The Watchman (5 page)

It echoed what Moresby had said. Even Vale could see the sense in it. There were some operations where an overload of assets became a distinct disadvantage. The other side was likely to be tuned in to the presence of outsiders on their turf, and any sudden show of force in the region would signal an operation in progress. But he wasn't about to give up.

‘Forgive me saying so, James, but you're sounding a little oblique.'

Scheider smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Oblique. That's a good word, Tom. I guess oblique is what it is.' He hesitated before adding carefully, ‘What I mean is, if you decide to add any … additional material of your own, shall we say, I might be able to help. But in a strictly advisory capacity.'

‘I think we have all the advisory we need, thank you.' Vale had to rein in a touch of impatience. Scheider sounded as if he was offering some kind of help, without saying precisely what it might be. He was going to have to tease it out of him. ‘Could you be a little more explicit?'

‘Well, as I said, we can't commit any hard facilities.'

‘You mean boots on the ground. I understand that.'

‘Exactly. And by the sounds of what was said upstairs, Mr Moresby isn't about to call on more than one of your resident tough guys to pitch in.'

‘No. He's not.' Vale wondered how much Scheider knew about the Basement, SIS's own force of hand-picked specialists. While its existence was hardly a secret in the closed community of the intelligence world, not too many outsiders ever spoke about it. He was assuming that one of them would be accompanying Angela Pryce on the assignment. But one was not enough.

‘Well,' Scheider continued, ‘if you happen to hear of a name you might use, I could run them through the Meat Grinder in Langley.'

The Meat Grinder; the CIA's vast but highly selective vetting software run by a team of IT wizards. It was boasted with some degree of justification that a name fed in one end could appear within an hour or two with a full vetting and background rating suitable for most security clearances.

‘That would be very useful, thank you. Except I don't recall even suggesting I would consider such a thing.'

Scheider grinned knowingly. ‘Of course. Understood. But we've both been round the block a few times, so I guess we might be thinking along the same lines. If you do get a name and you'd like to check it out, call me.' With that, he walked away, his minder preceding him out of the door like an attack dog.

Vale watched him go, then turned and made his way back towards Vauxhall Cross. Scheider had been surprisingly perceptive, although as he'd said, perhaps not so surprising given their shared background. An idea had been bubbling through Vale's mind as he came downstairs after the meeting. It sprang from a memorable period while on his first posting in Cold War Berlin many years ago. Back then, in a burst of unexplained aggression, British operatives and agents moving back and forth across the Wall had been targeted by the East Germans for capture or assassination. Since neither they nor their masters, the Russians, were given to half measures, it was decided to set up a team of shadows, unseen and unidentified, to cover the agents as they moved. Vale had been given the task of monitoring them. After one or two ‘incidents' involving the unexplained disappearance of East German operatives, the targeting had ceased and the shadows had been disbanded. The matter had never been admitted to, the funding channelled through a number of covert accounts until its origins and goals were lost in a fog of bureaucratic subterfuge. It was yet another aspect of that less documented period which meant that certain matters would never be made public, even under the ‘30-year secrecy rule' releases which regularly caused those who studied such matters a severe rush of blood to the head.

Vale arrived at Vauxhall Cross and cleared security, then stood for a while in a deserted stretch of corridor near his office, mulling over Scheider's words. The CIA deputy clearly shared his reservations about the risks inherent in Moresby's plan, not least to the people involved. But he'd made it clear in just a few words that putting in his own people to help was a non-starter, mainly because of current US commitments elsewhere and increasing levels of accusation about their role as self-appointed global police.

He felt frustrated. In spite of his reservations he could see that the potential outcome of the plan, if successful, was too good to miss. And to many observers in the corridors of Whitehall, that would prove sufficiently attractive to outweigh any risks.

