying his briefcase. He didn’t come all the way in, but clicked his fingers in the air and signalled at me to follow. The way you do things when you want everyone in the place to know you’re the boss.

  What a pro.

  He was moving with a lot more energy now, hustling ahead of me like his feet were on wings. We passed a row of shops, mostly closed for the night or maybe out of business, their owners unable or unwilling to operate in the current climate, and rounded a couple of corners, all without seeing anybody. If the authorities wanted to impose a curfew here, they weren’t exactly going to have their work cut out. Most of the locals were off the streets already.

  We ended up in a narrow, ill-lit street with a dead-end formed by the embankment of a railway line. There was a single vehicle in sight, a Toyota Land Cruiser parked beneath a tree. It looked oddly out of place, and I checked all around me, seeing nothing but darkened windows and deserted doorways. It reminded me of some of the fake city lots I’d been on for close quarters combat training in the military, although if anybody was going to jump out at me, they wouldn’t be cardboard silhouettes. And if any cops were watching, they were staying well back.

  Something didn’t feel right, but maybe it was mission nerves.

  Ivkanoy saw me looking and smirked. ‘No need to worry about police,’ he said, and rubbed his fingers together. Whether it was a nervous reaction or meant he’d paid them off, I wasn’t sure, but I took it to be a good sign – with reservations.

  I walked round the Toyota, checking out the shadows as I went. The vehicle was well-used and looked a dirty red under the poor light. Its life story was easy to read in the tracer-work of dents and scrapes on the body panels and fenders, and a multitude of scratches on the windshield. But it looked ready to go with good tyres and wipers. So far so good.

  ‘What about the extra?’

  ‘In the glove box with a spare clip. Add another fifty per cent, cash,’ Ivkanoy suggested heavily, ‘and I won’t ask you to bring them back.’ He chuckled as he said this and jiggled a key on a plastic fob.

  It was an odd thing to say. A deal was a deal. I looked at him, wondering if he was a joker or just plain greedy. ‘Is the car clean?’ The last thing I needed, travelling with a gun, was for the car to be on a stolen vehicle checklist.

  He shrugged in a take it or leave it kind of way. ‘Why should you care?’

  Then I got it. There was no deal; it was a set-up.

  I heard a shuffle of movement in the shadows to my right. I turned just as a man in a leather jacket stepped out from a narrow gate in a wall a couple of yards away. Even in the shadows I could see he was big and carrying what looked like a sawn-off pool cue in one large fist, and was grinning like he would enjoy using it.

  I heard a click and Ivkanoy had his briefcase open and was taking out a nasty-looking blackjack. I was surprised; it’s pretty old-school as a weapon, and most gang-bangers in the US would laugh at it. It’s basically a leather sack full of lead or sand, but its main advantage is that it’s silent.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ I said, just to keep him off-guard. A talking mark is one who might just give up the game without resisting.

  Ivkanoy dropped the briefcase to one side and held out his empty hand. He wasn’t listening and suddenly he didn’t look quite so tired or rumpled.

  He’d done this before. No doubt the local situation was giving him ample opportunity to screw anyone he could with no come-back guaranteed. With everything else on their plates, the local cops would be too busy to investigate minor crime, and he knew damn well I wasn’t going to make a complaint, anyway. It was win-win for him.

  ‘The money,’ he said. ‘Also your wallet and passport. All of it. You want to go home in one piece, yes?’

  I really didn’t want to get into this. I made a mental note to have a word with Max, maybe pay him a visit when I next got to Berlin. Knowingly or not, he’d served me a dud deal. ‘OK,’ I said, showing my open hand. ‘There’s no need for violence. We can sort this out.’ I was talking to stop them attacking, knowing they would want to do this without having to work too hard. But I was also playing for time and advantage. I took a fold of notes out of my pocket and held them out to him, letting my fingers shake as I did so.

  Ivkanoy saw the movement and grinned. He understood fear; it was part of what he traded in, what made his world go round. I was a mark and he’d got me where he wanted me. Easy money – and he’d probably only need to give me half a beating before letting me go.

  Just as he reached out to grab the notes I dropped them on the ground.

  It caught him flat-footed. He hesitated and looked down. Dumb move – this wasn’t the way it was supposed to play out. Before he could react, I stepped in and slapped him hard enough to spin him like a top and drop him to the ground, the sound of the impact echoing along the street. The blackjack rolled out of his hand and the sound of his head hitting the sidewalk told me he was out of the fight.

  His wingman hadn’t been prepared for this development, either. But he tried. He made a noise deep in his chest and ran at me, the cue raised above his head and no doubt hoping his size would be enough to intimidate me. I gave it half a second then threw my bag in his face, turned away from him and delivered a mule kick. The advantage of such a kick, which is delivered backwards, is that your own danger area – your head – is furthest away from the attacker, and if timed right the extended foot makes contact first – and hard.

  It took him just below the gut, sinking in deep. He squealed once and fell to his knees, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. Surprisingly, he started to get straight back up, whooping for air and clutching his groin, but ready to go. He was clearly made of tougher stuff than his friend and still had hold of the cue. So I scooped up the blackjack and while he was trying to get his other leg to work, tapped him once under the ear. He fell over to one side and I gave him another tap just to make sure. This time he didn’t move.

