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
