A Hostile State Adrian Magson (reading e books txt) 📖

of the table, where the shrapnel of blame, if any was in the air, usually took a little longer to reach. Not that he felt it was likely here. He knew what the meeting was about, but it was too early to guess where it was headed. For now it was probably going to be listen a lot and say no more than you had to.

Sewell raised a hand and conversation died. He was a comfortable-looking man in his mid-fifties, with a genial smile and the watchful eyes of someone who had been around the block a few times and knew all the moves in this vast den of secrecy and intrigue. However, for a man of his rank to be here in person instead of on the other end of a video-conference line, Callahan figured it had the potential to be a real zinger.

‘You all know each other, I guess,’ said Sewell, his voice soft but with a core of authority, ‘so I won’t waste time on introductions except for,’ he nodded at a woman to his immediate right, ‘Carly Ledhoffen representing the security section of the Directorate of Support. Her head of section is unavailable so they’ve asked her to sit in on this.’

Ledhoffen responded with a cool smile at nobody in particular and said nothing.

Spartan in appearance, the room was devoid of windows, pictures or other adornments. Although there were none of the usual cluster of wires and electronic devices that dominated so many parts of this building, with telephones carrying direct links to certain strategic numbers, of listening and recording devices linked to other rooms where words and reactions would be transcribed, recorded and remembered for all time, it didn’t mean they weren’t there.

The CIA, like most other intelligence agencies, had long ago learned that words were weapons, as much used against itself as outside enemies, and if someone somewhere was going to trip over their feet and cause a major fuck-up of Titanic proportions, politically speaking, it was worth having a note of who said what and when.

Callahan knew each person present, with the exception of Ledhoffen. He’d seen her around the building but not to speak to. Other than that the group was the usual mix of representatives with expertise on a broad range of issues. Sewell would have chosen those he considered most relevant without making the attendance list too unwieldy. He lifted a hand to acknowledge their presence.

There was James Cardew from the Middle-East desk; George Jackson from the Defence Intelligence Agency; Fred Groll from the National Security Agency; Craig Breakman from Special Activities and the only other woman, Gina Patel from Political Analysis.

Sewell looked down at a scratchpad in front of him and said, ‘There are others who were unable to attend at short notice. They’ll be informed in due course.’

Murmurs and nods around the table showed the gathering settling down and shifting into business mode.

‘Brian,’ said Sewell, ‘perhaps you could give us a brief background on what happened?’

Callahan nodded and cleared his throat. He disliked this kind of verbal delivery; so much of what was said on the hoof could be taken out of context and used against you if someone had an axe to grind. Not that he expected that here, but you never knew. Give him a keyboard any day and he could have composed something informative, to the point and free of potential misunderstandings. He decided to keep it brief.

‘This morning I received news from an asset code-named Watchman on the ground in Lebanon. An attempt was made on his life by a sniper. It was entirely unexpected, as was the discovery that the shooter was clean. He had no phone, no ID or any other documentation. What he did have, which raises serious questions about this matter, was a photo of Watchman himself.’

The mood in the room went still as the implications sank in.

‘That wasn’t all,’ Callahan continued. ‘There was a second man who he believes was a back-up. He was the same: clean with no ID. Watchman came across him while evacuating the area. He described both men as either serving or former military and armed with automatic weapons. The real kicker was that the second man swore at him in fluent Russian.’

Someone in the room muttered a quiet oath, echoed by feet shifting under the table as the implication of that sank in.

‘Their vehicle was clean, apart from some rations and a used cellphone, probably a burner. No numbers or call history, no way of telling where it was from.’ He barely lifted his hands off the table. ‘That’s all we have at the moment. I have photos of the two shooters and we’re currently trying to identify them from our files.’

Cardew, a professorial individual in his fifties, with thick spectacles and thinning hair, was the first to speak. ‘This Watchman,’ he said, once he was sure Callahan had finished. ‘Can I ask why he was there?’

Callahan nodded. ‘He was tasked with collecting some information from a local DIA source, code-named Tango. A rendezvous had been agreed previously with the source’s DIA handler, but the handler fell ill and had to be air-lifted to an isolation hospital on Cyprus. The DIA asked if we had anyone available to go in for them at very short notice. It was a simple collect-and-go assignment, the sort we engage in all the time. We were happy to oblige.’ He paused and nodded at Jackson from the DIA. ‘As a result of the attack we’re both contacting a handful of other assets in the region to pull them out as a safety measure.’

‘Isn’t it unusual, sending in a substitution when dealing with a source?’ said Groll.

Callahan passed the ball to Jackson, who said, ‘It’s not the way any of us likes to do things, that’s true. Sources like to know who they’re dealing with – and that works both ways. We had Tango’s firm assurances that what he had was vitally important and needed getting out. Luckily for