  I checked his jacket pockets and was surprised to find he’d come weighed down by something heavier than a pool cue. It was a small submachine gun clipped to a chest strap and tucked under his jacket. It looked like an Uzi, but I was betting on a local copy. It was a typical gangster’s scary badge of courage, and I wondered if he’d ever used it or whether it was just for show.

  I unclipped it, along with a spare magazine in a strap, thankful that he’d come out wielding the pool cue and not the gun, otherwise it might have ended differently. Then I went over to Ivkanoy and checked his hand. He was still holding the car key and groaning in pain. As I took the key he looked up at me and made a wild grab at my face.

  I took hold of his hand and knelt on his chest, making the air go out of him like a punctured cushion. Then I grabbed his middle finger, bending it back until I had his full and undivided attention. He stopped moving.

  ‘We had an arrangement,’ I reminded him. ‘You were to supply a car and a weapon and I was to pay you some money. That was a simple enough transaction, right?’

  He didn’t say anything but hawked and tried to spit in my face. Tough guy. So I broke his finger and left him screaming like a girl.

  I climbed in and started the Toyota, then checked the glove box. Empty save for a bunch of sweet wrappers. No extra. But no surprise there; I hadn’t been expected to get this far. I drove away, flicking on the lights and testing the heater and wipers. Overload a car like this right away and any faults in the electrical circuit should show up before going too far. If I was driving a glammed-up wreck I’d need to find an alternative pretty quickly. But it ran sweet enough, so I stopped near a small car park shielded by a line of scrappy bushes and went walk-about. I spotted a small Datsun pretty much the same age as the Toyota and got to work, switching the plates and caking the ones I was leaving on the Datsun with a liberal amount of dirt. With luck the driver wouldn’t notice the switch for some t
ime and I’d have some leeway before I needed to trade the ones I’d taken for a new set.

  Next I needed to hide the submachine gun, which turned out to be a Croatian Ero model. If I ran into a problem, having it out in the open would be inviting trouble. The simplest solution would have been to drop it down a convenient sewer. But that would be like going naked. If Ivkanoy was the kind of man I figured he was, he’d be sorely pissed at having been dumped on his ass with a busted finger, and the chances of meeting up with him or his friends was too high; he’d be on the look-out and I’d need some heavy backup for that eventuality somewhere down the line.

  I also needed to have the gun within easy reach, which left out anywhere on the outside of the vehicle. So I sliced open one of the rear seats and made sure it was tucked away out of sight, then took a drive back out to the airport for a look-see.

  Game on.

  NINE

  A low murmur of voices reached Lindsay Citera over the discreet swish of the air-conditioning in her room deep in the Langley Operations Centre, and she turned away from the notes she’d been making while waiting to hear from Watchman. She automatically checked her desk was clear of unnecessary paperwork. Clutter, she had soon learned, was anathema to the Agency and to be avoided at all costs. And mission notes were the most sacrosanct of material and to be closely guarded at all times.

  She recognized Assistant Director Sewell’s easy tones floating along the corridor. He’d given a welcome speech to her intake on her second day at Langley, and like her new colleagues, she’d been impressed by his easy-going air of authority. She didn’t recognize the other voice, however, which was harsher and more commanding in tone, as if the man was on a public platform rather than in the bowels of the Agency. She heard the word ‘Congress’, and he appeared to be making a point about pushing forward recommendations for the next round of budget talks by the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  She switched off the monitors displaying maps of Ukraine and Moldova, along with a bank of local data she was putting together that might be of use to Watchman, such as military movements, trouble spots, secondary roads and local weather updates. Although she had been given a secure unit inside the ops ‘bubble’, surrounded by other similar rooms and personnel, Callahan had warned her that few of her colleagues would resist the temptation to see what she was working on, and that employees of the Agency were as prone to gossip as anyone on the outside. Being responsible for an information leak through canteen chit-chat wouldn’t go down well on only her second day.

  She resisted the temptation to push the door shut. She felt certain A.D. Sewell wouldn’t be bringing anyone who hadn’t got the highest level of security clearance down here. In any case she’d already left it too late; slamming the door now would make her look guilty.

  The footsteps were close to the door when a soft voice came over the public address system. ‘Assistant Director Sewell, please. Assistant Director Sewell.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Senator – I have to take this. Can you wait here? I’ll be two minutes.’

  ‘Of course. Go ahead.’

  Sewell’s footsteps receded and Lindsay waited for the inevitable. She heard the soft brush of clothing fabric and turned her head.

  The man standing in the doorway was impressively dressed with the groomed air of a senior politician. He was heavily built with greying hair carefully styled and brushed, and his skin bore the tan of the outdoors, as if he had spent time on the water. Probably in a fast yacht off Cape Cod, Lindsay decided.

  ‘Sir?’ she said, and waited. She couldn’t exactly tell him to go away, since Sewell had left him alone down here and that must mean he had the appropriate level of clearance. But actually inviting him in seemed instinctively wrong. She stood up to present a physical barrier just in case.

