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

the note across the desk. ‘I have to go out in a little while. While I’m gone, this is the latest locator from Portman. I want you to take it back to your desk as it is and leave it there in plain sight.’

‘Sir?’ She gave him a look.

He replied with a wry smile, ‘Don’t worry. I’m just trying something. I’ll explain another time.’ He hesitated then added, ‘We’re putting what we have through the grinder right now to see what comes up. In the meantime, if Ledhoffen or anyone else speaks to you on the subject, let me know immediately.’

NINETEEN

The CIA in Langley didn’t actively discourage old Cold War warriors from visiting, especially if they had anything to offer in the way of valuable insights into the thoughts and methodology of the nation’s common enemy. But Russell Hoffman, once one of the most highly regarded, if secretive operators in the old CIA, had long ago blotted his copybook in criticizing the administration and its soft approach to Moscow’s continued interference.

It had been enough to make him persona non grata to the overly sensitive higher management, keen to protect the new echelons from the hawkish views of what they regarded as gung-ho oldsters from a long-gone era. Not that Hoffman went that far back; he’d been too young for the original Office of Strategic Services, changed in 1947 to the CIA, but not so far back that he hadn’t learned a great deal from the life and operational experiences passed down by its instructors and field personnel.

Strictly speaking, Brian Callahan knew he would have been criticized for meeting up with the former spook. But right now he didn’t care; he had an asset under threat and wanted an outsider’s perspective on the situation, unvarnished and free of any ambition for higher office. Anything that helped him pull Portman from out under the hammer was worth considering. Furthermore, he was coming round to the uncomfortable conclusion that he no longer felt able to confide his worries to his colleagues. Too many of them appeared to be in search of a quieter life without ripples.

Even more worrying was his growing suspicion that information about Portman had originated from inside Langley itself. He had no idea if that was right, but he hoped to find out shortly. He just hoped he hadn’t roped Lindsay Citera into something they would both regret by getting her to leave his note on her desk.

‘So how can I help the new CIA, Brian?’ Hoffman greeted him as they sat down across from each other in a bar a short spit from Logan Circle in downtown Washington.

The way he smiled robbed the question of abruptness, and Callahan was pleased to see that the former spy had lost none of his sense of humour. He was looking old, though, and shrunken, with a florid complexion and a spider-work of veins in his cheeks. He still had a full head of hair but the grey had settled into near-white, giving him the air of an aging college professor.

‘Is it that obvious?’ he asked, and raised his glass in salute. The bar hadn’t got busy yet and the few other patrons were tables away, so their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.

‘It is to this suspicious old goat, and I haven’t lost my sense of expectation yet.’ He grinned and sipped his whisky with relish, then waved his other hand, which was covered with liver spots. ‘You know I once spent so long in hot climates these darned things used to join up to form a decent sun tan. Now it looks like I’m rotting away. Old age is shit, Brian. Don’t let anyone kid you otherwise. What’s the problem?’

‘I have an asset,’ Callahan explained, making circles on the table with the glass, ‘an American who’s been targeted by the opposition.’

‘Targeted how?’ Hoffman leaned forward in his seat. It was a tiny move and easy to miss by those who didn’t know what to look for. But an easy-to-read sign of interest. Once an operative it was always there in your blood, never quite leaving you.

‘Two snipers – one and a back-up. Middle-Eastern location when nobody should have known he was there. We haven’t identified them yet but something tells me it wasn’t a local team.’

‘But you have an idea, right?’ Hoffman was still sharp, able to pick up on nuance where others might miss it.

‘A hint. They were carrying a photo of our man, last used by a Russian security contractor in Ukraine a while back. And one of the shooters swore at him in Russian.’

‘So FSB, then.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘In my experience, none of their so-called contractors ever got there without having strong connections to the KGB or their successors.’

‘Would that include GRU?’

‘Damn right it would. But how likely is it?’

‘How do you mean?’

Hoffman shrugged. ‘Well, I’m guessing if this man of yours has been targeted, he must have bumped noses with them at some stage. And they’re a mean bunch. They hate losing face.’

Callahan nodded. ‘He has some history there, yes. My question for you – and we don’t know for sure yet – is it likely to be an individual or the state?’

Hoffman sat back as a couple of clients wandered by, his security antennae clearly still active. He waited until they were out of range without needing to check, then asked, ‘Why are you asking me, Brian? Last I heard Langley is full of hot-shot analysts who can tell you everything you need to know. I’m old and tired and not a favourite of the current management. Ask anyone.’

Callahan chuckled. ‘So tired you couldn’t wait to come here to find out what I wanted? Right.’

‘True enough. Call me curious. And bored. So?’

‘So maybe I don’t trust some of our hot-shot analysts as much as I should to give me an honest, unvarnished answer that hasn’t been filtered through the political machine first.’

‘I see. Like that, huh? You’re asking me who