Stratton continued round to the back of the building and to a door with a heavy padlock on it. The place was completely dark and run-down. The rear looked even shabbier than the front, with junk and empty containers strewn all over the place. As soon as he had realised that he could not afford the amount of mercury that he needed, he had looked at the warehouse with a view to breaking into it. Considering the condition it was in, he’d had a hunch that there wouldn’t be much in the way of security. An inspection of the rear door showed that it was old and loose and pulled out a good two inches against the padlock, making a functioning alarm pad impossible – any movement such as one caused by a gust of wind would set it off and an alarm company would have insisted that the door would have to be replaced with a sturdy one.
Stratton placed the pick behind the padlock latch and heaved it up. The old wood gave way easily and the entire latch dropped to the ground. Stratton put down the pickaxe, opened the door and quickly checked around the frame for an alarm pad, just in case. But as he’d suspected there was none.
He closed the door behind him and moved quickly, walking past the shelving and searching with his flashlight as he went. Halfway along the first set of untidy shelves he found an open box containing a dozen or so small bottles labelled ‘Mercury Metal’. He pocketed half a dozen and was about to head back when he saw a can of latex. It was something that he had considered at the outset and then changed his mind about since it was on the non-essential list. But now that it was here in front of him he took it.
As he reached the back door to leave he saw a couple of emergency gas masks hanging from a hook, something that he had overlooked during the initial procurement stage but which the acid fumes had reminded him of. He helped himself to one.
Once outside, Stratton took a moment to shove everything into his pack. Then he made his way back along the side of the warehouse, retracing his footsteps to the pick-up. Half an hour later he was following the Caliente River once again, heading back to Twin Oaks.
On arrival at the hairpin junction he killed his lights and slowly followed the track by moonlight back to the mine. As he parked back inside the barn he decided to grab a few hours’ sleep since, if all went well, he would complete his preparations by late afternoon the following day and be ready to make the move back to LA. Skender’s official building opening was scheduled for two days ahead. Stratton aimed to be there to make his contribution to the ceremony.
28
Hobart sat in a comfortable leather recliner in the cramped cabin of a six-seat Falcon 10 jet aircraft. One other person shared the chartered flight with him, a businessman seated at the back and working on a laptop computer. Hobart had not exchanged a word with him.
Early that morning Hobart had been awoken by Hendrickson with two pieces of information that had been important enough for him to get out of bed, get authorisation to charter an immediate flight and head to Burbank Airport. The first news was that the CIA had responded to the second APB that the Bureau had sent out regarding one John Stratton who was wanted in connection with two homicides in LA. It was a brief note from a department chief, simply stating that after consulting with the Brits they were available to assist the FBI with their inquiries but with the predictable condition that they needed more information on the case. Hobart was the one who needed information and he knew from his previous experience of working alongside the Central Intelligence Agency on more than one occasion that the best way to get it was to sit down in front of them and lay his cards on the table – some of them, at least.
The Bureau and the Agency had a decades-long history of contempt for each other, something that Hobart regretted because of the obstacles that it created. They generally regarded each other as incompetent bunglers, empire builders and mandate expanders. This often resulted in duplication of effort and failures of communication on both sides, thus damaging attempts at inter-departmental cooperation and threatening national security. The conflict between the two organisations irritated the strongly patriotic Hobart but it seemed to be impossible, given their respective histories, to resolve easily. Even many of his new, young agents who had not yet had dealings with the Agency bore grudges that could only have been handed down from older operatives.
The Bureau itself was going through a period of great disadvantage in the mud-slinging stakes because of the recent and highly damaging criticisms thrown up by the 9/11 Commission Report. Its autopsy of the Bureau left its body parts open to the vultures. Some scathingly vitriolic senatorial arguments about whether it should be left at the helm of national intelligence gathering hadn’t helped. One of the FBI’s responses, which did nothing to help soothe the conflict, was that it had at least admitted to having major flaws whereas the CIA remained tight-lipped about their own massive shortcomings.
There was also too much dead wood in both communities, too many old agents who would resist any changes because of ingrained suspicion or simply natural stubbornness. To many it seemed that both outfits were as bad as each other and Hobart accepted that if a change for the better was ever to happen it would not be during his time.
The second piece of information that Hendrickson gave Hobart originated from a keyword arrest system that the Bureau had installed in the interstate police-report network program that had been set up a couple of decades earlier to aid in tracking criminals who moved from state to state. Two of the trigger keywords that Hendrickson had fed into the system were ‘explosives’ and ‘Englishman’ and both had come up on a single Bakersfield police report.
An initial investigation produced a description of the Englishman that matched those which the FBI already had from various sources including the waitress at the restaurant where Ardian had been killed, the manager of the Santa Monica apartment complex, and a social worker in charge of administration at the child-protection centre where Sally Penton’s son had been held. This was enough to convince Hobart that Stratton had stayed in California with the intention of going on the offensive against Skender.
‘We’ll be landing in Dulles in twenty minutes,’ the stewardess said to Hobart, snapping him out of his reverie as he looked out of the window.
