What he wouldn’t have given, he thought idly, to be a fly on the wall when Jason Sewell threw that bit of embarrassing information back at Walter M. Broderick, the Deputy Assistant Secretary at the State Department.
FORTY-TWO
Just under three hours after my text to Callahan I saw a vehicle top the rise on the road running past the marshlands. There had been a few since I’d been here but they’d continued on by, a mix of the everyday country traffic you’d expect in this part of the world. It wasn’t the busiest road I’d ever seen and I couldn’t imagine anyone coming after me in a truck or a John Deere tractor.
This latest arrival was a SUV. I couldn’t tell the colour because it was profiled against the horizon, but it looked dark and bulky, the kind capable of carrying men and equipment while being common enough to pass without comment save an occasional glance of envy.
The engine sounded smooth, the hum floating down the hill to where I was standing in the treeline. The vehicle was moving along the road at a steady clip, and for a second I thought I was mistaken and that it was going to drive on by and disappear like all the others. But at the last moment it slowed and turned onto the track. Then stopped.
I knew what they were doing: they were checking the location on their digital map, the little square locator telling them where I should be found right down to a three-metre square.
They began the descent of the track, a plume of dust whirling in their wake. One look through the binoculars and I needed no further confirmation. I saw three heads up, the driver and two, and what looked like assault rifles carried at the ready.
I dialled Callahan. He answered as if he’d been crouched over his phone.
‘They’re here,’ I confirmed.
‘Shit.’ He sounded weary, that one word carrying a world of meaning, as if too much bad news had arrived all in one hit. I knew how he felt.
I cut the connection; talking about it further wouldn’t solve the problem and Callahan had to get on with whatever he was doing at his end to plug the leak for good.
The SUV was coming closer. I wasn’t concerned they could see me, because where I was standing was too dense, too well concealed against the greens and browns of the trees and vegetation around me. I was hoping they weren’t as well versed in this kind of environment as me, but I wasn’t taking anything for granted; anyone the Russians sent after me would not be a boy scout with no experience of urban or rural conflict. They had that built into their DNA but, like all contractors, it could fade a little if not used regularly.
The SUV stopped a little way short of the gate, leaving enough room to turn on a dime if needed and head on back up the hill. They sat there for a while, the engine running, and I knew they were studying the area carefully, deciding what to do. They were probably puzzled by the gate being locked and chained, and were figuring I might have found my way inside from another direction.
Then one of the passengers stepped out and approached the gate. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a plain shirt and combat pants. He was staring down at a cellphone in one hand and carrying an assault rifle in the other. I couldn’t tell from this distance but it looked like an AK variant with a twenty-round magazine. Serious stuff.
He tried the lock and chain without luck, and gave the gate a kick to test the wood. It rattled but held fast. He shook his head and waved impatiently at the driver before standing to one side. He wanted to get on with the job.
Seconds later the SUV kicked forward and hit the gate head-on, ripping it apart and carrying the torn and broken woodwork away on the hood. The passenger gave a whoop of laughter and jogged after it to clear the debris away before jumping back inside and making a forward motion with his phone hand.
I watched them go by and set off after them. Instead of going further into the trees I moved round towards the track to come up behind the vehicle. I wasn’t sure what kind of plan they had in mind, but if they were counting on me being here and to be standing in the middle of the locator square waiting for them like a good boy, they were going to be disappointed.
I followed a parallel line to the track a few steps into the trees, keeping a screen of vegetation between me and them.
The fact that the passenger had jumped back in the vehicle was a good sign. Had it been me I’d have ducked out and stayed low, checking for movement in the trees, which was far more effective than doing it from a moving vehicle. You might not be able to see a target among trees but you can hear them move. All you need is patience and focus. And concentrating all three men in the vehicle was a risky move rather than spreading them out because they’d all be vulnerable if they came up against a concerted attack.
I stopped every few yards in case one of them had got cute and bailed out to watch and wait. The engine noise was still floating back to me through the trees, muted now but clear enough in this quiet place and undisturbed by outside influences. The big difference was that the birdsong I’d enjoyed earlier had fallen silent as
