The Operative

by Falconer, Duncan

  Seaton suddenly tried to bump Stratton off the path and headed up a steep incline. But since Stratton was on the inside and kept his footing he was in a position to gain the summit first. Seaton realised his situation and lashed out with an arm, in desperation more than malice, a blow that Stratton only just managed to block. As he kept up his pace Seaton took another swing, catching Stratton on the ear.

  Stratton saw red and retaliated viciously, catching Seaton on the side of the face with the back of his fist. The blow stung and Seaton’s blood rose as he made a grab for Stratton’s shirt.

  Stratton tried to wrench Seaton’s hand away as they reached the crest together, both near exhaustion, spattered with mud and breathing fiercely. Stratton let loose with his fist, connecting with Seaton’s jaw with enough force to make him lose his balance and drop to the ground.

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Stratton yelled, nearly out of breath.

  Seaton scrambled to his feet, breathing fiercely, his fists clenched as though he was itching for a fight. ‘Mine?’ he shouted. ‘It’s yours I’m worried about.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Stratton asked, confused by Seaton’s hostility and waiting for his next attack.

  ‘I know why you came here,’ Seaton said, spitting mud from his bloody mouth. ‘You want to punish those two goons who killed Sally – and you want me to get you the information to do it.’

  ‘That’s not why I came here!’ Stratton said.

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Stratton was growing angrier at Seaton’s sudden madness.

  ‘Do you deny that’s what you plan to do?’ Seaton persisted.

  ‘I’ve made no plans of that kind.’

  ‘Then you’re making them now.’

  Stratton couldn’t fathom where this was coming from – or going to. If Seaton was that worried all he needed to do was warn the FBI. It had to be something more. ‘You don’t think they deserve to die for what they did, do you?’ Stratton asked, testing him.

  ‘That’s not your job.’

  ‘No one else seems to want to do it,’ Stratton replied.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘To find out if the Feds were going to do anything about Sally’s murderers.’

  ‘And now that you know they’re not?’

  ‘Is that true?’ Stratton asked, wondering what else Seaton knew.

  ‘I didn’t give you the whole file, but yes, that’s true – for the time being, at least.’

  Stratton was beginning to dislike Seaton. ‘Tell me something,’ he asked. ‘If it had been Julie they’d killed, right in front of your boys, how would you feel?’

  ‘That’s not what this is about.’

  ‘It’s exactly what it’s about,’ Stratton said. ‘Let me make it easier for you. If it’d happened in another country, Kosovo for instance, Julie murdered by the KLA just for being on the wrong road at the wrong time, would you’ve had second thoughts about tearing them apart?’

  Seaton didn’t say anything. Some of the wind had been taken out of his sails.

  ‘Jack and Sally were the closest I’ve had to family for as long as I can remember. Their kid is in a child-protection centre at this very minute, wondering what the hell just happened to his life. Now, I don’t know what the hell I want to do or what I’m supposed to do. Maybe I came here because I thought you might know – but all I found was some psychotic arsehole who seems to be even more confused about life than I am right now. Let’s just forget the whole thing.’

  Stratton stepped back and started to walk away.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me for my help?’ Seaton shouted.

  Stratton stopped and looked back at him.

  ‘You don’t think I’m good enough, do you?’ Seaton said.

  Stratton suddenly saw something in Seaton that he had not expected to find, though he had seen it many times in others. Bizarre as it might seem, Seaton was trying to prove himself. It was not uncommon when working with non-SF to find them trying to prove themselves, sometimes in odd ways, or acting in what they assumed was an SF manner. But Seaton was an established CIA operative, an enviable position for most, yet he was displaying classic signs of resentful inferiority.

  ‘You’re not in a position to help me,’ Stratton said, avoiding the real issue.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You have a family, for one thing,’ Stratton said. ‘Anyway, when I have the choice I work alone.’

  ‘What if I was to tell you that I think those Albanians should pay?’ Seaton said.

  ‘I’d say that makes little difference since I don’t know if I should or could do anything about it.’

  ‘So why don’t you ask me for my help?’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you, Seaton? This belongs to no one but me. If you want to help, I don’t want anyone to know.’

  Seaton looked confused but at least he was no longer taking it personally – or at least Stratton hoped not. Whatever was happening here, Stratton wanted to keep Seaton on his side. Part of the job, after all, was making allies.

  ‘Let’s just forget this visit ever happened, okay?’ Stratton said. He then turned away and broke into a jog along the track, leaving Seaton to watch him go.

  When Stratton was out of sight he checked through the trees to find the sun which had been at their backs on leaving the house. Following it should eventually bring him back to the main road that they had initially crossed and then it was either left or right to Seaton’s street.

  Stratton soon emerged from the wood onto the highway and found the house shortly after. The boys were out the back, hosing down their bikes as he took off his shoes and socks and went into the house. He could hear someone in the lounge, caught a glimpse of Seaton’s wife and went up the stairs to avoid her. Within ten minutes he had showered and got dressed. Without saying goodbye to anyone he headed out of the house and up the road. Within half a mile a taxi appeared. Thirty-five minutes later he was stepping into the airport departure lounge and heading for check-in.

