A Hostile State by Adrian Magson (best finance books of all time txt) 📕

‘She’ll be safe as long as she stays off the radar.’

Callahan sighed. He didn’t bother asking where Lindsay was because he doubted Portman would tell him. Not that it would matter. Mixed with his concern was the knowledge that there was little more he could do to help Portman, and that in all likelihood he himself was being watched on orders of Broderick at the State Department to make sure he obeyed instructions to break off all contact with his man. But he was way past that and hoped to prolong it for as long as he could.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

Portman’s voice was calm. ‘You’re in a bind, I know that. But there is one thing.’

‘Shoot.’

‘It’s time to end this. It’s gone on too long.’ There was a pause and Portman said, ‘Is the leak still active?’

‘I think so. Why?’

‘I’ll be sending you a new locator. Make sure it gets known. I’ll do the rest.’

Callahan didn’t like the sound of that. But trying to stop a field operator like Portman would be like throwing stones at a runaway tank. And deep down, he sympathized; being a moving target was no fun and Portman sounded as if he’d reached the end of the wire. ‘You’re going to draw them out? How will that work?’

‘It might not, but it’s worth a try. If they lose enough people they might decide to cut their losses.’

Callahan had heard that argument before. He just didn’t know in this instance how much was enough. ‘Sounds like a major piece of action. How many is it so far?’

‘I haven’t been counting. But with the two far-right bangers who came after Chesnais it’s getting close to two figures, mostly walking wounded but some not.’

Callahan winced in spite of himself at the cold summary. He hoped to God that no such statistics became known around Washington; people like Broderick at the State Department would throw up their hands and have a hissy fit, ignoring the fact that espionage and intelligence-led operations were a kind of war, and in war there were always casualties. He was pretty sure, though, that nothing would ever come from the Moscow end, that at some point their involvement would sink into obscurity, the details wiped from the record as a face-saving exercise.

‘What’s next?’ he asked.

‘You probably shouldn’t know. Look out for the locators and feed them down the line. I’ll do the rest.’

The connection was cut and Callahan put down the phone with a feeling of helplessness, all too cruelly aware that he was no longer running his asset, and that all he could do was sit out the next phase of whatever Portman was planning.

FORTY

The following morning I was up early and on the road. Fabien had given me a couple of suggestions for places where I could hunker down, both of them well away from people but with good routes in and out. He’d even offered to come with me as a second gun but I’d clamped down hard on that one. It had been a long while since he’d been hunter or hunted, and those skills, no matter how well-learned and put into practice, diminish over time. The mental reactions to a threat slow down and the body doesn’t retain the muscle memory needed to move instantly when danger presents itself. In any case I didn’t want to put his life in danger any more than I had Lindsay’s.

This was my fight and I had to finish it.

On the way out to the car Fabien handed me a large tactical bag. It was made of canvas and too heavy to be a sandwich and coffee. But I didn’t need to look inside. It carried the familiar gun-oil aroma of an armoury, along with the smell and feel of something like a rolled-up groundsheet, military grade. Old smells, old memories.

‘It’s not much,’ he said apologetically. ‘I hope it helps.’ He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘It’s all clean so use it then lose it.’

‘Thank you,’ I told him. ‘I appreciate it.’

He gave me the sign of the gun with his forefinger and thumb for luck, then turned and walked back inside.

My phone beeped into life after a couple of miles and I stopped to see who was calling. It was a text from Lindsay. She said she was at the hotel near the Parmentier métro and told me to be careful. I told her I would and she should see some of the sights. I wasn’t being over-casual, but wanted to take her mind off what was happening.

The area I’d finally chosen to use was centred on a stretch of marshland, with plenty of trees intersected by a small, meandering river. Fabien had described it in some detail, his knowledge gained from down-time visits to do some solitary fishing and hunting. It was currently a private reserve, he’d told me, but unused. He’d also warned me to be careful where I put my feet, a familiar warning when operating in enemy territory and traps were waiting for the unwary.

The approach roads were gated and locked, and Fabien had provided me a key which he said would get me through and into good cover for the car.

Marshes, trees, reeds and water – and no people. It looked like typical guerrilla or maquis country. But that suited me fine. Once in there I would be in control. I hadn’t felt much of that in the past few days and I felt relieved that things may be swinging my way for a change. I didn’t know what the skillsets of the people chasing me might be beyond the standard military gun and close-in knife work which they’d exhibited so far, but I guessed I’d soon find out.

I stopped a few miles later on the brow of a hill to make sure I hadn’t picked up a tail. The road both ways was clear to the horizon and there was nothing in the sky tracking my progress as far