The Operative

by Falconer, Duncan

  ‘Anything else?’ Weighbridge asked, looking as if he needed to be somewhere else.

  ‘Not right now,’ Hobart said.

  Weighbridge got to his feet and Hobart did the same.

  ‘Thanks,’ Hobart said, holding out his hand.

  Weighbridge gripped it. ‘You need anything else, go through Seaton and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘I appreciate it,’ Hobart said.

  The men filed out of the room, except for Seaton. Hobart repacked his briefcase and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair.

  ‘When are you heading back to California?’ Seaton asked.

  ‘I’ve got a charter waiting at Dulles.’

  ‘And you want me to go with you right now?’

  Hobart paused to look at Seaton, picking up a feeling of deep reluctance radiating from the guy. ‘That was the idea,’ he said, being ever so nice. ‘But if you have things to do, maybe Weighbridge can get me someone else,’ he said, knowing what the reply to that would be.

  ‘No, that’s fine. I was just checking. I’m gonna need a few things. It’s a short detour to my house.’

  ‘Sure,’ Hobart said, pulling his jacket on and then extending an open palm towards the door. ‘Lead on.’

  Half an hour later the two men were pulling away from Seaton’s house and heading for Dulles International Airport. Seaton and Hobart sat in the back seat of the sedan, staring out of their respective windows, both deep in thought. Then Hobart took his cellphone from a pocket, dialled a number, put the phone to his ear and waited for it to connect. ‘Hendrickson? Hobart. You should be receiving an ID on Stratton within the next few hours. It’ll probably come in on my private e-mail. Pull it up but do not distribute it. That’s for the team’s eyes only, you got that? Next. The sightings of Stratton in the Bakersfield area. It’s likely he’s holed up somewhere isolated. Somewhere he can test an explosive device without raising an alarm. It’s also possible that he could be done preparing the explosives by today. That means he could be heading back to Los Angeles any time. I’m on my way to the airport. I should arrive in Burbank by around six p.m. Okay.’

  Hobart pocketed the phone and thought through all the information he had once again, checking that there was nothing he had overlooked. ‘When’s the last time you saw Stratton?’ he asked Seaton.

  Seaton glanced at Hobart but saw nothing in his expression that gave anything away. ‘We were in Iraq together just over a month ago,’ he said.

  ‘Was that where Jack Penton died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know his wife and kid?’

  ‘Jack’s? I met ’em once.’

  Hobart glanced at Seaton again as a thought struck him. ‘That was the last time you saw Stratton – in Iraq?’

  Seaton took a moment to think his answer through. Hobart had repeated the question which suggested that it was more than just idle curiosity on his part. It would not take a senior FBI man long to find out from other sources about a domestic flight that Stratton had recently taken. Nor could Seaton ask his wife and kids to lie about the English special forces guy who had stayed overnight. A lie like that would come back to haunt him and then all the other lies, especially any about the origins of the explosives, would be difficult to cover up. ‘No. He came to visit me here, the day after he arrived in LA.’

  Hobart stared at the side of Seaton’s head for a moment. Then he looked away as several pieces of the puzzle slipped neatly into place. Seaton was the one who had given Stratton the information that he’d needed to hit Leka and Ardian – and Hobart would bet his hat that Seaton had also given him the explosives.

  The first thing that came to Hobart’s mind was that he now had the CIA over a barrel. But he realised that Weighbridge couldn’t have known about Stratton’s visit to Seaton or he sure as hell would not have invited the guy to the meeting. Seaton had done it as a personal favour to a friend. It was Seaton who Hobart had over a barrel. The obvious question now was where did Seaton’s true loyalties lie: with Stratton or with himself ?

  ‘So how good is he?’ Hobart asked.

  Seaton glanced at him, unsure what he meant exactly.

  ‘With explosives,’ Hobart added. ‘How good is Stratton?’

  Seaton looked back out of the sedan window. ‘The best explosives experts are often given the title bomb doctor. They call him the surgeon.’

  ‘Great,’ Hobart sighed.