  The next flight to Los Angeles was in an hour and a half. Stratton made his way to the gate, took a seat in the waiting area and tried to relax. But his thoughts would not allow him a second’s rest: Josh and the problem of getting him back home, Vicky and his hopes of making her into an ally, and Jack’s ghost sitting behind him wondering what Stratton was going to do about the two Albanian thugs – all these concerns threatened to overwhelm him.

  The time dragged by and eventually the gate came to life with the arrival of airline staff. This was followed shortly by an announcement for all Los Angeles-bound passengers to proceed to the gate and board the plane.

  Stratton waited for the last few people to head down the tunnel towards the entrance to the plane, which he could see outside through the large plate-glass windows. As he stood and picked up his bag he saw Seaton, dressed in a tracksuit, his face still smudged with dirt, heading towards him, carrying a manila envelope.

  They stared at each other. Seaton stopped in front of him, a smear of dried blood still on the side of his mouth where he had wiped it.

  ‘I’ve been called a few things in my life but never a hypocrite,’ Seaton said.

  He held the manila envelope out to Stratton. ‘It’s the complete file, Ardian and Leka’s details and the latest FBI report. If you decide to do something you’re probably gonna have to forget Leka. He’s in a Santa Monica lock-up awaiting arraignment for beating up his girlfriend a couple of nights ago. He did it in public and she’s still in hospital. The police are pressing the charges and he’s going to go down for it.’

  Stratton took the envelope.

  ‘When you’re done with the file, burn it,’ Seaton urged.

  The last call for Stratton’s flight blared over the speaker system. Stratton and Seaton stood in awkward silence for a moment.

  ‘Would you promise me one thing?’ Seaton asked.

  Stratton looked at him, unsure if the CIA agent was stable or not.

&nb
sp; ‘Try the peaceful way first. Give the law a chance.’

  ‘Look, I – er – I don’t think I’m going to do anything—’

  ‘I know,’ Seaton interrupted. ‘I’m just asking that if you do … whatever you do, try the legal route first.’

  Stratton shrugged, feeling most uncomfortable talking this way with Seaton now that he had lost confidence in the man.

  Seaton held out a baggage stub with the usual computer printout of numbers against the flight details. ‘Something for you. It’s already on the plane – we have a special relationship with the security here. You wouldn’t have gotten it on board on your own.’

  Stratton could only wonder what ‘it’ was.

  ‘There are four numbers written on the back. You’ll know what they mean. When you see it you’ll wonder why the hell I gave it to you – I’m not even sure myself. Maybe I want you to know that I’m on your side. Maybe I just want to impress you. I don’t know. I was there too when Jack died, remember that. It was my op. Maybe I owe him … Christ, will you get the hell outta here before I change my mind.’

  Stratton looked into Seaton’s strangely sad eyes a moment before walking away.

  Seaton watched until Stratton disappeared down the tunnel. Then the CIA man headed across the hall, looking a little lost.

  Five and a half hours later Stratton stood in the baggage hall of LAX, staring at the conveyor belt as suitcases and holdalls dropped out through a hatch to move slowly around the moving oval track. He had no idea what he was looking for and expected to have to wait until all the luggage had been claimed before he could compare the stub to its other half on the last remaining bag. Then a briefcase made of heavy-duty black plastic popped from the hatch and he knew that it was his.

  Stratton watched the briefcase slide down the delivery ramp and onto the conveyor belt where it made its way past expectant passengers towards him. No one else reached for it and as it came alongside he picked it up and inspected the tag. The numbers matched. He shouldered his pack casually and headed towards the exit. A security officer checked the tag against his stub and waved him through the double doors which led directly outside and onto the four-lane one-way ring road that connected all the terminals of LAX. Within a few minutes he was in a taxi and heading out of the airport. The traffic was light as he passed through Marina Del Rey to the beach road and north towards Santa Monica.

  When Stratton arrived inside his rented apartment he dropped his pack, placed the case on the dining table, went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. He put it on, dropped two Lipton tea bags in a mug and looked back at the case as the water came to the boil. The single clasp that secured the case required a four-digit combination to open it – the numbers written on the baggage stub, no doubt.

  The kettle automatically clicked off as the water boiled. He filled the cup, poured in some milk from a carton in the fridge, stirred the liquid for a moment and then sipped it. The tea was hopeless, a combination of cheap leaves and vitamin D milk, he decided.

  Stratton walked to the table and placed the mug on it. Then he tilted the case onto its rear edge, rolled the combination numbers to correspond with those on the stub and pressed the release catch. It flicked open and he lowered the case so that it rested flat on the table’s surface again.

  He raised the lid to reveal, as he’d suspected, an explosives specialist’s travel pack, similar to the SBS type he had used at Josh’s birthday party. It was filled with a variety of miniature detonators, along with fuses, cortex, tools and plastic explosives. Seaton knew that Stratton would prefer the indirect method: explosives allowed an assassin to distance himself from the target whereas using a gun required a direct line of sight.

