The recce was essential. I needed to familiarize myself with the layout, noting possible choke points around the ponds and old fishing platforms with rotting planks long unused. An ancient wooden dinghy lay upturned in the shallows of one pond, but I decided against that as a hide. Once in I’d be trapped with no quick way out and no cover. I checked points where I could cross the river if I didn’t mind getting wet, and potential hides where I could slip in with minimum effort and maximum effect.
All the while I was accompanied by birdsong high in the trees. They had gone quiet when I’d first climbed out of the van, no doubt unaccustomed to visitors in the backwater retreat. But after a while they’d resumed their chatter. It sounded to me as if they might be laughing, but I’m no expert on bird-talk. It seemed incongruous to think about what might happen here shortly, but I’d witnessed the stark contrast between nature and what man’s presence can do to it too many times to be surprised.
With my recce over I stopped and took out my cellphone. I’d done everything I could think of to make this as defensive a position as I could. I was going to send Callahan my locators based on the wooden bridge over the river. Whichever way the opposition approached, from north or south, they would mentally pin the target area as being in the centre of the trees.
They wouldn’t know about the fine detail, of the bridge, the river or the ponds until they got down here on the ground. It would leave them no time to do a complete recce of the area before they had to begin looking for me. That would work to my advantage because anything they wanted to do would have to be on a first-visit-as-seen basis, with no opportunity for preparation or practice.
I sent Callahan the locators. He would know what to do with them. If the leak was still working, the words would quickly find their way out and along the line. If the opposition were anywhere in the region, which I guessed they were, they’d be here within an hour or two max.
Then I settled down to wait and listen to the birds. If I didn’t hear anyone coming, they would.
FORTY-ONE
Callahan’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen and saw three random words but no message. He wrote them down on a slip of paper and walked down to Lindsay’s room. He was as certain as he could be now that this was where the leak occurred. But this would be the acid test, as much for Portman as it would be for himself.
He entered the room and placed the slip of paper on Lindsay’s desk, pinning it in place with the corner of her in-tray. He made a small detour on the way back to his own office past the room where Andrews worked and gave the researcher a nod in passing. Andrews acknowledged it and turned to a second monitor on his desk showing a CCTV feed.
As Callahan sat down his feelings were mostly of unease at what was playing out. There was no going back from this, for him, for Portman and for others in the building, all in different ways. And the shockwaves wouldn’t stop here; the State Department would also reverberate with accusations of deceit, gullibility and even negligence while those with most to lose would seek to step quickly away from any political fall-out for ignoring warnings and placing their trust in a Moscow sleeper.
His desk phone rang. He half expected it to be Sewell calling another meeting. Instead it was a familiar voice with a British accent. Tom Vale.
‘Brian? I’m on a flying visit. Can you spare five minutes? It would be worth your while, I promise.’
The operations director for Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service rarely had reason to call in person. Callahan was surprised but not displeased. The two men had had communications before and the two shared agreements on many issues. Portman had worked as a contractor for SIS on occasion and both agencies had cause to have been impressed with his work. In fact Vale had long been a supporter after Portman had saved the lives of two of his people in insurgent-riven Somalia.
‘Of course, Tom. I’ll have someone bring you up.’
While he waited for Vale to be escorted to his office, he wondered at the reason for the rush visit. Vale would normally have made an appointment, but clearly this hadn’t been possible. Something was in the wind.
Vale entered the office and they shook hands. Callahan noted how tired the Englishman looked and said, ‘Would you like coffee or tea?’
Vale shook his head. ‘Thank you, Brian, but no. I can’t stay long. I have a flight back to Northolt waiting.’ He took a seat and launched right in. ‘Are we all right to talk?’
‘Of course. It’s not bugged, if that’s what you’re asking.’ He grinned. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘It’s about Marc Portman. I know all about his situation, of course – and we’re grateful for him helping Isobel Hunt on their way out of Lebanon – but a few things have surfaced which I think you need you to know.’
‘Do I need to be concerned?’
‘For Portman, possibly. As you know it’s not often our people get targeted on an operation the way he has over the past few days. Fortunately the interest is usually short-lived and doesn’t get physical bar a bit of protesting and wailing. But this time has been different.’
Callahan said nothing, although he marvelled at Vale’s degree of understatement; the level of violence aimed at Portman and Vale’s officer, Hunt, had been off-the-scale lethal. And thus far it hadn’t shown any signs of ending.
‘We’ve picked up a whisper,’ Vale continued, ‘about the people responsible for the operation against him. On the surface it appears to be a select, unattributed group based in Moscow, all with previous ties to their