  29

  As Hobart was setting off for Burbank that morning, Stratton was climbing out of the pick-up and heading towards the mine with his newly purloined goods from the night before. The ground squirrel was waiting at the entrance and Stratton, pleased to see that the little guy hadn’t been hurt by the blast, stopped to dig a cracker from his pocket. This time the squirrel grabbed it up, took a bite, munched on it for a few seconds and scampered off with it. Stratton tossed a couple more on the ground and headed down the entrance shaft.

  The process of preparing the detonators was much more complex than making the RDX. Mercury fulminate was one of the oldest detonation explosives around and theoretically adequate to initiate RDX. But it was much more unstable and great caution was required in its manufacture.

  A coat of dust had gathered over everything during the night and after lighting the lamps Stratton set about cleaning the equipment he was going to need. Taking one of the pots, he poured in four gallons of nitric acid. Then he put on the gas mask. When he added the first of four bottles of mercury metal, toxic red fumes immediately floated off the liquid’s surface. While the mercury slowly dissolved he placed another of the large pots on the gas heater, put the large glass cooking bowl inside it, poured in enough water around the bowl so that it would sit in the pot without floating, half-filled the bowl with ethyl alcohol and then ignited the burner.

  While the alcohol heated, Stratton stirred the acid-mercury mix with a wooden spoon. When the ethyl was warm, he carefully poured the mix into it. Within a few seconds it began to bubble and froth while giving off thick white fumes whose colour changed to red and then back to white again in a short space of time. Solid particles started to form in the liquid and when it stopped bubbling he poured it into the third pot, which contained several gallons of water. Using the sieve, he filtered out the particles, placed them back into the glass bowl that he had cleaned out, added some more ethyl alcohol, poured it all back into the sieve and then ran water through it to clean it. Once the fulminate had fully dried it would be ready for use.

  An hour later he had all seventy of the three-inch lengths of narrow plastic pipe lined up, each with one end twisted and heat-sealed and stuck into the ground. Their open ends were uppermost. Next came the laborious task of placing a teaspoonful of fulminate into each. Once that was done Stratton cut the fine wire into six-inch lengths, quickly heated the middle of each length over the gas flame and then stretched it, being careful not to break it. He bent each in two at the thinnest point to form a hairpin, which he then inserted into the end of each pipe so that it was buried in the fulminate. Epoxy glue was then dropped into the end to seal the wire and the fulminate inside. Now all that was required was another test.

  Stratton used the same location as for the RDX test of the previous day since it appeared to be in a stable state. He walked down the shaft while unreeling the rest of the length of wire and carrying the deton ator and a small piece of RDX. The aim of the test was twofold. He needed to prove that the circuit would explode the fulminate and that the fulminate would in turn detonate the RDX. The problem was that he would not be able to tell if the RDX had blown unless he used a bit more than in the earlier test. The mercury fulminate would, of course, be far less powerful than the RDX alone. Still, a little more RDX than before was required to make sure. He would just have to take the risk that he might bring down the shaft’s ceiling.

  Stratton moulded the hazelnut-sized piece of RDX around the end of the detonator, attached the wires and walked back to the initiation point. He touched one of the wires t
o one end of a small battery. Then, after a final check around him, he put the flashlight on the ground between his knees so that he could grab it quickly and touched the other wire to the opposite end of the battery.

  The explosion rocked the shaft and when chunks of the rock ceiling began to fall around Stratton he grabbed the flashlight and sprinted away as the tunnel collapsed where he had been crouching. He did not stop until he had reached the main junction. Dust was falling everywhere and for a moment, as he made his way to the exit shaft, he thought that he had overdone it. But as the rumbling ceased so did the apparent imminent threat of a serious collapse. Nevertheless, he decided to go outside for a bit of fresh air and give the old mine a few minutes to settle in case.

  Stratton did not need to inspect the detonation point as it was evident that the RDX had exploded. After a bite to eat he went back into the main cavern to find everything covered in yet more dust but otherwise in good shape.