He stared out of the window at the river below, watching a barge trundle by with two men on board, mugs of tea in hand. He wondered fleetingly at the simplicity of their life, and decided that all the sound-proofing and bullet-proof glass and walls of this place, while conveniently preventing outside noises filtering in, probably affected some officers' judgement in their relationship with the outside world, causing a disconnect in more than just space.

He returned to his desk and picked up his phone. He checked his watch and dialled a number. It was very early for the person on the other end, but he knew the man's habits. He didn't sleep for long and would be up and about already, working on a new day.

‘Sweetman.' The voice was early-morning gruff but alert. Vale was calling his brother-in-law, an American living in New York State. Nate had passed through London only a few days ago, and had told Vale a story that had surprised him. He hadn't yet had time to look into the details, but now was maybe the moment when he needed to think outside the square, as some of the hipper officers downstairs were fond of saying.

‘Nate, it's Tom. How are you?'

‘Hey, Tom, I'm good. You?'

‘I'm fine, thanks.' He had never told Nate what he did for a living, but the American was perceptive enough to have guessed that Vale was no ordinary civil servant. He launched straight in with his reason for calling. ‘You remember that person you told me about – the one who delivered you to that airport down south last week?'

There was a momentary hesitation as the cogs clicked into place, then Nate said, ‘Damn right I remember. How could I forget? What about him?'

‘I know you mentioned it already, but I need his name and room number.'

‘No problem. It was Challenor. It's engraved on my memory. No idea of his first name. His room was next to mine: three-oh-two. But he won't be there now … he flew out the same day as me.'

‘Do you know where he was headed?'

‘No. New York, I think – at least, that was the impression I got. I was flying to Chicago.' He paused. ‘Funny thing was, I asked what his name was, where he lived, where he was going – all the usual stuff when a guy comes out of nowhere and saves your life … but he never got round to giving me any detail.'

‘That may have been for a reason,' Vale suggested cryptically. He thanked Nate for his help, told him to give a big kiss to his sister, and cut the connection. His next call was internal, to a researcher on the floor below.

‘That's all you have – a surname and hotel room number?' It wasn't a criticism; most of the time they had far less to work with.

‘That's all.'

‘Fine. What level of information?'

‘The full card. Names, addresses, next of kin, jobs, what he eats for dinner. The works. Especially his military record. And get a visual on any current location.'

‘Got it.'

He sat back and thought things through. The way he saw it, there was only one way to protect Angela Pryce. He couldn't prevent Moresby from sending her out on his proposed op, but he could do his best to ensure she wasn't completely vulnerable. That excluded the specialists SIS had on call, those men and women with Special Forces backgrounds, trained in insertion and extraction work in hostile areas, since it would require too much in the way of counter-signatures and electronic records – none of which he dared use. Moresby would see it as interference and immediately block it.

The only thing he could do was find the mysterious Challenor, a man who could apparently step out of his hotel room into a three-gun kidnap in one of the most dangerous cities in Latin America, and walk away with the intended victim leaving two kidnappers dead and a further two unconscious.

I
n my line of work you rarely get to choose who you work with. I pick up most jobs by word of mouth, some via a loose network of former military personnel, spooks and private security contractors trading information on intelligence or security assignments around the world. I vet as many as I can beforehand, but you can't always be too selective. Other times the chemistry simply isn't there and you either suck it up or say no.

It certainly wasn't there with Parillas. But by the time I found that out, I was already in.

Right from the start he made it clear he didn't like working with an outsider. By that he meant non-DEA. When he heard Beckwith mention that I was a contractor, he got all bug-eyed and stared at the intelligence specialist as if he'd gone nuts.

‘What the hell – are you kidding me?' He leaned across the table and hissed, ‘Since when do we bring in outside help?' He had no trace of a Latino accent, I noticed, although he looked the part for where we were going. Dark eyes, thin face and skin like coffee, a few pockmarks around his cheeks.

