The Watchman (2 page)

‘Nate Sweetman. Why?'

I ignored him and dialled the hotel reception. I could hear shouting from inside the building and guessed the man I'd disabled upstairs had come round and was back in the game.

Time to go.

I checked the street for obstructions. All clear. Fifty metres to the main drag, then left towards the airport. Hit the gas.

As we reached the end of the street, a voice answered. I said, ‘This is Challenor in three-oh-two. I've paid and checked out, but meant to ask for Mr Sweetman's bill in three-oh-four to be added to mine. Can you take care of that?'

The receptionist was unfazed. ‘Of course, Mr Challenor. No problem. I trust everything was satisfactory during your stay?' In the background I could hear shouting echoing around the reception area.

‘Almost perfect,' I replied neutrally.

‘In that case, have a good trip and thank you for staying. We hope to see you again soon.'

Unlikely, but nice of him to say so. I snapped the phone shut and took us out on to the main street heading north east.

‘Listen good,' I said to Sweetman. ‘If we have to leave the car for any reason – any reason at all – you do exactly as I say, when I say it. Do you understand?'

Sweetman just stared at me. He was in shock.

‘Say it.' I slapped his shoulder to focus his mind.

‘Yes. Yes, I understand.'

For good measure I added, ‘They were probably planning on lifting you for ransom on your way out of the country.'

‘What?' He didn't understand.

‘It's what they do to gain time. Nobody would have been any the wiser until you failed to show up at your destination. During that time they'd have had you tucked away out of reach and ready to make their demands.'

‘But why? What value could I have to them?'

‘You're a mining engineer, right?'

‘How do you know that?'

‘You told everybody. I know you've had meetings with the new Mines and Energy minister and his officials; Colombia's high up on the world's exporters of coal, and you're here to advise them on that and about the Canadians who are seeking licences for gold and silver projects. That makes you valuable.'

His mouth dropped open. ‘But I've been very careful about my itinerary.'

‘No, you haven't.' I'd found out all that by being in the bar – and I'd only been here a couple of days. ‘It doesn't take much; once they had that and got your name and somebody on the hotel staff to fill in the details, you became a high-value target.'

Sweetman shook his head. He didn't buy it yet and looked lost. ‘I can't believe this is happening.'

‘Believe it. It happens all the time.' I steered past a broken-down delivery truck and a bunch of guys arguing about what to do. ‘You got lucky; some people don't.'

I ran through the only available plan in my head. We had a small window to get clear of the city and head for the airport. Dead bodies in the corridors of a hotel – even dead bodies of armed FARC kidnappers – meant the cops would be shutting down the streets as fast as they could, the net moving inexorably outwards. Only at the airport would we be relatively safe.

But we had to get there first.

‘Why not call the police?' he repeated.

‘Because we'd get tied up for hours, maybe days, while they figured out what to charge us with. Do you want that?'

‘No. I guess not.' He shook his head and went silent for a few moments. Then he said, ‘You've done this before.' He was coming out of the first phase of shock and looking at me carefully, like a scientist might study a lab rat, part fascination, part revulsion.

‘A few times,' I replied. More than a few, as it happened.

‘So it's your job, your work?' He was looking at my suit, white shirt and tie, like he doubted I was entirely sane. He was probably right.

‘It's what I do, yes.' I checked the mirrors. No signs of pursuit so far, which was good. The local cops like to do things noisily, with lots of lights and sirens. It gives everyone fair warning to clear the streets. Living in a drugs capital, where the car right next to them might be full of men with guns and bad nerves and no conscience tends to make them like that.

‘So you were here on an assignment?' Now he was intrigued, which was a nuisance, but better than him freaking out on me.

‘Yes.'

‘You sound American. What are you – Delta? SEAL? One of those black-ops units fighting the cartels? It's OK – I was in the Marine Corps, so I know.'

‘Do you mind not asking so many questions? I'd like to get us out of here in one piece.'