‘Thanks,’ he said and checked the time as she squeezed past his seat to inform the other passenger. Hobart thought about adjusting his watch to local time, which was three hours ahead of West Coast time, but then decided to leave it alone. He wanted to keep his consciousness on a California schedule and besides, this was literally a flying visit. He aimed to be back in LA that night.
Half an hour later Hobart walked through the gate into the arrivals lounge. It was empty except for a man in a suit sitting across the room and reading a magazine. He put it down on seeing Hobart and got to his feet.
Forty minutes later they drove past a sign for CIA Langley and shortly after turned through one of the heavily guarded entrances on the perimeter of the vast complex. They stopped to present their ID cards to an armed sentry. The pole barrier went up after a heavy steel vehicle dam behind it powered slowly into its slot in the road and they drove in, round the back of one of the large office blocks and into an underground car park.
The driver, who had not said a word since asking Hobart for his ID at the airport arrivals gate, led the way into an elevator which ascended to the third floor. Hobart followed him along a pristine corridor to one of a dozen matching doors spread evenly along it. The driver opened the door and stood back for Hobart to enter a room that was windowless and sterile but for a conference table surrounded by half a dozen chairs.
‘Can I get you anything: water, coffee?’ the driver asked, remaining in the doorway.
‘No, thanks,’ Hobart replied as he put his briefcase on the table.
‘Someone’ll be with you in a couple minutes,’ the driver said before closing the door.
Hobart removed his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair, straightened his tie and sat down. The room was so quiet and still that he could feel his pulse beating away in his body. It seemed a little
fast to him and he thought about how long it had been since his last medical check-up. Then he remembered that it had been on the day of his wife’s birthday: the tests had taken longer than he’d expected and he’d almost been late for their celebratory dinner. She had raised a glass to wish them both a long and happy life, a sentiment uncommon for her, and as a result he remembered being suddenly worried since the results from his tests were not yet ready. He’d read more than he should have into the coincidence of the toast. As it had turned out he was as fit as a fiddle but the dinner had been a quiet one because of his concerns.
Hobart put his fingers against his throat and counted the pulse, which appeared to have already slowed. Then, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, he stopped himself. Why was it that the older people got, their fear of death increased? When you’re young and with everything to live for you don’t think about it. But when you reach an age where statistically you know you should have less years to live than the number you’ve already been alive for you think about it more often. Death was inevitable.
The thought triggered speculation about Stratton’s likely remaining time on earth. The guy was on a suicide mission and surely heading in the old pine-box direction fast. If Skender’s people didn’t get him the police or the Bureau would. Even if by some miracle he did survive he was looking at a long, long time behind bars, all because he believed he owed it to his buddy, his buddy’s wife and their kid. A sad fact of life, thought Hobart, was that if you were born a man of honour and integrity you were bound to run up against authority in the long run: the law sure as heck didn’t make allowances for those qualities.
The door opened and three men in suits walked in.
‘Bill Weighbridge,’ the taller, older, more polished-looking man said, holding out his hand unsmilingly, his stare immediately assessing his FBI counterpart.
Hobart stood, took Weighbridge’s hand and shook it. ‘Hobart,’ he said.
‘Sam Belling, Bo Anderson,’ Weighbridge con tinued, introducing his colleagues who took their boss’s lead and formally shook Hobart’s hand.
Weighbridge sat down a chair away from Hobart and the other two men sat at the other side of the table.
‘How was your flight?’ Weighbridge asked.
‘Fine,’ Hobart replied, deciding to let the other guy get the ball rolling. It was, after all, his office.
Belling was watching Hobart but Anderson was looking down at his own fingers as if he was un interested.
Hobart’s immediate assessment of Weighbridge was that he was a tough-minded man who in his younger days had been physically hard, too. He looked confident, in control and dominating.
‘I appreciate the importance attached to this visit,’ Weighbridge said. ‘And I’m sure you want to get back as soon as you can. So, what have we got here?’ he asked, sitting back and looking directly into Hobart’s eyes.
‘I’ll get right to the point. First, though, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to see me at such short notice, and also for your help with what we do regard as a very serious case.’ Hobart spoke with a hint of humility but not enough to make it obvious that he was stroking the CIA men’s sense of superiority. He was well aware, of course, that they had not yet been of any assistance at all. ‘This man, John Stratton,’ Hobart went on. ‘I’ve come for two things. First, I need to know everything about him.’
A knock on the door interrupted them. Hobart looked up to see it open and a man step in, glance at the faces around the table and then look as if he might be in the wrong room. It was Seaton.
‘Come in,’ Weighbridge said and Seaton obeyed, closing the door behind him. ‘Take a seat. This is Agent Seaton,’ he said to Hobart. ‘Hobart is with the FBI in California.’
Seaton nodded a greeting as he sat down. Despite having no idea what this was about he suddenly felt uneasy.
‘I’ve asked Seaton to join us because he knows Stratton better than anyone in the Agency. Wouldn’t you say that was about right?’ Weighbridge asked, looking at Seaton.
