Dance With the Enemy (3 page)

Charles McCabe opened the walnut door to his riverfront office to see his assistant, Peter Winter, hovering over the large oak desk. It was almost nine in the morning and McCabe, or Mackie as he was known by all those close to him, was already in a bad mood from having to fight his way across central London on the underground. The weather was unseasonably warm and public transport hadn’t seemed to get the message. The underground had been like an oven with heaters on full blast and Mackie was a sweaty, wet mess by the time he arrived at his office.

‘What do you want?’ he snapped at Winter.

The young man looked up apologetically and started shuffling some papers on the desk.

‘Mackie, I mean, sir, good morning, sir.’

Mackie shut the door behind him, took off his coat and hung it on the coat stand. He carried on to his desk where he sat down on the large black leather chair. As ever he was well-groomed and smartly dressed, though his pinstripe suit jacket only just buttoned up around his protruding belly. He had thick-rimmed glasses and dyed brown hair, neatly parted, which made his face look ten years younger than he really was.

‘Sir, did you get my message?’ Winter said, sounding flustered.

The blank look on Mackie’s face gave away the answer.

‘There’s a committee meeting in five minutes. To discuss the Modena situation.’

‘What?!’

‘I tried calling you, sir.’

It wasn’t the fact he hadn’t got the message that was the problem, it was more the unexpected timing of the call. Mackie was one of six commanders at the Joint Intelligence Agency, or JIA, a secretive intelligence organisation funded equally by the UK and US governments. The commanders were responsible for managing a group of intelligence agents and the JIA’s operations were overseen by a committee made up of a senior intelligence official and a politician from both the UK and US. A ten o’clock meeting was unusual, given that it would only be five a.m. in Washington. And the timing could only mean one thing: a problem.

‘Okay,’ Mackie said, fingering his goatee beard, a bad habit that he had been trying hard to rid himself of. ‘What do you know?’

Winter went on to give Mackie the little background he had. Although his title was that of personal assistant, Winter’s role was much more than that of a traditional secretary. He was essentially being primed to one day be a commander himself. He looked like a typical young executive with his neat suits, designer shoes and pristine appearance, but underneath there was substance to him as well. He was articulate and intelligent and also brilliantly manipulative when he needed to be. Mackie liked him a lot. Winter’s confidence and unerring enthusiasm reminded him of himself when he had been that age. Mackie, now in his fifties, had never been a field agent, but he’d worked so closely with them for over thirty years that he felt like he knew and understood their roles just as much as they did. No, in fact he understood their roles even more than they did, because he saw the bigger picture too.

Winter sat down on one of the two chairs at the front of the desk and Mackie dialled into the conference call. They were two minutes late and the last to join the call. Mackie got the impression that the four committee members had already been deep in discussion.

Although he was answerable to the committee, he’d never had any qualms in rustling feathers or challenging them. As far as he was concerned, he knew more about the JIA then any of them – he’d been one of the original commanders when the agency was set up, long before any of the current committee members came on board. And so, after the usual pleasantries, Mackie dived in head first, as always.

‘Do we have a problem?’ he said.

There were murmurings on the phone before Jay Lindegaard, the current committee’s longest-serving member and a lifelong CIA bureaucrat, took the lead.

‘It’s not a problem, Charles,’ Lindegaard said in his thick Deep South drawl. ‘We just need to understand how you’re handling the Modena case. I’m sure you can imagine this is being taken very seriously here.’

‘Of course I know that,’ Mackie snapped. ‘It’s been taken care of. That’s all you need to know.’

‘And who is your lead agent on this?’

Mackie was fully aware that everyone on the call knew the answer to that. It was surely the entire purpose of the call after all.

‘It’s Carl Logan,’ Mackie said.

‘That’s what we heard. I have to say, we’re a little uncomfortable about this.’

‘He’s my agent. Let me handle it.’

‘You know we can’t afford for this to go wrong,’ piped up John Sanderson from SIS, or MI6 as it was still routinely referred to by all and sundry. Sanderson was the only committee member that Mackie really had any time for, even if he was becoming soft and disinterested as he neared retirement.

‘Exactly,’ said Lindegaard. ‘Just look at everything in the press recently and all these ridiculous leaks – the intelligence community is already under attack. The last thing we need is an unhinged and incompetent agent on the loose in such a high-profile case. What happens if our whole operation is blown wide open?’

‘He’s the most experienced man I’ve got,’ Mackie said.

‘He’s been out of action for five months,’ replied Lindegaard. ‘And from everything I’ve heard, he’s a mess. I’ve seen many agents removed altogether for far less significant problems.’

‘I know what I’m doing here,’ Mackie declared, not wanting to argue the points. The truth was that even he was doubtful of Logan’s state of mind. How could he not be? But he had to trust Logan – trust in the ability that Mackie knew he had. Logan deserved the chance. It wasn’t like his problems had been of his own making. And even if it came back to bite him, Mackie owed it to Logan. Mackie had given Logan this life. And it was his actions that had led to Logan’s fateful assignment ending the way it had.

‘You realise if you’re wrong about this, it’s not just his neck on the line,’ Lindegaard said.