‘Since we decided the situation demanded it.' Beckwith's response was friendly, but beneath the words, layered in steel. I got the impression he wasn't going to stand having a fight with his colleague about it. ‘We brought you in for the same reason; because you won't be known faces. Mr Portman here has never been down south, never mixed it with the drugs gangs, but he's got an excellent record in similar work, so we'd like you to go along with this.'

‘What kind of work was that?' Parillas wasn't looking at me, but his hostility rippled across the table in waves. ‘Is Portman your real name?'

‘He's done stuff you've never dreamed of. Trust me.' Beckwith's voice had gone flat; end of discussion. ‘And Portman's the name we're using.'

Parillas nodded, but he wasn't happy. His face had gone tight and I could hear a foot drumming on the floor beneath the table. I put it down to the stiff-shirt attitude of some special agents I'd worked with before, who thought anyone from outside their own sphere of activities was deeply suspect and not to be trusted. I ignored it.

‘You read the file?' Parillas asked once Beckwith had said his goodbyes and left.

I nodded. Maybe he'd warm up a little once we got to know each other. Somehow I doubted it. I stood up, eager to get the show on the road. The sooner we moved, the easier it would be to focus on what we shared rather than what we didn't.

Parillas led the way out to a dusty white Land Cruiser that had seen better days. It had some damage to the panels and some flecks of rust here and there, but by the smooth sound of the engine, it had less time under the hood than it looked. I'd seen plenty of similar vehicles in the area already, and had used one or two myself.

Parillas climbed aboard and we took off at a clip, heading south.

‘This is an in-out job,' he explained briefly. ‘We get to Tijuana in less than an hour, pick up the equipment, then split up. I make the rendezvous and you stay on the outside. Shouldn't take more than an hour, then we leave.'

‘What time is the rendezvous?'

‘Four thirty on the nail.'

‘Suits me,' I said. ‘Wouldn't it be better if I stayed close?'

‘No. Believe me, in Tijuana two guys moving around together attracts too much attention; the cops down there operate in teams and pairs for safety, and the gangs are aware of that. Single guys looking like they want to make a score or pick up a short date, not so much. You hang back but stay within phone contact and hope this isn't a set-up.'

‘Is it likely?'

He shrugged. ‘Anything's likely in Tijuana. It's that kind of town.'

‘You sound like you've been there before.'

‘A long time ago. Problem?'

I shook my head. ‘No problem.' Beckwith had told me Parillas was an outsider, like me. ‘Give me your guy's name and description.'

He considered it for a moment, and evidently thought it was OK to tell me.

‘His name's Louis Achevar. Why do you need to know what he looks like? You won't be eyeballing him.'

‘Because if something goes wrong and I have to pull him out, I need to know who I'm looking for. We'll let Beckwith worry about getting him across the border afterwards.'

He looked reluctant, but he couldn't argue with the logic. One of the main points of any operation is having a fall-back plan in case it doesn't go as expected. Beckwith had talked only of success, not failure, and while we were going to be within a short spit of the US border, I was still thinking about ways out if the balloon went up.

‘He's a forty-two-year-old runt,' he said. ‘Skinny, with glasses, and about five-six. A Mexican Woody Allen, but bald as a coot. If he sees you, he'll run. I ain't kidding – the guy's paranoid. Anybody but me and he'll think it's the cartel come to waste him.'

‘So he knows what you look like?'

He hesitated. ‘He has a rough idea, sure. He's been told to take a room in the hotel and wait for me to show up.'

‘What number?'

‘Jesus, you want his inside leg, too?' He puffed out some air, then said, ‘Thirty-four, on the second floor. But you're not to go near him, understand? Stay out of it.'

‘Fine. I won't go near him unless I have to.'

The idea seemed full of holes to me, but I had no way of knowing what stress this Achevar was under, or what hoops he'd had to jump through to come even this far. All I knew was that insiders, especially middle-ranking insiders who knew too much and who decided to rat on organizations like the cartels or the mafia, were treading a fine line between life and death. And that was enough to get to the strongest individuals.