Seaton’s heartbeat increased its pace as his temples tightened. He was unable to stop some of his surprise showing on his face, his immediate thoughts con cerning the box of explosives and the intelligence file that he had given to Stratton. ‘Yeah, I know him – though I wouldn’t say I know him well.’
Weighbridge interrupted as Hobart was about to say something. ‘Before we get into this, I’d like to say something – set some guidelines, if you like. I’m not about to throw up any obstacles here. You’ve got a job to do and we’ve got a responsibility to help, and as far as I’m concerned that’s how it’s going to be.’
Encouraging, Hobart thought. The man appeared sincere enough. Now let’s see if he is.
‘However …’ Weighbridge went on.
And so much for that, Hobart thought.
‘I don’t know this guy Stratton personally,’ Weighbridge said.
‘Never met him, but on paper he has a value, to the Brits and also to us – he’s worked for us on occasion. He has a pretty high-level security classification. Works at the sharp end. You’ll understand the Brits’ concerns about a guy like that getting sucked into a domestic Stateside entanglement such as this. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass about his future. The guy’s broken the law and he’s got to pay the price. But I want to ask you, and I mean, I’m asking you, to bear that history in mind, whatever happens to him. The Brits don’t see him as a security risk but this is not a good time to have this kind of publicity getting kicked around by media hounds.’
‘Thank you for being so frank and direct,’ Hobart went on, maintaining his air of good-natured humility. ‘I’ll be equally candid and tell you that this case is connected to one of our most high-level and confidential operations regarding crime syndication in this country. We share equally your misgivings about publicity. The police are involved but in a manpower capacity only. As far as they’re concerned we’re looking for a crazed English guy who has some knowledge of explosives. If the media does become involved – which is probably inevitable since this began as a police case and leaks from that quarter are impossible to prevent – we shall have a credible explanation ready. I would appreciate any help from you in that area.’
Weighbridge nodded. He liked Hobart’s style and felt he could trust him. His attempts at sidestepping the bad blood between the two organisations were obvious but Weighbridge got the impression that on a personal level the man was sincere.
Hobart removed several printed sheets of paper from his briefcase and placed them on the desk, pushing one in front Weighbridge and the rest to the other men. ‘That’s a detailed history of events so far. Why don’t you go ahead and read through them, get up to speed and I’ll fill you in on the most recent information that we have.’
The men pulled the papers in front of them and began reading.
Seaton read quickly through the details of the two assassinations, the backfired retaliatory hit in the alleyway and Josh’s kidnapping. But what he was looking for in particular were any references to the origins of the explosives. As he reached the last sentence he was relieved to see that there were none. He breathed a little easier.
Hobart waited for Weighbridge to finish before handing out another page. ‘That’s a list of products which Stratton was known to be in possession of by yesterday evening. I understand that these chemicals could be used to produce a significantly powerful explosive device as well as detonators.’
‘And a helluva lot of “products” there are, too,’ Anderson said, studying the list.
‘How long would you estimate it would take him to put a device that big together?’ Hobart asked. He’d already had an answer to that question from Phil but he wanted to get these people involved.
‘That would depend on what he was making exactly,’ Anderson replied, suddenly taking an interest. ‘He could produce maybe eighty to ninety pounds of raw cyclonite or RDX crystals in a single day if he has any experience in production. That’s a lot of
high explosives. Why’s there a question mark against the metal mercury?’
‘We know he was looking for some but we don’t know if he’s been able to get hold of any yet.’
‘If he does then he’s going for mercury fulminate as a detonator.’
‘Is that easy to manufacture?’ Hobart asked.
‘If he doesn’t blow himself up he could produce fulminate in, say, half a day,’ Anderson said. ‘Then he’d want to test it, of course.’
‘Test it?’ Hobart asked.
‘Sure. Detonators are usually made up of a primary and secondary explosive, the primary being the more powerful charge that’s initiated by a secondary, less volatile one. Fulminate is a primary explosive but if handled correctly it can be used without the secondary charge. Depending on how this guy constructs the detonator he’d want to be sure that it’s going to ignite the RDX.’
‘I’m assuming you have an idea what his target is?’ Weighbridge asked.
‘I want to stop him before he gets that far,’ Hobart said, avoiding the question. He wasn’t here to discuss every detail of his case with them, just Stratton and his threat potential. ‘What I’d like are some recent photos and a description of Stratton, if that’s possible?’
Weighbridge looked at Belling who nodded at him.
‘It’ll be in your office before you get back,’ Weighbridge said.
‘One other request,’ Hobart said. ‘I’d like one of your guys to assist us. Someone who would know how an operator like Stratton might think or react in a given situation. Better still, someone who actually knows him.’
Hobart didn’t look at Seaton. But Weighbridge threw a glance in the man’s direction and pondered the request for a moment.
‘You okay with that?’ Weighbridge asked Seaton.
Seaton could only wish that he had some hugely important high-priority task that would stop him going to California with Hobart but he didn’t. ‘Sure,’ he said.
Hobart looked at Seaton and nodded. Then he turned back to Weighbridge.
The Operative Page 31