‘I know. He’s ready. There’s nothing more to say.’

There was quiet on the line for a good ten seconds. As ever, the two politicians on the committee, Philip Greenwood and Randall Curtis, had been silent throughout. Although Mackie understood the necessity to have some link to the powers that be both within the US and the UK, their presence on the committee was merely a token gesture to ensure they were informed of activities, rather than their having any meaningful involvement in matters in which they had no expertise.

‘Okay,’ Sanderson said. ‘We’re bowing to your judgement. For now. He’s got one week. And we expect daily updates on his movements and his progress. If there’s anything amiss, he gets pulled. Permanently.’

‘He’s my agent, not yours,’ Mackie said through gritted teeth. ‘I decide when he gets pulled.’

Mackie pressed the mute button and swore at the phone. Winter was unable to hide his smile.

‘We’re already giving you the benefit here, Charles,’ said Lindegaard. ‘Please don’t make out that we’re the bad guys.’

‘Just let him get on with it,’ Mackie said, after unmuting the phone. ‘Winter will keep you abreast.’

Mackie ended the call without another word and let out another tirade of abuse at the machine. He stood up, adjusting the waistband of his trousers to cover his stomach as he strode over to the window of his office.

‘Please tell me Logan has sobered up enough to have left Vegas by now?’ he said to Winter.

‘Yes, sir,’ Winter said. ‘In fact, he boarded a flight from Newark last night. He’ll be landing in Paris shortly.’

Mackie was pleasantly surprised to hear that. He’d half expected Logan to still be in a drunken stupor in some rundown casino. But, unusually, Mackie also felt incredibly nervous. It was only natural that the more pressure the committee put on him over Logan, the more he began to doubt his own judgement. Was Logan really ready for this? He didn’t know, but he would find out soon enough.

‘Okay. I should get moving,’ Mackie said. ‘I need to get to Paris. Now.’

Five months of physical recovery, recuperation and rehabilitation. Even without considering the recent spate of bar fights, it had been the most gruelling five months of Logan’s life. And the mental rehabilitation, which he knew deep down was nowhere near complete, had been more like torture.

During those months he’d endlessly questioned where his life was heading, unsure whether he really cared about living at all. But now he was back. The call had come and he had obliged. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it felt
good
to be back. But it certainly felt familiar. And it felt like it was what he needed. Whatever this case was about, he had a point to prove. He might not be a machine anymore, but he could still do this. He had to still be able to do this. When it came down to it, being an agent was all he had in the world.

So why was he feeling like it was a step too far, too soon?

‘Good morning, sir,’ Logan said to Mackie as he walked into the makeshift office, trying his best to act as if this was nothing more than a routine work day. ‘I would say it’s good to see you but I don’t like lying to people.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ Mackie retorted, not looking up from the desk at which he was sitting. ‘Half your job is about lying to people.’

The modern desk looked out of place in what was actually the lounge of a rundown Parisian apartment. Logan hadn’t been here before, but it was much the same as any other safe house he had ever been in.

It was located in Saint-Denis, a largely industrial suburb.
Many parts of the area were surprisingly deprived given the close proximity to some of Paris’s central tourist traps. There was the odd exception, such as the Basilica Cathedral of Saint Denis, with its rich history dating back to Roman times when it was a cemetery – the archaeological remains of which still lie beneath the cathedral. By and large, though, it was far from the romance and historic architecture that Paris was so famous for. But that was the same for any city. The
real
city, the bowels where the thousands and millions of people lived, was never what you saw on the picture postcard. And yet it was those areas that made the cities.

The safe house was in an area made up of narrow streets of nondescript, post-war housing. Together with the littered streets, graffiti on the walls and un-weeded yards, it was clear that this was one of the less prosperous parts. From the outside it was an unassuming apartment block, and on the inside it was much the same. There was no high-tech security here – just an agent in an unmarked car across the street and another stationed in the hallway of the apartment. They didn’t need anything more than that. Why bother drawing attention to the place?

Logan hadn’t recognised the man in the hallway as he came in, but then that wasn’t unusual. The fewer people you knew – and, more importantly, the fewer people that knew you – the longer you’d be in this game.

Logan shut the door behind him then headed over towards the desk.

‘Logan, you look terrible,’ Mackie said, finally looking up from the pile of papers he had been reading. It wasn’t just his normal banter either. He looked genuinely concerned by Logan’s dishevelled appearance.

‘Thanks. That’s quite a welcome,’ Logan said, well aware that Mackie was right.

Logan had headed straight to McCarran Airport after speaking to his boss the previous day. Unable to get a direct flight into France, he’d stopped off at Newark. From there he’d taken the redeye to Paris. He had only managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep on the flight, and although some of the swelling on his face had gone down, it was still heavily bruised. To add to that, he had heavy bags under his eyes and the three-day stubble he’d had in Vegas was now almost beyond being stubble.

He was used to travelling at short notice; it was part and parcel of the job. But when you put into the mix the two days of boozing, the fight and the lack of sleep, it was all the more gruelling. Logan felt as rough as he looked.

‘What happened to you?’ Mackie asked.