He wasn't accustomed to being told to shut up, and bristled. ‘What the hell – you think I should be happy seeing you kill two men in the blink of an eye? I should be grateful and shut the fuck up, is that it?'

‘It would help. Or I could always leave you here to face the cops – and their friends in the cartels or FARC.'

He didn't like that idea so much. ‘No. I guess not.' He shook his head. ‘Sorry … what just happened threw me, you know? I'm guessing you aren't a desk man, not with what you did back there. You're a security guy, right? Close Protection.'

I didn't say anything and let him jump to his own conclusions. There are two kinds of Close Protection: one is, as it says, up close, a visible barrier to a would-be attacker, designed to dissuade as much as shelter. The other is an outer shield – a shadow – deliberately out of sight, but with a wider view of the area around the protectee or principal. The shadow bit is what I do, unseen and often unknown by high-value assets whose people want protection without the high visibility of a gorilla in a suit.

This time I'd been in Colombia shadowing an A-list French tenor with a kidnap phobia. He was in town at the express invitation of the president's wife, to put on a show at her birthday bash. It had gone smoothly enough and the Frenchman was already halfway home by now, relieved he hadn't got himself kidnapped, shot or otherwise compromised so far from home, but unaware that I was with him right up to the departure desk. It had been an easy job for me, and I was now otherwise unemployed until the next one came along.

‘If you want to do something useful,' I suggested, ‘keep your eyes on the wing mirror. Any vehicle stays behind us too long, tell me.'

He nodded and leaned forward, eyes on the mirror. It wouldn't be much help, but it might keep him buttoned up for a while until we got clear of this mess.

I concentrated on my front, trying to keep to a reasonable speed yet constantly on the move between sticking points in the traffic. We had about ten kilometres to go to the airport of El Dorado, and I wanted to get there without delay.

The whole point about staying out of trouble in hostile territory is to avoid attracting attention and keep moving; once you stop you're at a disadvantage. There was also the local law enforcement angle to watch out for. Being picked up by a nosy or bored traffic cop would be awkward, especially as I still had the kidnapper's semi-automatic in my pocket and another gun under the seat. I was counting, however, on the car's tinted windows to get us through any potential trouble. Traffic cops don't like upsetting people who might just shoot them for the hell of it.

‘There's another car like this one,' Sweetman muttered. ‘It jumped the last set of lights to stay with us.'

He was sharper than I thought. I'd spotted the car and it was coming up too fast to be casual. When it slotted in behind us on a relatively clear stretch of road, matching our speed, I began to worry.

‘Buckle up,' I said.

‘Wha …? Oh.' He tugged at the strap and sat back, then gave a nervous chuckle. ‘It's like that scene in
Bullitt
.' When I looked at him, he added, ‘You know – with Steve McQueen. It's a classic.'

‘So?'

‘The bit where the bad guys do up their seat belts … you know things are going to get hairy.'

Jesus, a film nut on adrenalin. ‘It's nothing like that. Believe me.'

I checked the mirror and got a whole load of black 4×4 and tinted windows in return. Whoever they were, they must have recognized the car and were sticking close to figure out where we were going. My guess is, they were nervous of stopping us and busy calling whoever was the usual driver of this particular vehicle.

I took a chance and lowered my window a few inches, then gave the hazard warning lights a single flash, followed by a brief flick of my hand out of the window. The air felt hot and sticky and my mouth felt dry.

A few seconds went by as the 4×4 stayed on our tail. Then it dropped back with a flash of its lights before turning off down a side street and disappearing.

I breathed more easily. For now, we were OK.

Sweetman noticed the move and looked at me like he was impressed. ‘What did you just do? What happened?'

‘Not sure,' I said. ‘I'm hoping it was kidnapper-speak for “I'm good, thanks, so back the fuck off”.'

As we arrived at the airport, I said, ‘One thing you need to remember.'

‘What's that?' He was looking a bit calmer, but it was probably short term.