  Stratton closed the case and took his mug to the window where he looked out across the city. One thing that niggled at him was his promise to try and resolve the situation by peaceful means first. That might require a level of exposure which, if things did not go well, might make the task of concealing his part in the administration of any other type of justice more difficult.

  Stratton’s thoughts drifted to Josh and he suddenly felt uneasy. But after deciding to take things one step at a time and abort if at any stage he felt the risk was too high, he felt a little better. There was nothing to be gained by ending up in a US jail for the rest of his life – or worse – simply to avenge Sally. Jack would not expect that of him. But if the Albanians were otherwise going to get away with Sally’s death and Stratton could make them pay and – of course – get away with it, that would indeed be sweet and just. By close of play the following day he would know.

  11

  Josh was kneeling on the floor in a corner of the child-protection centre playroom, reaching expectantly into a plastic shopping bag. Stratton was beside him. Josh pulled out a Game Boy, then a model fighter aircraft. Although he was pleased with the presents there was only a hint of his usual excitement as he unwrapped them.

  ‘Thanks, Stratton,’ he said softly.

  George was watching with envy from across the room. Even though he wanted to move closer to get a better look at the new toys he held himself back.

  Stratton reached into the bag, removed a gift, and looked over at the other boy. ‘This is for you, George.’

  George’s eyes lit up. He stumbled as he pushed off from a standing start to run the short distance across the room before braking hard on the shiny linoleum floor. He took the package and examined the contents inside the transparent container to find an assortment of small plastic soldiers in various fighting positions. ‘Wow! Targets!’ he exclaimed, pulling open the wrapping as he knelt down and poured them onto the floor.

  Josh’s interest was aroused. He shuffled closer to George and placed the fighter aircraft beside the soldiers. ‘This is their air force,’ he explained. The two boys immediately began sorting out the men and discussing how they could best be utilised in a battle that would also include George’s helicopter.

  Stratton stood up, smiling. He suddenly sensed that someone was looking at him. It was Vicky Whitaker, standing in the doorway and wearing a smile of her own.

  ‘You got a minute?’ she asked quietly, as if not to disturb the boys.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ Stratton said to Josh, ruffling his hair.

  Josh immediately stopped playing and got to his feet. ‘When?’ he asked, somewhat demandingly.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Can’t you come back later today?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Josh looked down in disappointment.

  ‘Maybe Miss Whitaker will let me take you out for a meal,’ Stratton said.

  George was the first to look at Stratton, his eyes wide with hope.

  ‘And George too, of course.’

  Both boys then looked at Miss Whitaker as if she was their mother.

  ‘Can we, Vicky – I mean, Miss Whitaker?’ George pleaded.

  Her smile disappeared and she folded her arms across her chest, giving the boys a disapproving look.

  Stratton shrugged innocently, looking as hopeful as the youngsters.

  ‘That’s a very big maybe,’ she said. ‘And by that I mean probably not.’

  ‘Maybe means yes,’ George almost whispered to Josh and Stratton with an air of experience. ‘Vicky’s a real softy.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Vicky warned.

  Stratton winked at the boys. ‘Let me see what I can do,’ he said quietly to them before walking towards Vicky Whitaker. She gave him a stern look as he walked past her and left the room.

  She followed him into the corridor, closing the door behind her. ‘You shouldn’t get their hopes up like that,’ she said in a matronly manner.

  ‘Hope is just about all those boys have while they’re in here.’

  ‘ Trust is the single most important element of the relationship we try and build with these kids. George could be moved to a foster home any day now. Don’t promise them things that you can’t deliver.’

  Stratton hum
bly took another ticking-off. ‘You’re right, as usual. I’m sorry.’

  And, as usual, Vicky was completely disarmed by his sincerity. She wondered what it was about this man of whom she knew so little that made her feel she could depend on him. He was without doubt unusual – and also mysterious, it seemed. ‘Josh has quite an imagination,’ she said, heading down the corridor.

  ‘Don’t all kids?’ Stratton asked, falling in alongside her.

  ‘He talks about you all the time.’

  Stratton thought he could see what was coming. ‘Now that you mention it, though, he does have quite an overactive imagination when it comes to playing soldiers.’

  ‘He says you’re a secret soldier and a spy for the British Government.’

  ‘That’s the last top secret I tell him,’ Stratton said, feigning flippancy.

  ‘On your form, under employer, you put British MoD. What’s that?’

  ‘Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘So you do work for the government?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a soldier?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Fifteen years, you put on the form.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why does he call you a “secret” soldier?’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of a game we play. Whenever I visited his mum and dad after being away he would ask where I’d been and I’d tell him some tall story. It became something of a tradition between us.’

  ‘So you’re not really who he thinks you are.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I mean in terms of work – you don’t do the job that he thinks you do.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Is this a trust thing?’ Stratton asked, a touch of cynicism in his voice.