‘Don’t ask,’ Logan said, shaking his head and sitting down on the simple metal chair opposite Mackie.

‘Don’t fob me off. This isn’t good, Logan. I thought you were over there getting yourself straightened out?’

‘I was. I am.’

‘Not in the way I meant,’ Mackie said, the anger in his voice rising. ‘You’re treading a fine line. We can’t have your antics drawing unwanted attention. You know how bad that could be. For you.’

Logan got it. But what could he say? He was a mess and everyone at the JIA knew it. His current appearance, bruises and all, only confirmed what everyone else was already thinking.

‘I’m surprised they’ve let me come back,’ Logan said, referring to the committee members, who he was sure would have raised their eyebrows at Mackie’s decision to put him on the case.

‘It was my decision, nobody else’s. So tell me what happened.’

‘Didn’t my babysitter fill you in?’ Logan said.

‘Don’t play games with me, Logan. I want to hear it from you. Just what is going on with you?’

‘There’s
nothing
going on,’ Logan said, trying to keep his cool. ‘I’m fine. It was just a scrape. These things happen.’

Mackie laughed sarcastically. ‘You’re right there. These things always happen to
you
.’

‘Is this all you brought me here to talk about?’ Logan said, standing up and taking a step towards the door. ‘If it is then I can think of better things to do.’

‘Sit down!’ Mackie bellowed, getting to his feet. Logan stopped in his tracks. Mackie was a good six inches shorter than Logan but he had a certain presence that made people stop and pay attention. ‘I haven’t brought you back here to play games. This is serious business, Logan. And if you think I’m giving you a hard time then it’s because I have to know that you can handle this.’

Sheepishly, Logan did as he was told and sat down again. He couldn’t let this opportunity pass him by. Whether he was ready or not wasn’t the question, as far as he was concerned.

‘No offence,’ Mackie said, sitting back down, his voice calm again, ‘but couldn’t you have shaved at least?’

Logan sensed that this time Mackie’s comment had been more upbeat, trying to lighten the mood between them. That was his style – though Logan knew Mackie would never let anyone win an argument, or even worm their way out of one.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Logan said. ‘I didn’t realise I worked for an employer that disallowed facial hair. And you might not have heard, but they don’t give out inflight razor blades these days.’

‘Look, I mean … your clothes … what’s up with your clothes?’ Mackie said, just the slightest smile now visible.

Logan was wearing a pair of jeans which were threadbare on the knees and backside, an old pair of white trainers which had taken on a brown tinge many months ago, and a black turtleneck sweater.

‘I’ve been on holiday. It might surprise you but I didn’t take any suits with me. And anyway, this jumper is brand new. I just bought it in Newark airport ’cause I knew you’d do this. It was either this or my orange Hawaiian t-shirt.’

Mackie smiled and laughed, easing the tension in the room for the first time. ‘I guess you did me a favour there.’

Despite his mood, Logan couldn’t help but smile as well. Mackie had made his point. Logan had understood it.

‘So where’s Winter?’ Logan asked, though he was glad he wasn’t here. Logan couldn’t stand him. The guy was ten years younger than Logan but already thought he ran the place.

‘He’s still in London. Why?’

‘Just curious. Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?’ Logan asked. ‘Why do we care about some politician?’

‘He’s not technically a politician. He’s a lawyer.’

‘That’s just about as bad.’

‘Well, he’s a pretty important lawyer. And very influential. Now, this case has come to us from the very top.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘I do say. The Attorney General is the US’s most senior law enforcement officer. He’s also very close to the president. He’s been kidnapped, and that causes a major headache. Not just because of what he knows, but because of who he knows.’

‘So who is doing the official investigation then?’ Logan said,
referring to the fact that the JIA’s involvement would be known to no-one in the outside world.

It was quite simple, really: the US and UK governments used the JIA to carry out black-ops and covert operations under the radar. Plausible deniability. But that didn’t mean it was some sinister organisation charged with carrying out questionable dirty work that would have conspiracy theorists drooling. Just an organisation that was far enough removed to give its agents the room they needed to carry out operations as they saw fit. Or at least, as their governments saw fit.

Logan was a field agent, one of the most experienced that the JIA had. He guessed his role fell somewhere in between that of your classic spy and a private investigator. His skill was in doing whatever it took to get a job done, whatever the job may be.

‘The Police nationale will be performing the official investigation,’ Mackie said, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me if the FBI and CIA didn’t try to wangle their way into this one somehow, given who the victim is. Probably the FBI on the official side. Now, you’re reporting directly to me, so keep well away from anyone else on this one unless I tell you otherwise.’

‘I know that,’ Logan said. He didn’t need to be taught to suck eggs. The JIA rarely had any legal jurisdiction for their operations, so they generally steered well clear of any team carrying out a parallel local investigation. ‘So what do you know?’

Mackie pointed at the two boxes next to his desk, which Logan could see were crammed with loose papers and file.

‘This is what we know,’ Mackie said, standing up and walking towards the coat stand near the door. ‘Looks like you’ve got some reading to do. You’ve got three hours.’

Without looking at Logan, Mackie pulled his coat from the stand and walked out of the door.