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

other punk so I kicked both guns away and made sure nobody else was near before turning to follow Lindsay into town.

As I filtered through the trees something made me look back. The two skinheads were still out cold and the dog-walkers had disappeared. But a movement on the far side of the park caught my eye.

A man in dark clothing was standing there looking my way. He had a cellphone to his ear and I thought for a split second that he might be a cop, in which case I definitely had to get moving.

But when he didn’t move I realized I was wrong.

He was a spotter. I’d been here too long.

TWENTY-NINE

Callahan was waiting anxiously for news from Portman or Lindsay Citera when he saw David Andrews lurking in the corridor outside. The researcher wore a grin on his face. He beckoned him in and told him to close the door.

‘What have you got?’ He wasn’t being totally optimistic, but figured Andrews wouldn’t be looking so chipper if he hadn’t made some progress.

‘I got lucky,’ Andrews said, waving a tablet. ‘I’ve been trawling our files for information on known or suspected Russian agents or sympathizers here in DC area, to see if any have popped up on the watch reports recently. I knew of a few from my previous work and figured it was a good place to begin. I stumbled on this.’ He held out the tablet so Callahan could see it and tapped the screen. A formatted document appeared headed with the name ‘Valentina J. Desayeva’, followed by a list of personal details. ‘This is an FBI surveillance report on this subject from a few weeks ago. Do you know her?’

Callahan racked his memory. The name was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it. Too much was going on in his head at the moment and he needed time to think. ‘Let’s pretend I don’t. Remind me.’

‘She’s long been suspected by the FBI of having close connections to people in Moscow, but nothing has ever been proved. She’s a resident in DC and calls herself a businesswoman and charity fundraiser with a lot of friends in social and political circles. Before that she was a close associate of a man named Boranov.’

Callahan stared at him. ‘Gus Boranov?’

‘The same. He was a Russian, the US representative of—’

‘BJ Security Group. Yeah, I know. They’ve got connections with state-run companies in Russia and the Kremlin. Boranov disappeared a few years back when things got too hot for him. The FBI had him figured for espionage and were about to take him in for questioning. Desayeva was tied in with him in some way, but with Boranov gone they couldn’t prove how deep it went.’ He recalled now how Desayeva had been investigated, but had come up clean, with Walter Broderick being among her more enthusiastic supporters.

Being close to Boranov hadn’t been enough to land her in court or even to have her kicked out on the next Aeroflot to Moscow. Instead someone in the State Department had suggested using her knowledge and background to provide information on current Kremlin thinking.

Beyond sounding a note of caution, which he suspected had been ignored, it hadn’t been part of Callahan’s or the CIA’s remit to be involved so he’d got on with his job and put Desayeva out of his mind.

‘Right. I followed the trail of the report back into Boranov’s activities, just to see if there was anything useful like other contact names who were still around. The trail ran dry when I found that some of the reports that included Desayeva’s name had been redacted. It didn’t say why, though.’

‘It wouldn’t,’ Callahan said sourly. All he knew was that Desayeva was being used by the State Department for reasons they wouldn’t go into, and that made her beyond suspicion in their eyes. It hadn’t made sense then and it didn’t now. ‘So?’

‘It didn’t leave much to go on, but that’s where two lines intersected.’ Andrews smiled, ‘It’s surprising how so much comes back to Washington.’

‘Get on with it,’ Callahan growled. ‘Time’s a-wasting. What lines?’

Andrews lost the smile. ‘Sorry.’ He flicked a finger across the screen to reveal a photo. It showed the interior of a smart looking restaurant. The room was large and airy with panoramic windows at the far side. Waiters in short white jackets were cruising in the background. ‘This was taken four weeks ago at a place called the Pines View Golf Park near Charlottesville. It’s an upscale country club type of place aimed at people who like a touch of class with their golf and a place to chat.’ He enlarged the screen shot to show a couple sitting to one side. ‘The woman is Desayeva. The man with her has been identified as a Bradley Dalkin, a Washington resident.’

‘Is he anyone we should know?’

‘Well, referring back to the file you sent me, he was chief of staff to a Senator Howard J. Benson – or was until Benson’s death four years ago. Since then he’s been scratching for work wherever he can get it.’

‘Benson? Now that’s a name I know.’ The memories came flooding back. The senator had been a member of the powerful Intelligence Community, set up to co-ordinate and support special activities among the various US intelligence agencies with regard to US foreign policy overseas. Benson had been a rabid CIA sceptic intent on dragging the organization before an investigative committee given half a chance.

His death, while shocking, had not been universally mourned among those he had targeted. And one person he had seemed especially averse to had been Marc Portman and his assignment for the CIA.

There had been questions about Portman’s possible role in Benson’s murder, but concrete evidence proved he’d been in Arlington in the company of a trusted CIA staff member at the time, over sixty miles away from where Benson had died.

Callahan skim-read the details on the tablet. Desayeva’s name had come up on a list of targets kept