  Using the spike tool on his knife he made a hole in the bottom of each sandwich box, pushed a deton ator through it into the RDX and applied some glue to hold it in place. The final stage was to attach a battery and receiver to one end of each wire – leaving the other end free until the moment of placement – tape it all up into a neat package, and place each device back inside its original cardboard box, making it look completely innocuous. Soon the thirty-two home-made claymore mines were ready to go.

  Stratton took another short break in the sunshine before returning to the mine with a hammer and a dozen spike nails which he hammered into several of the wooden supports. The next task was to make a length of explosive cord, which he had never done before. But he understood the theory. Taking the can of latex he poured a good amount into the glass bowl. Then he unreeled a hundred feet or so of the thousand-foot reel of string and pushed it into the tacky white liquid. Beyond the latex he placed an open bag of RDX and slowly drew the latex-wet string through it so that the explosive crystals stuck to it. As the string got longer he looped it back and forth from nail to nail, hanging it like a washing line. He placed another hundred feet or so in the bowl along with more latex and repeated the procedure until all the string had been coated and was hanging across the nails to dry.

  The final job was to fill two dozen of the freezer bags with all but a couple of pounds of the remaining RDX. Then he moulded them into sausage shapes, made a hole in one end of each, pushed a detonator into it, attached a receiver and taped them all up into separate bundles.

  When the string, or explosive cord as it now was, was dry Stratton rolled it back around the reel. Then he was done, as far as the cooking and preparations were concerned. He felt quite good about what he had achieved. He picked up the freezer-bag charges, took them out to the pick-up and checked his watch. It was nearly three p.m. and although he was almost ready to go he decided not to leave the mine until dark. He’d spend what was left of the daylight going over the construction plans once again.

  He retrieved the blueprint rolls and file from the cab, sat out-side the barn in the sun and went through the engineer’s folder that contained details of all the companies involved in the construction of Skender’s building. There was still one major part of the plan that he had not yet worked out: how to get into the building to plant the explosives.

  Hobart was seated at the back of the Falcon 10 charter aircraft, Seaton across the aisle from him, when the stewardess stepped out of the cockpit holding a phone on the end of a long cord and handed it to him. ‘A call for you, Mr Hobart,’ she said.

  Hobart took the phone and put it to his ear. ‘This is Hobart.’

  ‘Sir. Hendrickson here. We have some developments. We just picked up a report off the police net from the SCSN, that’s the California Seismic Network operating out of Pasadena. Two small unscheduled explosions were recorded at a location east of Bakersfield.’

  Hobart sat forward in his chair. ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘One was yesterday at 4:35 p.m., the other a couple of hours ago. The SCSN didn’t report the first explosion but when the second occurred in the same location they called it in.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘An area called Twin Oaks about thirty miles east of Bakersfield. The map shows an abandoned mine at that location.’

  ‘Okay. Listen to me. I want you to get an HRT unit mobile a.s.a.p. towards that location, understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’m gonna land at Bakersfield airport – what’s its name?’

  ‘Em – Meadows Field, I think.’

  ‘That’s it. Meadows Field. I’ll meet you there. And I want a bird in the air but I don’t want it over the mine. You got that? And don’t forget my vest and my gun.’

  Hobart got out of his seat, carrying the phone, and went to the cockpit. A few minutes later he returned to his seat, looking pensive.

  Seaton was watching him and Hobart felt obliged to include him in the loop.

  ‘We’re landing in Bakersfield. Stratton’s using an abandoned mine to make his explosives. We’re gonna stop your boy before he gets to LA.’

  ‘He’s not my boy,’ Seaton said. But he read the FBI man’s meaning, whether it was deliberate or not. Hobart wasn’t a fool and it didn’t take a genius to work out that Stratton had arrived in LA knowing nothing about Sally’s murderers. Then, after a brief visit to a friend in the CIA, he’d come back to LA and taken them out. ‘For what it’s worth,’ Seaton said, ‘I told him not to do it and to take the legal route.’