  ‘At ease, miss,’ the man said, and waved a manicured hand. ‘I haven’t come to steal any secrets. I’m Senator Howard Benson; I’m with the Intelligence Community and sit on more top secret committees than I care to think about.’

  The name was familiar to Lindsay, and she relaxed. Senator Benson was a regular on CNN. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t know.’

  ‘No need to apologize, young lady. Should I call you agent or officer? I never know what terminology people around here like to use these days.’ He smiled, showing a line of perfectly white teeth, and she had the feeling he probably knew exactly what people round here were called. ‘Maybe a first name would be better.’

  ‘It’s Lindsay, sir.’

  ‘Well, Lindsay, it seems we were destined to meet, in any case. Assistant Director Sewell was telling me earlier about you and your current task.’ He looked over her shoulder at the monitors. ‘This is a first for you, I understand?’

  Lindsay blushed under his steady gaze and the knowledge that she had been the subject of conversation between two such high-powered men.

  ‘That’s correct, sir. I’m honoured.’

  Benson moved through the doorway and into the room, his bulk and authority making it impossible for her to stand her ground. She stepped back a pace, checking that there was nothing for him to see.

  He caught her glance and said, ‘Don’t worry, Lindsay, I know what you’re doing here: you’re looking after Watchman. That’s a big responsibility for one so young … and inexperienced.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ She told herself not to read too much into the comment or, worse, in the way he was standing so close and smiling at her, and said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Benson turned to a world map on the wall and studied it for a moment, nodding. ‘I’ve been over there myself – Eastern Europe. Interesting part of the world. You ever been?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t.’

  ‘Of course. Too busy building a career, I suppose. I’ve read your training program assessments. Most impressive, by the way.’ He turned and gave her another warm smile. ‘So how are you getting on with all the terminology and code names? Watchman, for example; heck of a label to work with, don’t you think, when talking to a live human being? What’s his real name?’

  Lindsay shook her head. ‘I don’t know it, sir. I haven’t spoken to him yet. And I guess it would be against regulations to ask. Sorry.’

  ‘Really?’ Benson looked doubtful, and something dark flickered deep in his eyes. ‘I find that hard to believe. It’s pretty unusual for people working together, one relying on the other, especially in such stressful circumstances, not to ask a simple question.’

  She hesitated for a moment, then decided the truth was best, even if expressing an opinion. ‘I guess if he asked, I’d tell him. My first name, anyway.’

  ‘Of course. But wouldn’t that also be against regulations?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s a colleague, sir. It might be the right thing to do, depending on circumstances.’ She swallowed hard as she realized that this could count against her when Benson got back upstairs. She sensed an instinctive distrust of this man, influential though he undoubtedly was, and felt a burning desire to get him out of this room as quickly as possible. She couldn’t tell why she felt this way, only that she knew he was trying to intimidate her into talking about what she was doing.

  ‘But he’s not really one of us, is he?’ Benson rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes on the far wall, his tone almost disinterested. ‘He’s a contractor – although I suppose you knew that.’

  ‘No, sir. I didn’t.’ Lindsay decided to play dumb. She wondered why he was talking like this and asking these questions. Was it some kind of internal test, to see if she would talk about what she was doing within seconds of meeting a complete stranger? If so, it seemed a very high-powered way of going about it.

  ‘Really? Well, I guess not. He must have an interesting background, to be doing this job, don’t you think?’

  ‘I … I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen his profile. You would have to ask Staff Operations Officer Callahan about that, sir.’

  ‘Callahan.’ His voice turned cool and soft, an
d she felt sure the temperature in the room dropped a little. ‘Yes, of course. We’ve met. I’m sure he’ll tell me.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I mean … I don’t mean to be obstructive, sir. It’s outside my pay grade.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ He smiled and leaned towards her, his aftershave suddenly close and pungent, followed by a scent of warm peppermint on his breath. ‘But not mine.’ The expression in his eyes and the sudden change of mood was almost malevolent, and Lindsay forced herself not to place her hands on his chest and push him away. ‘Understand me?’

  Lindsay said nothing. Her throat was dry and she was suddenly too aware of the threat this man was making, with absolutely no fear of her objecting or arguing back.

  ‘I carry a lot of influence around here, Lindsay,’ Benson continued, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I’ve been in on more secrets than most people could even dream of knowing and I have friends in the highest places, even and especially the large white building down the street. You know the one?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s … impressive, sir.’

  ‘Influence usually is. Believe me, in the right hands it has its uses.’ He waved a hand at the room they were in. ‘For example, I could have this facility and everyone in it closed down by noon tomorrow if I chose; I have that much influence. All I need to do is make a single phone call and I could have you – where do you hail from, Lindsay?’

  ‘North Carolina, sir.’

  ‘I could have you back in North Carolina checking licence plates for the rest of your days. But I’m sure you wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ She heard footsteps approaching and prayed that it was Sewell, or better still, Brian Callahan. She was finding it hard to breath under this sudden assault on her senses and was closer to panic than she’d ever thought she could be.