‘Make it two things. First is, have a strong drink as soon as you can. Make it
aguardiente
, the local brandy – it'll paralyse your vocal chords and settle your nerves. Second thing is, you know
nothing
about what happened. You saw nothing, you heard nothing, you left your room and went home. And you never come back here. Ever. Understood?'

He nodded. ‘I get it. Reprisals. What about you?'

‘Me? I was never here in the first place.'

S
ecret Intelligence Service Officer Thomas Vale stared at the message on his monitor in the MI6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross in London, and wondered what the hell was going on. It had just arrived on the internal Secure-X system, yet was timed over an hour ago.

From: C. Moresby (Operations Director 4)

To: List A

Subject: Extraordinary meeting of sub-committee AL/213/4(JIC)

On matters relating to Somali hostage negotiations and in accordance with guidelines laid down by ISC (Intelligence and Security Committee), this matter requires the presence of all List A personnel or their nominated delegates from Cabinet Office, Foreign & Commonwealth Office, MI5, GCHQ and MOD, and includes a special invitation to London head of CIA or his nominated deputy.

SIS personnel:

Operations Director 4

Controller Africa

Controller Middle East

Controller Europe

Chair: Operations Director 4

Time start: 10.30a.m. – room 2/15

Vale checked his watch. It was already 10.30. He'd be late, which he hated. He called immediately for a duty driver in the services section to meet him downstairs. Getting round to the Cabinet Office, room 2/15, where these cross-departmental meetings often took place, was going to take a few minutes.

‘Have you seen Mr Moresby, Joe?' he asked the driver.

‘About twenty minutes ago, Mr Vale, on his way out of the building.' Joe eyed him in the mirror with a raised eyebrow. They had known each other for four years now and got on well. ‘I didn't think you were included.' Joe always seemed to know a lot more than he should for his pay grade. Typical ex-army driver.

The devious little shit, Vale thought angrily, the thought aimed at Colin Moresby, Operations Director 4 and chair of the meeting. One of the new brand of directors appointed in the recent re-shuffles of the security community, Moresby had hit the ground running and seemed unconcerned by the need to make allies in the corridors of SIS unless they could further his career. He had a love of meetings, which he used as weapons to denigrate his enemies and as forums to suck up to those more important than himself. Sleek and confident, he was too fond of marketing-speak for Vale's liking, which the older man saw as a means of obfuscation.

He thought about the note again, trying to decide whether the delay in receiving it and the lack of any earlier notification was carelessness or a deliberate move to freeze him out. A senior field officer for many years, he was approaching retirement. But with a shortage of skilled personnel undergoing training, he'd been offered a consultancy post within the organization and asked to stay on for the foreseeable future. His role was no longer in the field, but more of an oversight function on operations. As such, Moresby was obliged to include him in all aspects of field officers' and agents' work abroad. It was, Vale knew, little more than a box-ticking exercise to meet new monitoring standards, but still an essential footbrake function for those with less field experience.

People like Moresby.

The car eased to a stop near the Cabinet Office. He hopped out and told Joe he would walk back; he had a feeling he might need the fresh air. Passing through security, he made his way up to the second floor, room 15. He could hear the buzz of conversation from inside, and felt unaccountably like a pupil arriving late for a lesson.

The talking stopped as he opened the door, and a number of familiar faces turned towards him.

‘My apologies,' he said easily, addressing nobody in particular. He noted Moresby, sitting at the head of the table. He looked as if he had swallowed a bug. ‘I didn't get the note until a few minutes ago.'

‘Really?' Moresby grunted. ‘You'd better take it up with IT. Probably a systems glitch.'

There were no gaps at the table, Vale noted. Significant or accidental? He grabbed a chair from against the wall beneath a dubious portrait of Gladstone, and dragged it to a spot between Bill Cousins, Controller Africa, and Peter Wilby, Controller Middle East. The two men shuffled sideways to let him in.

He nodded and sat down, noting that each person present had a folder on the table in front of them. There were no spares.

Bill Cousins moved his folder so that Vale could share.