  ‘Yeah, but you gave him the explosives anyway,’ Hobart wanted to say. But he chose not to.

  ‘But then there was no legal option, was there?’ Seaton went on, as if he had read Hobart’s thoughts.

  ‘What would you have done?’ Hobart asked.

  ‘If my wife had been murdered by scum who were above the law? Well, tell you the truth, I’d like to say I would have done the same, but I don’t honestly know. It takes more than just the will to do something like that. You’ve got to have the ability. Not sure if I have that. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I sure as hell don’t have the ability. The reason I wouldn’t is because I’d know there was someone like me who was going to stop me.’

  ‘You don’t think Stratton knows that? The way he sees it, he spends most of his adult life doing exactly this kind of work for our side and when he needs help all his supposed colleagues can do is hunt him down so that they can kill him like a dog.’

  ‘Well, maybe he should’ve asked,’ Hobart said. Then he immediately regretted the pointless comment. Hobart had had every intention of putting Leka and Ardian away for the murder one day. But then, Stratton wasn’t to know that. ‘Anyhow, no one’s gonna kill him – if we can help it.’

  ‘Stratton’s not planning on spending the rest of his life in a cell, I can tell you that much about him. He’s playing for keeps on this one. He owes Josh everything and the kid’s gonna collect, one way or another.’

  ‘Whose side are you on, Seaton? Maybe you should tell me now because you’re no good to me if you’re on his.’

  ‘We both know you’ve got me over a barrel, Hobart. Don’t worry. If it comes down to it, I’ll take my thirty pieces of silver,’ Seaton said, hating the words as soon as they’d left his lips. But what he’d said was true and there was no point in denying it even to himself. He’d done more than most would have done for Stratton – too much, in fact. Maybe Stratton was in this hole because of what Seaton had done to help him but the guy would have found another way to get even if Seaton had baulked. He would have discovered the truth somehow and come back. That was who he was. And now that Josh was at stake this was more than just another mission. Stratton had more incentive than he’d ever had in his life and he was going to see it through.

  Seaton looked out of the window. It was still light, the sun dropping ahead of them. Half an hour later the plane crossed the California state line and the stewardess announced that they would shortly be landing at Meadows Field.

  Hendrickson w
as on the tarmac when the Falcon came to a stop. He told the FBI driver to close on the aircraft as the door opened and the gangway unfolded to the ground.

  Hobart was first out and didn’t waste a second getting into the car, Seaton climbing into the back beside him.

  ‘An HRT unit is on its way to Twin Oaks,’ Hendrickson said as he got in beside the driver and the car pulled away. ‘They’ll wait for us short of the mine if we don’t catch up with them before that,’ he continued, glancing over his shoulder at Seaton, wondering who he was and hoping that someone would introduce him.

  ‘The cops?’ Hendrickson asked.

  ‘Standing by to put in roadblocks if we need ’em. They have the vehicle description and are looking for an English guy approximately thirty-five years old.’

  ‘Where’s the bird?’ Hobart asked.

  ‘Should be in the area any time.’

  ‘I want it way on the edge of the area. The chopper’s job is pursuit in case he makes a break for it.’

  ‘The pilot’s been briefed, sir,’ Hendrickson said as he pulled out his notebook and turned on a reading light above him. ‘Some other reports that came in during the last hour. Alan’s Chemicals, where Stratton bought his nitric acid. They think they’re missing several bottles of mercury metal and a two-gallon can of latex solution.’

  Hobart looked at Seaton. ‘What’s he need latex for?’

  Seaton shrugged. ‘Beats me.’

  Hendrickson looked between Seaton and Hobart, sensing something odd there between them. ‘I collated all industrial-related robberies over the last forty-eight hours in a radius of two hundred miles,’ Hendrickson continued. ‘We got a twelve-ton digger taken from a building site in Rosedale this morning, a bunch of power tools last night from a warehouse in Mojave, but that was by a couple of guys. A model store in Simi Valley reported a hundred receivers and batteries taken last night—’

  ‘What kind of receivers?’ Seaton interrupted.