A Hostile State by Adrian Magson (reading eggs books txt) 📗

gut-wrenching turn back down the slope, hugging the ground all the way and flying through the occasional gap between the olive trees in a way that had Isobel yelling and clutching her seat. Not that I was enjoying it; I’d been in this situation before – and worse – but I was resigned to the fact that being this close to a crash landing was something I’d never get used to.

The pilot glanced back at me and tapped his flying helmet. I looked round but all I could see was two sets of earphones in a netting pocket. I put on one set and handed the other set to Isobel. She nodded, looking slightly green, and dropped them in her lap.

‘Sorry about that,’ the pilot said with amazing calm. He sounded young and British. ‘I’m Max. I normally go through a pre-flight check to welcome people aboard, but I sensed we didn’t have time for that. You two OK?’ I caught him looking back at us and showing some teeth in a grin. Damn, he looked about eighteen and just out of school. If he was wondering what we’d been doing down on the ground he wasn’t asking any questions.

‘We’re fine,’ I said. ‘You saw the Agusta?’

‘I saw the smoke from a fire. Looked a bit serious. I was told to expect hostiles. Are they local forces?’

‘Not sure but I doubt it. Can you outrun them?’

‘On paper, yes. There’s not that much in it, but we should be all right – as long as they don’t follow us across country.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I have to make a stop to deliver the meds on the seat or I’ll be in trouble with the local ATC. They get a bit serious if we go off-plan.’

I looked across from me where a small stack of cardboard boxes was strapped to one of the other seats, and remembered Isobel mentioning that he’d come in under the guise of a humanitarian run to one of the camps in the area. If he was having to make a genuine delivery I couldn’t see what the guise was, but I guess they had to play the game here or pay the consequences.

‘You do what you have to,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’

‘No prob. It’s about forty miles north-west of here so I hope we can lose them on the way. If they have an overflight agreement they’ll be able to follow us in. That might be problematic but we’ll see how it goes.’

Problematic? It was a hell of a word for what could be the end of this trip. If the people in the Agusta were a Lebanese or Hezbollah security group they had already demonstrated a willingness to open fire on a vehicle in poor light without checking first who might be in it. They certainly wouldn’t be too concerned about going on the offensive near a crowd of Syrian refugees.

For now all they had to do was sit on our tail and keep us in sight, and they’d catch us as we slowed ready to land. I kept my eye on our rear but I couldn’t see any signs of pursuit.

Max seemed unconcerned. ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride. I’ll let you know if there’s a change of plan.’

‘Good point,’ I said. ‘What is the plan?’ I looked at Isobel but she hadn’t put on her earphones and looked about ready to throw up.

‘I have instructions to get you to Akrotiri in Cyprus. Beyond that it’s not my place to know.’

SEVENTEEN

Another meeting, this one called at short notice, and another round of faces. Brian Callahan took a seat in one of the sub-level rooms in the CIA Langley Headquarters and wondered what was in the wind. He hoped it would be some planned reaction to the attempt on Portman’s life, but somehow he doubted it. There seemed to be a lack of movement on that score, which he couldn’t understand but was hoping this meeting would explain.

He felt the urge to get up and run back to his desk. Having Portman and Hunt out there and under the hammer from God knew who was making him impatient and jumpy, and a meeting like this was wasting his time and taking his eye off efforts to get things resolved. But orders were orders. He gritted his teeth and checked out the faces in the room.

Ten or so bodies, some he knew, at least three he did not. He sighed inwardly. It was pointless asking who they were because it was unlikely he’d be told. Some, he was sure, were people who would soon learn about certain activities of the CIA when all good sense suggested they should not. Head of these, he decided, was a man just taking a chair at the end of the table nearest the door.

Walter M. Broderick, Deputy Assistant Secretary and at least two rungs beneath the current US Secretary of State, was smooth, coiffed and wore his expensive imported suit as if he’d been born in it. Good suits were a common enough cloak of armour in Washington’s political circles, where wealth was on a par with substance and often higher than ability, but this one came across as a little ostentatious in the secretive surroundings of Langley, where affectation was frowned upon as a matter of instinct and training.

He knew Broderick from some past contact, and had little regard for the man. He was too ambitious and cared nothing for the people below him. He had both hands firmly on the State Department ladder and in all likelihood would take over the top spot there one day. Callahan wasn’t impressed. Here in the world of secret intelligence and security, ambition was fine but also a little suspect when it might lead to some people making rash decisions.

The main chair at the table was occupied by Jason Sewell. He welcomed Broderick with a quick, no-nonsense nod but avoided looking at anyone else. That alone, Callahan worried, was telling if you